‘Up and at them!’ Seth screamed, ‘For the Emperor!’

Master Seth sprinted through the fog which crawled across the battlefield, hurdling shell craters and the bodies of the fallen. Shells and laser bolts whined blindly to either side of him; now and again a scream or a call for an apothecary would sound behind him, announcing another casualty.

The hazy outline of the World Eater bunker line appeared and Seth darted for cover, ducking behind a burnt out Predator Medium Battletank. The bunkers had first been set up by the defending forces of the Planetary Defence Corps but after being quickly over run by the forces of chaos, the fortifications were now littered with macabre trophies; lines of severed heads mounted on spikes adorned the defensive line along with disemboweled bodies hung by razor wire from the shattered city’s communication masts. Aram, the First Squad’s Sergeant, slammed against the hull next to Seth, hurriedly replacing the magazine of his boltgun. Eight of his marines emerged from the mist; Seth saw the nine other squads of the 7th (Reserve) Company taking cover across the battlefield, noting that casualties were light. He opened a channel to the company on his comm-link.

‘Heavy Weapons; open fire on the defensive line at Grid Echo Three Sierra. Bunkers and pill-boxes are priorities, but make sure to open up some of the walls.’

In answer, missile launchers and laser cannons from all along the Dark Angel lines fired on the Chaos fortification line, slamming into the twisted, warped bunkers and ferrocrete walls. The Chaos Marines retorted by riddling the Dark Angels with heavy bolter and autocannon fire – a marine from the First Squad fell down beside Seth, decapitated.

‘Heavy weapons, cover!’ Seth roared over his comm unit, ‘The rest of you, follow me!’

Seth planted one hand on the Predator’s blackened hull and vaulted over. The Dark Angels rushed towards the Chaos lines, half crouched as ordinance from both sides streaked over their heads. Sustained fire weapons from the Chaos pill-boxes lazily swept arcs of fire through the slowly clearing mist, throwing marines back or forcing them to dive for cover. Seth switched his boltgun to ‘auto’ fire and charged through black smoke which bellowed from a colossal hole in a ferrocrete wall connecting two pill-boxes. He turned and headed downhill towards a pill-box; a group of three red and bronze armoured Chaos Marines charged blindly towards him from a smoking pill box further down the line. Seth quickly adopted a firing stance and brought his boltgun up to his shoulder, firing two well aimed bursts of fire and his first two opponents. The first World Eater was blown back, two rounds taking him square in the chest moments before the second traitor collapsed on top of him, the explosive shells tearing through his armour and blowing out his guts.

Sergeant Aram dashed past Seth, his chainsword held high as he sprinted to engage the last Chaos Marine. The surviving World Eater rushed out to meet him, parrying the Dark Angel Sergeant’s attack with his Chainaxe before bringing the whirring weapon down to bite into the Imperial marine’s chest, cleaving straight through his breastbone. His teeth gritted, fighting to control the urge to hurtle forward to avenge his Sergeant more personally, Seth raised his boltgun again, waited for an opening once Aram fell to the ground and shot the World Eater accurately in the chest, knocking him down to the ground. Half out of anger, half to make sure, Seth ran over and placed his armoured foot on the World Eater’s chest, pinning him down before planting his boltgun against his fallen foe’s helmet and blowing his head apart. Marine Asher of First Squad darted past Seth, flamer at the ready. Bunker clearance drill had been practiced countless times; Asher, like all surviving flamer marines along the enemy line, thrust the nozzle of his side-arm through a bunker’s back door viewport and sprayed the occupants with a long, continuous burst of super-heated chemical agents.

All along the Chaos lines, burning Chaos Marines scrambled out of bunkers, some running frantically to engage their hated enemies in their death throes, others writhing on the ground, screaming. The crackle of small arms fire sporadically sounded as Chaos Marines of the World Eaters chapter were routinely executed by the Dark Angels.

Master Seth slowly removed his battered helmet and placed it carefully at his feet. He looked around at the seven remaining marines of First Squad, wondering who he should select to replace Sergeant Aram. He caught his own reflection in the eye piece of his helmet – stubble was beginning to form on his square jaw, his normally close cropped brown hair had grown long enough to curl a little. Seated across from his men sat nine Guardsmen of the Catachan Regiment. Whereas Seth’s men sat eyes closed, heads bowed in silent recital of prayers for the souls of their departed brothers, the Guardsmen sprawled lazily across their seats, revelling in the glory of surviving another battle, and endeavouring to out do each other in stories of macho bravado and heroism. The dropship shuddered as it passed through Ryloth IV’s atmosphere – the Guardsmen cheered heartily.

‘I’m glad that shit is over,’ remarked the Guard squad’s heavy weapon operator dryly.

‘Take it easy,’ grinned his loader, ‘in six hours we’ll be pissed and on the pull.’

Seth shook his head. These men fought for a living, and to live, not out of devotion for the Emperor. There again, they had not received the lifetime of training and bio-surgery of Space Marines, so how could they be as loyal? Seth silently cursed himself for his arrogance – just because he was fortunate enough to be made a marine did not give him the right to look down on ordinary men.

‘Quiet down, lads,’ ordered a young Guards Lieutenant earnestly, nervously eyeing Seth’s disapproval.

The Guardsmen hushed and glanced across at Seth’s marines, intimidation evident on every face. Seth’s marines stared at them, stone faced. Conversation petered out from the dishevelled Guardsmen, the silence which descended on the crew cabin broken only by the dull drone of the dropship’s engines. Glad of the respite, Seth closed his eyes and returned to his Litany of Devotion.

Seth returned the salute of the two marines standing guard at the entrance of Supreme Grand Master Azrael’s command chamber on the orbital artillery post. He entered the sparse office, stood to attention, and saluted. The office had been hastily converted from a small briefing room, but was sufficient for the task in hand with a simple metal desk and chair, and facilities to project real time displays of the campaign’s progression on a tattered screen on the far wall. Azrael looked up from his reports. The commanding officer of the entire chapter, Azrael’s grizzled face bore the scars of centuries of violent servitude to the Imperium, having survived countless battles against a myriad of foes. His iron grey hair was cropped short and a collection of metal studs, each denoting years of combat experience, was bolted to the side of his scarred forehead. In contrast, Seth was the youngest of the Chapter’s company commanders, his features were still youthful, causing him some amount of embarrassment.

‘Stand easy, Seth.’

Seth placed his helmet under his arm.

‘I have orders to report to you, sir.’

Azrael nodded, and then continued to analyse his reports.

‘Yes. Congratulations on your success on the planet’s surface, Seth. Your actions honour the Chapter. However, another Khorne fleet has arrived, so we shall have to go back down and do it all over again.’

Fighting to keep the disappointment registering across his face, Seth nodded silently. A hundred questions ran through his mind. What about reinforcements? Planet leave for the Guardsmen? How many more fleets might turn up? It took him only moments to consider all of this before answering.

‘My marines are ready, sir.’

‘Your replacements arrive this evening at 1900. We’re a little low on specialist replacements, so we can only afford to replace your Epistolary with a Lexicanium.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Azrael paused, looked up, and stared at Seth.

‘Anything to add?’

‘No, sir,’ Seth replied simply.

He knew what was required of him and the marines in his company. There was nothing more to say.

The Grand Master returned to his desktop datapad before continuing. He gestured to a figure seated in the shadows who Seth had not noticed.

‘This is Captain Andestes. She has been attached to the Chapter from the Feydallus assassin shrine. Although she will be working alongside the 7th Company and therefore under your command, don’t forget that the two of you hold equal rank. Are you listening, Seth?’

Seth had been intoxicated by the incomparable beauty of the shapely, raven haired assassin sat cross legged in the corner. The tall woman wore skin tight black, synthetic skin over her whole body, covered across the waist and torso with two sashes of black silk and complimented with tall boots of black leather. Seth quickly turned back to face Azrael.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Good. Dismissed.’

Seth about turned and exited, followed by Andestes. The two marched briskly towards the 7th company’s staging area.

‘I need long range support for my marines,’ Seth said without turning to face her as they walked past a small group of Guardsmen struggling with power cells for the orbital guns, “are you a capable sniper, Captain?’

‘I’m Feydallus. I specialize in battlefield infiltration,’ she answered with almost as little emotion as he had spoken to her.

‘That isn’t what I asked,’ Seth said with great deliberation, ‘I said, “Are you a capable sniper, Captain?”’

The assassin raised a disapproving eyebrow.

‘I think I can manage a rifle, marine.’

Seth fought the urge to rise to her deliberate pretence of ignorance at the rank structure of the Dark Angels. Perhaps she simply refused to refer to him by his rank of Master. Seth was, along with the vast majority of Dark Angels, suspicious and uncomfortable around any so called ‘Allies’ sent by other branches of the Imperium’s many military arms. The Dark Angels had their secrets. They did not like to work closely with others.

‘You just keep yourself to yourself and do your job whilst you are with us, assassin,’ Seth said formally, taking great pains not to look directly at her so as to avoid being taken in by her incredible beauty, ‘do as you are told and we shall get along well enough.’

‘Well, I am glad that we understand one another,’ Andestes said with mild irritation, her clipped tones betraying a refined education within her assassin shrine, ‘I’m sure that working with your Chapter will be an absolute pleasure.’

Seth did not bother to answer. He turned away from the young woman to find his Sergeants and tell them the news of the Khorne Fleet.

A tone on Seth’s desk datapad informed him that he had a visitor at his door. He thumbed a button, and the great adamantanium doors to his chamber swung open. His attention remained focused on the supply lists and rosters of remaining marines on his screen as a marine stood to attention in front of his desk.

‘Lexicanium Ezaviel reporting for duty, sir.’

Seth glanced up to see what was probably the shortest marine his eyes had ever beheld. Standing at not much taller than six feet – a good foot shorter than the average Space Marine – Ezaviel looked to be in his mid to late teens, with dark hair and boyish good looks. Clearly freshly qualified, the young Librarian wore plain power armour with only the hood of an aegis suit to mark him out as a psyker; more experienced Dark Angel librarians seemed to favour dark robes, cloaks or Deathwing honour badges to adorn their armour.

‘At ease, Ezaviel.’

The marine snapped to ‘At ease.’ Seth sighed.

‘Stand easy.’

Seth narrowed his eyes.

‘How old are you Lexicanium?’

‘Sixteen, sir.’

Seth shook his head. He needed veterans, not boys who had seen no action. Implants allowed marines to live hundreds of years past the life expectancy of a normal human, amassing decade after decade of combat experience. He needed two hundred year old marines, not boys of sixteen. There again, the best marines were supposed to shine in the first ten years. That was why Seth was a Company Master, and he was only twenty seven.

‘How much combat have you seen?’

‘I was the heavy weapon operator in my scout squad at Losthost Prime, sir. Against the Orks, sir.’

‘I know Ezaviel, I was there,’ Seth winced, recalling the appalling casualties, ‘Was your squad involved in the fighting?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the librarian replied eagerly, ‘I killed six orks myself.’

Seth raised an eyebrow.

‘You must be a good shot, Lexicanium.’

‘Not really, sir. Fortunately, they were all hand to hand.’

Seth smirked.

‘Good. You’ll be in my command team. Dismissed.’

The marine turned sharply and exited the chamber; Seth marched after him to inspect the rest of his new men.

Sergeant Elim pulled on the cocking handle of his boltgun to feed a round into the breech, and looked around the drop pod at his squad. His nine marines silently prepared their weapons. The 7th Company had been chosen to drop into Garliam, a large city on the southern continent of Ryloth IV, the closest city to where the Chaos World Eaters chapter had dropped reinforcements earlier that morning.

The drop pod’s lights faded to red – ten seconds until touchdown. Elim was not sure what to say – he had only been a Sergeant for two hours, and had known most of his squad for even less than that. The marines assumed positions.

‘Right, lads,’ Elim growled, ‘get out quickly, get in cover, and don’t give those bastards a single inch of ground. The Emperor be blessed.’

‘The Emperor!’ his marines roared in response.

The pod landed with a jolt, and the doors flew open. Marine Eraim and a new Marine he did not know collapsed to the floor, riddled with bolter fire. Shells whistled and whined through the pod’s openings, exploding against the inside of the pod and showering the confines with snippets of shrapnel.

‘Get out!’ Elim screamed, charging from the closest egress ramp.

A shell slammed into his shoulder pad and exploded, half spinning him around. He carried on running, ignoring explosions and shrapnel, and dived behind a bullet strewn, half collapsed wall, the ubiquitous fog which seemed to define the entire planet still drifting across the battlefield. Marine Dathan and three new marines slid in next to him. In a matter of seconds, Elim had lost half of his men. The comm – unit on his arm chattered; all squads from the 7th Company reported heavy casualties. It came to Elim’s turn.

‘Ten Squad at the Landing Point. Five marines down. We’re pinned.’

‘Roger,’ Master Seth replied sternly, ‘Await further orders.’

‘Copied.’

Elim swiftly surveyed what he could see of the battlefield. They were off target – in an old residential area, not the town square. Isolated pockets of marines took cover behind buildings and rubble; the Chaos Marines occupied the relatively intact buildings on the other side of the street, laying down a constant barrage of fire – behavior very uncommon for the close combat obsessed World Eaters.

A few well placed missiles might open up a corridor to advance along, but the missile launcher lay with Eriam’s broken body in the drop pod, and to go back for it would be suicide. Elim looked to his right and saw Three Squad opening up on the Chaos positions with their heavy bolter.

‘Ten Squad, advance under smoke screen,’ chattered Elim’s comm link.

‘Ten Squad copies,’ Elim replied.

Three gunships shot over the battlefield, dropping smoke bombs on the wide street separating the two forces with pin point accuracy. Elim hesitated, waiting for the smoke to waft up and crawl across their area of the battlefield. Chaos Marines had auto-senses on their Power Armour, but the smokescreen also worked in the electromagnetic spectrum and still offered good fields of cover for the advance.

‘On me, Ten Squad!’

Elim vaulted over the wall and ran across the street, bolt shells flying through the smoke and slamming into the road beneath him. He arrived quickly on the other side of the street and crouched with his back to the wall of the enemy occupied building, waiting for his squad to emerge through the smoke. Dathan and one other marine caught up with him.

‘Frag grenades – Now!’

The three marines threw a trio of grenades through the shattered window frames of the ground floor – as soon as the explosion sounded Elim charged through the door as Dathan vaulted through the window, boltgun blazing.

Elim stopped. The room was a scene of carnage; three, maybe four Chaos Marines lay scattered on the floor in various stages of mutilation. A noise from the doorway on the other side of the room made the three marines look up; a Chaos Marine – perhaps once an officer judging by his garish armour – ran into the room, followed by one of his hellishly armoured marines. There was a momentary pause as the two opposing sides evaluated each other. The lead chaos marine roared like a man possessed, running forward and back handing Elim to send him flying across the room.

Elim sprang to his feet and charged the traitor, knocking him to the floor. The two rolled around, frantically trying to overpower each other.

‘Get off him Sergeant, I need a clear shot!’ Dathan yelled.

Elim crashed his elbow into the Chaos Marine’s face, breaking his nose and momentarily dazing him. With superhuman speed, Elim drew his old scout knife and slashed a huge gash across the chaos marine’s throat. The heretic lay on the floor, convulsing violently and emitting gurgling noises as blood streamed from his neck.

Elim stood up, planted a boot on his adversary’s chest, and aimed his bolt pistol at the fallen marine’s face.

‘Traitor,’ he hissed, and pulled the trigger.

Elim looked across at the other two marines. Dathan stood watch by the doorway, the other marine pulled a dagger out of the second Chaos Marine, which had pinned his head to the wall.

‘What’s your name, Marine?’

‘Hanan, Sergeant.’

‘Ok, Ten Squad,’ Elim addressed the other two marines, ‘let’s clear this building.’

Seth lowered his magnoculars and narrowed his eyes. He had set up his command position atop the ruins of an old factory, near to the centre of the conurbation and already half blasted to collapse from the previous weeks of fighting. After the initial disaster of the drop, his marines were beginning to advance steadily, and the Imperial Guardsmen were now on their way to secure what had already been captured.

‘Why, Samekh?’ Seth asked the Company Chaplain, ‘Why do they send fleet after fleet here? What is so important about this planet?’

‘Who knows what warped thoughts run through the minds of heretics, Master Seth.’

Samekh’s answer was enigmatic as always. Marine Erech jogged over to Seth, handing him over the hand set from the command team’s long range communicator.

‘Communication for you, sir. It is the Supreme Grand Master.’

Seth took the receiver. ‘Seth here.’

‘What’s your status, Seth?’

‘I lost a quarter of my men in the drop, and another quarter in combat. My Lexicanium is missing, so I have no psychic communications or protection, and my tank support can’t get through because the Planetary Defence obstacles and tank traps have not been destroyed by the naval bombardment.’

‘Have you achieved anything, Master Seth?’ Azrael growled.

‘Yes, sir: 95% of the territory briefed in my mission objective has been taken.’

‘But you’ve lost your librarian. Damn it, Seth! I told you not to…wait…Master Librarian Ezekiel says he can still sense Lexicanium Ezaviel to the south of your command position. I suggest you go and find him.’

Ezaviel wandered through what he presumed was a large park in the centre of the city. He had been separated from Seth’s command group in the smoke screen following the drop, and had been lost ever since. He had not seen another marine from either side all day. A stray shot had destroyed his comm-link, and his psychic powers were being nullified by a strong psychic presence in the local area.

‘Lexicanium Ezaviel?’

Ezaviel span around and pointed his bolt pistol at the speaker.

The brutal looking, blonde haired marine nodded respectfully but did not salute, so as not to alert any enemy sniper who may be watching to Ezaviel’s rank. Two other Dark Angel marines stood just behind him.

‘Sergeant Elim, Squad Ten, sir. We’ve been looking for you for the past…Get down!’

The Sergeant dropped to the ground: Ezaviel turned around to see what the fuss was about, just in time to witness a bolt shell slamming into his forehead. Ezaviel removed his helmet and looked with interest at the blackened, smoking crater between the eye pieces. His pulse suddenly racing, Ezaviel dived down beside the Sergeant and frantically looked around for cover. The two other marines crawled over, their boltguns tucked in ready at their shoulders.

‘Ok,’ Elim said as he peered around the corner of a crumbling park wall, ‘I have two shooters visual in the cover of the tree line ahead. We’ll move around to the right and…’

Two muffled cracks sounded from behind the row of trees and the two chaos marines at the far side of the park collapsed to the ground. Ezaviel stood warily and began to walk over. A figure appeared from behind a separate treeline to his left and began to walk towards him.

Ezaviel stopped and stared; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He guessed she was an assassin judging by the black syn-skin she wore and the smoking sniper rifle slung casually over one shoulder. The assassin walked over to him, seductively swinging her hips, and then paced around him slowly, tracing a finger across his power armour’s huge shoulder pad.

‘My, my, my…looks like you big, strong marine boys need some help. Get up off the dirt, Sergeant, grovelling will get you nowhere.’

Elim stood up and stared at the assassin.

‘And just who do you think…’

‘Captain,’ the black haired woman cut him off, ‘I’m a Captain. That’s higher than you, so be a good boy and do what I tell you. These two were scouting ahead from a larger force of Chaos Marines moving across from the west. We need to break off east and get back to our own lines.’

‘I understand that whilst you outrank us, you have no jurisdiction over us, Captain,’ remarked one of Elim’s marines, his voice full of contempt.

‘I agree with Dathan,’ Elim added nonchalantly, ‘The Lexicanium is in command here.’

Ezaviel looked up.

‘Sorry?’

The assassin heaved a sigh and folded her arms.

‘Very well,’ she spoke softly, ‘Lead on, Lexicanium, I’ll protect you if anyone tries to hurt you.’

Although she was obviously being patronising, Ezaviel felt much safer with those words, especially after witnessing the accuracy of her shooting against the two Chaos Marines.

‘Right,’ Ezaviel said uncomfortably, ‘like she said, we need to get back to our lines. We head east.’

Ezaviel edged further into the corner of the room and sank down to awkwardly sit against the dusty wall. The heavens had opened up, and rain poured down relentlessly with thunder and lightning at regular intervals. As luck would have it, the only safe building away from the prying eyes of the chaos forces to spend the night in had no roof. The assassin walked in, drenched from head to foot in rain water.

‘I believe it will be safe enough here,’ she said, rubbing her arms.

‘Cold, are we, Captain?’ Elim sneered.

Ezaviel could not see how she wouldn’t be; over her syn skin she wore only a black sash, boots and utility belt with ammunition and medical pouches, with smaller pouches around one bicep.

‘I’m fine thank you, Sergeant,’ she retorted bitterly.

She scanned the room, noted the few dry patches, and selected one next to Ezaviel. The assassin sat down, propped herself up on his shoulder and set about disassembling her sniper rifle to clean it. She detached the trigger mechanism housing before sliding out the bolt and breaking it down into its component parts, then suddenly looking over her shoulder at Ezaviel and fixing him with her dark brown eyes, shooting him a smile which made goose bumps rise across his skin.

‘Have we met before?’ the assassin asked, eyeing Ezaviel curiously, ‘no, that was a long time ago. It couldn’t have been you. Where are you from?’

‘I don’t know ma’am.’

She nodded and smiled sympathetically.

‘You’re one of the new batch.’

‘I suppose you object to that as well?’ Elim remarked dryly.

‘Kidnapping six year old boys, wiping their memories, and training and altering them to be superhuman soldiers? Yes, I object.’

‘Well, I don’t condone your methods either, Captain.’

The assassin smiled broadly.

‘My methods? Oh, I assume you’re referring to the time honoured cliché that beautiful assassins seduce and bed their targets only to snap their necks in the throes of passion. Grow up, Sergeant. Why go to all that bother to kill a man when a bullet or blade will do the job so much more easily? But bedding targets? To gain information for my shrine, yes, that is a viable tactic that I have employed before. And your Chapter ought to be very careful with me around. All of you pious warrior monks, locked up alone together for years at a time with only prayers and battles to punctuate the days of your miserable existence. Sleeping with a few of your marines and finding out all of your mysterious little Chapter’s sordid little secrets hidden away in the Rock, that would be something now, wouldn’t it?’

The assassin winked at Elim before returning to her rifle. After cleaning it and reassembling it, she stood and left the battered building to resume her watch on the enemy forces further along the street.

‘I don’t trust her,’ Hanan spat, ‘Sergeant, must we put up with this?’

Elim stared at Ezaviel.

‘The Lexicanium is in charge,’ the huge Sergeant said with an accusing tone, ‘so it looks like we’ll do as the Captain says.’

Ezaviel, outnumbered and lost for words, turned away and gazed up at the night sky.

Seth fixed his bayonet and charged through the scorching sun of the streets of Garliam, into the city square. The night had passed by almost without incident as both sides collected their forces together, but with day break the Dark Angels had moved quickly forward to engage the World Eaters at their staging posts. The huge, ornate city hall towered over the three dozen survivors of the 7th Company who followed him across the cracked paving stones of the relatively intact walkways of the city centre. On the other side of the square a Company of World Eaters Chaos Marines, eighty strong, charged frenziedly out to meet them.

Interrogator-Chaplain Samekh began screaming psalms to the Emperor, whipping the Dark Angels into a greater frenzy. The battle cries from both sides were deafening as the two sides clashed. Seth plunged his bayonet into the abdomen of a Chaos Marine who charged at him, twisted it and withdrew, smacking his adversary across the jaw with the butt of his boltgun. The marine fell and Seth moved on. To his left Samekh lopped off a Chaos Marine Beserker’s head with his chainsword, still yelling out the Litany of Purification. The two bodies of troops were now indistinguishable, and surged back and forth like a crowd of frenzied spectators.

A huge Chaos Marine, his armour more impressive than his subordinates and his red eyes glowing to indicate his daemonic possession, lunged at Seth and battered him to the ground with a metal clad fist. Seth saw the concrete rush up at him, and turned over to see the Daemon-Marine lifting a glowing red blade above his head. A boltgun appeared below the Daemon’s chin, and the top of his head erupted like a volcano. Erech, the Chaos Marine’s vanquisher, hauled his commanding officer to his feet and dragged him back into the fray.

‘Back into the fight, sir!’ he urged, and disappeared again as the furious melee swept him into another engagement.

Seth recovered his boltgun and picked another target.

Ezaviel saw Elim, Dathan and Hanan charge into the fray. From another street on the other side of the square, forty marines of the 6th Company charged into the bloody melee; the tide looked as though it would turn in the Dark Angel’s favour. Ezaviel had fought orks before and knew what if felt like to look another being in the eye as he beat them to death, but it still took another moment to muster his courage up to follow Elim and his marines into the colossal bloodbath which raged in front of him. He reached for his bolt pistol and force sword whilst looking to choose an opening into the fight, but something was wrong. His psychic senses, augmented by the unnatural technology of his aegis hood, sensed impending doom. No time now, he had to join the fight. Ezaviel ran towards Elim, but stopped half way.

He heard a blood curdling roar, and knew that Doom had arrived. A Bloodthirster, a thirty foot tall daemon with the head of a hound and the wings of a bat, charged into the skirmish, scattering marines in all directions. The Bloodthirster lifted a struggling Dark Angel over his head and tore him in half; the shocked Imperial Marines seemed to instantly lose their momentum, stubbornly holding their ground but losing the urge to carry the fight forward. Ezaviel saw Master Seth standing on top of a marble fountain in the centre of the square, the Company’s banner held high above his head.

‘To me Dark Angels, rally to me!’ he screamed.

The marines surged to Seth and turned to face the Bloodthirster. But the huge daemon’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. The assassin stood fearlessly in the path of the Greater Daemon, another pair of Chaos Marines dead at her feet. The Bloodthirster bounded towards her, its huge axe held above its grotesque head.

Ezaviel gasped with horror. The assassin had no chance against the monster from the warp. He reached her before the daemon, threw her aside and then leapt up to face the Bloodthirster. He flew up into it, swiping up with his force sword to drag the tip of the blade up the diabolical monster’s torso before slashing down again as he descended to the ground. Both strikes would be enough to kill a human being, but only caused the daemon to howl in rage and pain, swiping at Ezaviel as if he were a troublesome insect. Ezaviel dashed forwards a second time, ducking underneath the flailing axe and thrusting his sword up to lance the Bloodthirster’s chest. The huge creature stopped dead in its tracks momentarily. The daemon scowled down at Ezaviel and plunged a clawed finger through his gut. Ezaviel looked down, saw how much blood he was losing and realised he would die. Gasping, confused at the lack of pain, he noticed he was on his knees and then consciousness left him.

‘He’s coming around! We might save him yet!’

He did not know that voice. He felt extremely warm and comfortable. His vision cleared and he was looking up into the assassin’s angelic face.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispered.

Even he could tell she was lying. She tore off a strip of her black, silk sash and tied it around his forehead.

‘You’ve had a little knock to the head, that’s all.’

Ezaviel struggled to move his head.

‘Don’t let him look down!’

Ezaviel looked down and saw an apothecary crouched over him, struggling to bandage the huge hole in his stomach.

‘He’s going into shock!’ the apothecary warned, ‘Keep him talking.’

‘Look at me, kid,’ the assassin whispered.

He looked up at her again.

‘My name’s Andestes,’ she forced a smile, ‘What’s yours?’

‘Aaron…’

‘He’s coming around again.’

Ezaviel looked up and saw Elim. The Sergeant looked down at him, shook his head and looked at Andestes.

‘Time to move, Captain. That Bloodthirster’s still in the square and nothing’s moving it until the tanks get here.’

‘I’m not leaving him.’

‘The Lexicanium is beyond my help,’ the apothecary said, ‘only the Emperor may take mercy on his soul. There are other wounded Brothers who I may still save.’

Andestes scowled at the medic.

‘Give him another transfusion!’ she hissed, drawing her stiletto dagger and holding her bloodied arm out.

‘Listen to me, Captain!’ the medic yelled desperately, ‘I can’t do anything!’

Ezaviel was on his feet; he didn’t know how. Andestes looked up at him.

‘Lie down, Aaron, you’re not well,’ she urged softly.

Aaron?

He reached for her belt, snatched a melta bomb, and was running. He heard her call him back, but he was already half way across the square. He stumbled and fell, consciousness fading again. He staggered across the sea of dead bodies which littered the town square, his fading vision struggling to focus on the towering daemon who stood boldly ahead of him. He fell to one knee again.

Ezaviel felt he was rising, and realised that he hung limply in the fist of the Bloodthirster, its arm stretched above its head. The fist began to clench, and Ezaviel felt his rib shell crack and buckle. He looked down at the Bloodthirster’s hideous face. With his last strength, he hurled the melta bomb down its throat.

The bomb exploded, killing them both instantly.

Scratch, scratch.

Silence.

Darkness.

Scratch.

The sound of stone rubbing against stone filled his ears, and vision began to return. He sat up. He was in a dark, candle lit hall of immense size, the stone walls extending so high that the ceiling was invisible, even to his occulobe assisted eyes. He realised that he was sat in a sarcophagus, one of many in rows and rows in the great catacomb. The lid was on the floor, placed there by two dark, sinister figures whose features were hidden by white, hooded robes. Watchers In The Dark, he remembered they were called; strange beings, thought to be the souls of dead Dark Angels.

He stood and stepped out of his stone tomb. He was wearing his dark green power armour, his aegis hood attached to the neck. He sensed a being behind him and span to face it. A huge figure, perhaps ten feet tall, clothed in the same, white robes, stepped out of the shadows.

‘Am I dead?’ Ezaviel asked.

The figure removed his hood slowly. Ezaviel instantly recognised the face from countless stained glass windows and statues, and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

‘No, my son, you are not dead,’ the figure said softly, ‘Not any more.’

‘Begging your pardon m’lord…’

Azrael stood before the huge, transparisteel plate and continued to gaze into space.

‘What is it, Benai?’

The Supreme Grand Master’s Aide cleared his throat.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you m’lord, but an officer from the library is outside. He wants to see you.’

Azrael, deep in thought and tired of interruptions, sighed and closed his eyes.

‘Not now. Send him away.’

The Aide shifted his gaze nervously.

‘He said that it was urgent m’lord, that it could not wait.’

Azrael turned to face his veteran aide.

‘Very well, Benai, very well. Send him in.’

Azrael’s comm-link beeped; he activated it and spoke.

‘Azrael.’

‘It is Ezekiel. I’ve detected a psychic force of immense power onboard the rock. Truly immense power. I detect no threat, but I must speak with you.’

‘Report to my observation chamber at once. The librarian you have sent to me to discuss it has already arrived.’

Ezekiel paused before answering.

‘I have sent none of my librarians to you, Supreme Grand Master.’

Azrael raised an eyebrow.

‘Then I suggest you make haste, brother.’

He switched off his comm-link and turned to face the marine who stood across the chamber at the door. Azrael folded his arms and nodded. The marine walked slowly across the chamber and paused before the flight of marble steps leading up to the transparisteel viewports. Azrael looked down on him; he was young, possibly twenty years old, and wore black strip of silk around one wrist in blatant disregard for the Chapter’s dress regulations.

‘State your business, Lexicanium.’

The boy looked up at him.

‘He comes to forgive the sins of The Betrayer.’

Azrael’s eyes opened wide.

‘What did you say, marine?’

‘He comes to forgive the sins of The Betrayer,’ the Lexicanium paused, ‘that is the message I was instructed to deliver to you, Supreme Grand Master.’

Azrael hit his comm-link.

‘Sapphon, get in here.’

The great, double doors swung open and Ezekiel, Grand Master of Librarians marched in. His face was cast into shadows by his ancient robes, although his one crude, bionic eye was still visible in the pale light. He stood smartly and respectfully at the foot of the steps.

‘What do you make of this, Ezekiel?’ Azrael gestured to the Lexicanium.

‘He is the power I spoke of, sir,’ Ezekiel answered warily, ‘In over two hundred years of serving the Emperor, I have never sensed a psychic power so strong. His powers, metaphorically, are off the scale.’

The young marine appeared panicked and confused.

‘There must be some mistake. Sir, I…’

‘That may be, but his soul is in question.’

Sapphon, Grand Master of Chaplains, walked forward slowly from the doorway. Another veteran of centuries of service, Sapphon wore the black robes of his Chaplaincy, his hood worn over his head in the same manner as Ezekiel.

‘I sense danger, Grand Master. This boy may be sent straight from the warp, an impure heretic. A servant of chaos. He may be an enemy.’

‘Enemy? The boy’s a weapon!’ Ezekiel roared, slamming his fist into the palm of his other hand, ‘A weapon to cast aside the enemies of the Emperor! To…’

Azrael held up a hand and Ezekiel fell silent. He walked slowly down the gleaming white, marble steps.

‘What is your name, Lexicanium?’

‘Ezaviel, sir.’

‘Who gave you the message Ezaviel? Who is coming to forgive The Betrayer?’

‘Ezaviel, Ezaviel, Ezaviel…’ Ezekiel paced back and forth, his one remaining natural eye closed, ‘I know the name…’

He span around suddenly, his face shocked, his finger pointing in accusation.

‘Ryloth IV! I remember you, boy! You died three years ago!’

Ezaviel stared down at the stone table. His hands were bound by great iron cuffs, the rust which advanced from its crude locks smelling pungent in the stale air of the dark cell. Sapphon paced around him, his footsteps echoing around the musty chamber. Ezekiel watched from the corner of the room, occasionally nodding reassuringly to Ezaviel.

‘Who is your Lord and master?’ Sapphon hissed.

‘The Emperor is my Lord and master,’ Ezaviel answered for what felt like the one hundredth time.

He was cold, weary, and still ached from the physical and mental torture he had been forced to endure. Sapphon was careful; no matter how much pain he forced the young marine to endure, he never did anything which could cause any lasting damage. He was clearly under orders to keep Ezaviel in one piece. That meant that somebody still wanted Ezaviel fit to fight, and in turn that thought alone strengthened the junior librarian’s resolve.

‘So you still deny any involvement with the dark gods of chaos? You still lack the courage to even admit your true purpose, to…’

Ezekiel stepped forward into the light.

‘Sapphon, he is loyal. You’ve been asking him the same questions for four hours. You’ve exorcised him three times. You have even threatened to use The Blades of Reason. Let him go.’

‘This is not finished.’

Sapphon stormed from the chamber, the heavy doors echoing shut behind him. Ezekiel unlocked the iron cuffs which bound Ezaviel; he stood up and massaged his wrists.

‘Tell me where you have been for the last three years, Lexicanium.’

Ezaviel turned to face his superior.

‘I cannot, Grand Master. I am under orders only to tell The Supreme Grand Master of the Chapter.’

Ezekiel shook his head slowly and returned to the shadows in the corner of the room.

‘I understand, Lexicanium. I know not of what your purpose is, but I do know that I would be able to sense the dark caress of chaos on your soul, should you have fallen from the Emperor’s light. You were dead, and now you live. In time, we will find out why. You are clear to return to active duty. You will say nothing of this to anyone outside of The Inner Circle. Clear?’

Ezaviel snapped to attention. He suppressed a smile; the interrogation was over.

‘Quite clear, sir. But…Grand Master Sapphon said this was not finished.’

‘Librarians are under my command, Lexicanium, he has authority over Chaplains. Anything else?’

‘Nothing else, sir,’ Ezaviel said quietly, ‘I am just glad of your faith in me and your permission to serve my Chapter again.’

The Grand Master of the Library fixed him with a stare and almost smiled. He simply nodded and gestured for Ezaviel to follow him.

‘Walk with me, Lexicanium. If you are what I think you are, I have something for you.’

Grand Master Gabriel of the Dark Angels 1st (Terminator) Company – The Deathwing – marched briskly over to Sergeant Elim, who stood gazing through a view port at the lines of light which, light years away, were stars shooting past the ship as it shot through warp space.

‘There you are, Sergeant. You know why I want to speak to you.’

Elim straightened his stance and met Gabriel’s gaze.

‘No, sir.’

‘Well,’ Gabriel began, ‘As you are aware, the detachment we are en route to reinforce at Allogarth Secondus is from the Space Wolves Chapter. You will also be aware of the custom which exists between our two Chapters. Every time we meet, one of the brethren from each Chapter must fight to recreate the old duels which existed between our Primarchs. The rank of Sergeant has been drawn for this duel. I want you to fight.’

Elim was taken aback.

‘Sir?’

‘I know you have only been in my Company for two months,’ Gabriel interrupted, ‘But I have every confidence in you. We have lost the past four of these duels, I personally was one of the vanquished. The whole Chapter is depending on you to restore our honour, Sergeant – make us proud.’

Gabriel turned and marched through the bulkhead he had emerged from. Elim returned his gaze to the stars beyond the transparisteel viewport of the Battlebarge. This was a huge responsibility, and one he could do without.

Elim vaulted down into the dusty pit; a cloud of sand mushroomed up as his heavy boots hit the ground. Around the rim of the pit, Space Marines from the two rival Chapters crowded together; the Dark Angels watching silently whilst the feral Space Wolves howled and jeered like barbarians. Elim was nervous; he was not afraid of confrontation or injury, but failure was not an option whilst he represented the Chapter and their Primach, Lion El’Jonson. But the possibility of failure was a tremendous burden. A howl erupted from the Space Wolves crowded around the rim of the pit as their champion Sergeant entered the arena.

When the Primachs had fought, El’Jonson was slightly faster: Leman Russ slightly stronger – this had nearly always been echoed in the duels and today’s confrontation appeared to offer no break from the trend. The Space Wolf was huge. Over eight feet of solid muscle, and clad only in a wolf pelt loincloth, he looked a fearsome opponent indeed. His sharp canine teeth shone through his immense red beard, glistening as he roared at Elim. Elim, more modestly clad in combat fatigues and boots, advanced steadily towards his adversary; behind him the Dark Angels spectators stoically remained silent, somehow still supportive of their brother.

Elim had clearly misjudged his opponent – lightning fast, the Space Wolf snap kicked him in the stomach and slammed an elbow into the side of his face. The red sandy ground seemed to roll up and smash Elim in the face as he fell; he spat out a mouthful of dust and lunged at the Space Wolf.

The red haired marine nimbly side stepped and tripped Elim, sending him sprawling into the sand once more. Before he could react, his adversary was on his back, with his arm locked. Elim cried out as his arm was popped out of its socket.

The Space Wolf picked him up and hurled him into the wall of the arena. He felt his back crack against the rocky surface. The Space Wolf spectators howled gleefully. Elim clambered to his feet, his left arm hanging limply.

His huge opponent was on him again; he lashed out with a lead, then cross punch, and followed up with a spinning hook kick, all to the head. Elim tasted blood, but stood his ground. He threw his right arm out and grasped the Space Wolf’s neck, lifting him off his feet.

The Space Wolf looked down in surprise, but quickly responded by hammering both his fists down onto Elim’s arm – the Dark Angel did not flinch. Instead, Elim brought the struggling Space Wolf closer and tilted his head back.

The crack from Elim’s head butt resonated around the pit, silencing the roar of the crowd. The Space Wolf hung limply in his hand, consciousness gone, blood streaming down his face. There was no shouting or roaring of victory from the Dark Angels at the edge of the pit, only a satisfied silence. Elim began to tighten his grip on the Space Wolf, crushing his throat and squeezing the life from him.

‘That’s enough, Sergeant.’

Even the Space Wolves had fallen silent by now.

Elim looked up to the edge of the pit to see Gabriel frowning down on him. He cast the limp figure aside with the ease of one discarding a rag doll.

‘Sir,’ Elim bowed his head.

Gabriel smiled. The Space Wolves could only look on in silent disgust as the Dark Angels First Company silently parted ranks to allow their victorious brother to exit the pit.

Ezaviel trudged through the brilliant white snow which drifted down softly from the night sky of Gemenius, the largest of the three moons of Hagardia V. It was his first mission back with the brethren of his Chapter and he was glad of the confidence and faith placed in him as he was allowed to return to his duties. Hargadia V was a gas planet on the fringes of the Tyranium Sector, an area well known for its industry. However, there was nowhere safe from the taint of chaos and cultists were known to be operating from the gas giant’s moons. Providence had placed the Dark Angels in the sector and marines of the 7^th Company had been dispatched.

Ezaviel could hear the thoughts of every marine in the detachment; his new found powers amazed him, sometimes scared him. He suddenly sensed activity aside from the marines around him and ran to catch Interrogator-Chaplain Samekh, the detachment’s leader.

‘Interrogator-Chaplain! I can sense enemy activity ahead!’

‘How many, Lexicanium?’

‘Forty two. Thirty six male, six female.’

Samekh hesitated.

‘Are you sure, Ezaviel?’

‘I can give you their names, ages, and life histories,’ Ezaviel answered earnestly, ‘One of them is a Magus. They are currently performing a ritual to attempt to summon a daemon. I believe they are cultists of the Blood God, Interrogator-Chaplain.’

Samekh thumbed his comm-link and relayed the information to the other thirty marines in the force.

‘Cultists ahead, Brethren! To arms! Spread out by squads and advance in a gun line, either side of me.’

The marines scattered and disappeared into the night, darting through the snow covered trees like phantoms. Ezaviel led Two Squad to the edge of the forest ahead. The sound of chanting filled his ears and the flickering of a large fire was visible through the sharp outlines of the trees. Visible ahead, he saw a huge fire in a clearing, with tents surrounding it at a safe distance. The cultists he had sensed formed a circle around the fire, every man and woman on their knees in the snow with runic shapes painted across their faces with fresh blood. Ezaviel touched the black silk around his wrist for luck and waited for the order.

‘Attack!’ Samekh screamed, appearing from the trees to the right and holding his crozius above his head.

Boltguns lit up from the trees, tearing the cultists apart and blowing them back. The Dark Angels advanced slowly from the trees, their weapons cutting down the men and women around the fire and showering the clean snow with crimson. Somehow surviving the onslaught, a man in red robes ran screaming at Ezaviel, wielding a buzzing chainsword. Without realising, Ezaviel had already read his mind and knew everything about him in a fraction of a second. Deres, twenty five years old. One older brother. Ezaviel fired his Boltpistol at the charging madman and missed horribly. He had always been a bad shot. With the screaming cultist only metres away from him, Ezaviel held out his other hand and thought of fire. Deres’ erupted into a fireball for a fraction of a second before his charred skeleton crumpled to the ground. Kara, a forty three year old ex-school teacher, aimed a pistol at him from the other side of the fire. Ezaviel effortlessly distorted the course and effect of time and watched the bullet sail slowly towards him. He dropped his shoulder and let the bullet fly by. He then unclipped the huge, black force sword that Ezekiel had given to him and ran at Kara. In slow motion, her expression began to change to one of horror. Draging the heavy blade down in a single attack, Ezaviel cleaved off both her legs with his force sword. He left her to bleed to death. Heretic.

Feeling fatigued and weary from psychic exertion, Ezaviel allowed time to take its course naturally once more. The marines had effortlessly massacred the cultists, but they were still too late – the Magus had completed the ritual. Purple lightning flashed down, and a crackling black sphere of energy appeared on the makeshift altar amidst the flames, growing rapidly. The Magus laughed in triumph – Samekh charged up and smashed the Magus’ skull in with his crozius.

In a flash, the black sphere was replaced by the grotesque, gray form of a Bloodthirster. Ezaviel let out a gasp, knowing full well how deadly the huge greater daemon was. The immense, winged creature roared and surveyed its surroundings. Samekh recklessly charged at the daemon, chanting lines of litanies with fanatical dedication.

‘Out of my way, runt!’ the Bloodthirster cried, back handing Samekh and sending him hurtling across the encampment.

How in the Emperor’s name did he, Ezaviel, just understand what the daemon said? The Bloodthirster bounded after Samekh, moving in for the kill.

‘Stop,’ Ezaviel said calmly.

The Bloodthirster stopped and turned to face Ezaviel, confusion twisting across its grotesque features. A pair of marines from Two Squad ran forward and dragged Samekh into the relative safety of the forest, as the remainder of the force fell back to defensive positions.

‘You dare to address me?!?’ the daemon roared.

Ezaviel stood before the Bloodthirster and looked up at it. Steam issued from its fanged snout, giving it the appearance of some monster from a child’s fairy tale against the backdrop of the softly falling snow.

‘You are an abomination to the Emperor and must perish,’ Ezaviel whispered.

The daemon burst into laughter.

Ezaviel concentrated.

The Bloodthirster’s laughter faded. It winced and put its hands to the sides of its head. A strange whining noise crept from its snout. The whine became a roar of agony as holes began to appear in its head, beams of pure white light shooting out. The daemon dropped to its knees, shaking violently; with one last, deafening scream it was blown to atoms as the white rays of light tore its body apart from within.

Silence descended on the encampment. The marines of One, Two and Three Squads stared with amazement at what they had just witnessed. The Lexicanium stood silhouetted by the fire in the middle of the camp. These powers were far too much to handle: far too much to control. And quite frankly, he was no longer sure he wanted them.

‘Master Seth reporting as ordered, Supreme Grand Master.’

Azrael ignored him for a moment. He gazed out into the timeless reaches of space. What if the old books were true? That this really was the beginning of the end? Worse still, the old scrolls predated the Horus Heresy. If it was true that a marine of unparalleled power would arise from every First Founding Chapter to announce the return of The Primachs, what would that lead to? The prophecy was so old that it would surely include the return of the Chaos Primachs, perhaps even Horus himself. Azrael shuddered. He turned to face Seth. Still the youngest of the Company Masters, Seth was a dependable marine who Azrael trusted and respected.

‘We have a delicate matter to deal with, Seth. Do you remember Ryloth IV?’

Seth nodded.

‘We defeated the hordes of Khorne on that planet three years ago. Imperial casualties were particularly heavy.’

Azrael walked slowly down the marble steps of his observation chamber. He stopped in front of Seth and looked down on him. The thought of The Primachs returning sometime within the next five hundred years had been troubling, but it also excited him – what if this Lexicanium had told him the truth? That Lion El’Jonson himself was alive and in The Rock.

‘Do you remember a Lexicanium by the name of ‘Ezaviel,’ Seth?’

Seth paused, then shook his head.

‘No, Supreme Grand Master.’

‘A new marine who killed a Bloodthirster in single combat?’

Realisation passed over Seth’s features.

‘Of course, Master. He was awarded a posthumous Laurel Wreath.’

‘Who else knew him?’

Seth scratched his chin thoughtfully.

‘He did not last very long, Master. He knew Sergeant Elim, one of my marines who was recently selected for the Deathwing. He also knew a couple of marines – Hanan and Dathan. Dathan was decapitated by a genestealer on the boarding of ‘The Light of Righteousness’ two years ago. Hanan is helping train scouts in the 10^th Company.’

‘Find him,’ Azrael retorted, ‘Elim will also have be transferred back to your command.’

‘May I ask what this is concerning, Master?’ Seth asked, curiosity evident in his still respectful tone.

‘Not a word of this is to go to anyone other than those who knew Ezaviel,’ Azrael ordered sternly. ‘He is alive, and in possession of some rather extraordinary powers. He is being returned to your command, where you will closely monitor his progress.’

Seth could not hide his surprise and confusion. It took several moments for what he had just been told to register.

‘I saw him die, sir, how can he be…’

‘You have all the information you require for now, Seth. You will find out more in time. Dismissed.’

Seth saluted, turned on his heel and began to march towards the great, oak doors. He stopped half way and turned again to face Azrael.

‘One other thing, Master. There was an assassin who he was acquainted with. A Feydallus Captain by the name of Andestes.’

Azrael grimaced.

‘An assassin. That is less than ideal.’

Ezaviel watched the flowing, turquoise water of the lake, idly toying with the black strip of silk in his hands. On the opposite embankment a waterfall cascaded down over a number of smooth, gray rocks before dashing itself against the little stone path, which led back to the marines’ base camp. Behind him the jungle was alive with wildlife; occasionally a small rodent or serpent would scurry across his feet.

He concentrated hard again, trying with all his might to unblock his mind; to bring back the memories of his childhood which the Dark Angels had locked away thirteen years ago. He had succeeded in unlocking a few, isolated memories, but nothing that helped much. He remembered a birthday celebration, his own, with a warm, loving family in an isolated building, perhaps a farmhouse. He vaguely recalled an older brother.

But nothing was coming to him today; nothing had for the whole five days he had spent on Delahon. Ezekiel had granted him leave to try to clear his head a little and come to terms with his new found powers. He skimmed a small stone across the water and watched the ripples extend into glistening circles in the sweltering, midday sun.

‘Hello, Aaron.’

Ezaviel did not look up. He was not even surprised; he had sensed her when the transport vessel had entered the system hours ago. He felt her shadow pass over him as she moved to stand in front of him, blocking out the sun. She placed a foot under his chin and slowly tilted up his face, forcing him to look at her. He felt a sickly sweet pain knot his stomach as he made eye contact.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ the assassin asked.

She was somehow more beautiful than even his memories of her. The three years had been kind, the confident smirk with which she directed at him revealing that this was a fact she was well aware of. Andestes wore the trademark black syn skin of the Officio Assassinorum, applied in such a manner as to give a low neck line to show off her assets seductively. Ezaviel managed to drag his eyes back up to meet hers.

‘What is there to say, Captain?’

She seated herself next to him and crossed her legs.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she began, ‘You could ask how I’ve been for the past three years, what I’m doing here, perhaps?’

‘I know what you are doing here, ma’am. You are here because Supreme Grand Master Azrael wants to keep you quiet about me.’

‘Really?’

Ezaviel turned to face her. She had her brown eyes fixed on his, meeting his gaze steadily. He felt weak and knew he could not meet her stare, so he turned away again.

‘Either that, or you are here because the Officio Assassinorum has already discovered my little adventure and you are here to find out more about me, possibly even try to take me to your superiors. Maybe a combination of all these reasons.’

Andestes lay back with her hands behind her head, basking in the burning sun.

‘That’s pretty arrogant, Aaron.’

‘I know it’s not just me with these powers, I am not so special,’ he answered quickly, ‘give it time, they’ll be a dozen others.’

She turned to face him and propped herself up on one elbow.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, vaguely curious.

He could have bit his tongue off. The Officio Assassinorum knew all about him. Ezekiel had warned him how many agencies would pursue him. And he was right: she had been sent here to find out all about him. Why else would she bother with the seductive approach?

‘Nothing, Captain.’

She sighed.

‘You’re going to have to open up to me a little, Lexicanium. We’re going to be spending an awful lot of time with each other from now on.’

‘We are?’

Ezaviel cursed himself again. That sounded far too excited.

‘Yes, we are. The only other people I know here are Seth and Elim and they didn’t really like me much. I doubt very much if they will consider me a friend now. You’re still my friend, aren’t you, Aaron?’

Ezaviel span around to face her.

‘Of course I am,’ he whispered, managing to meet her gaze.

She smiled. He realised all too late that she was toying with him. She did not care what anyone thought of her and she certainly did not need him as a friend. He turned away again, miserable and dejected. She laughed quietly.

Silence followed for a few minutes. Ezaviel watched a trio of gulls manoeuvring slowly over the water. He wished that assassins were not trained against psykers, then he could read her mind just as easily as everyone else’s and he would have the upper hand.

‘Why do you call me ‘Aaron?’’ he asked suddenly.

She stood up, brushed some sand from the black synthetic skin which clung to her legs and turned to leave. She looked over her shoulder at him.

‘I call you that because it is your real name; the one your parents gave to you. Not that random title your Chapter generated for you. You told me when you were dying, but you wouldn’t remember that.’

She walked away slowly. He had been trying to remember his name ever since they had arrived at Delahon. As he thought on it, more old, half forgotten memories began to re-emerge.

Seth waited patiently for the small shuttle to come to rest in The Rock’s huge docking bay. A hatch smoothly slid open and Captain Andestes stepped gracefully out of the craft. Seth approached her and cleared his throat.

‘I have been sent to escort you and the Lexicanium to the Supreme Grand Master.’

‘I’ll find my own way, soldier. Go away,’ the beautiful woman said dismissively, clearly as unhappy with their reunion as Seth was.

Seth felt his face redden. How unprofessional of her to bear a grudge after three years, especially over something so minor as a few derogatory comments. Ezaviel walked through the hatch of the shuttle and stopped to look at Seth. He had aged physically, but still had the naïve gaze of a child. Amidst that gaze, his eyes looked older than his nineteen years. He saluted smartly to Seth.

Seth returned the salute and led the way back to Azrael’s office. He knocked and entered, followed by Andestes and Ezaviel. All three stood smartly to attention. Seth saw Sergeant Elim and Marine Hanan stood to attention against one wall and Grand Masters Ezekiel and Sapphon in front of the opposite wall.

‘Good. Now that we are all here,’ Azrael began, ‘Elim, Hanan, Ezaviel: you will be rejoining the 7th Company, where you will all be attached to Master Seth’s command squad. Elim, Hanan; Lexicanium Ezaviel has been away for a while on special duties. You are not to mention them to anyone, nor are you to mention ever meeting him at Ryloth IV. Clear? Good. Elim, Hanan, Ezaviel, you are dismissed.’

The three saluted and exited. Azrael turned to face Seth and Andestes.

‘Captain, you will resume your role of supporting the 7th. You two had better resolve your differences if you will be working together. We have a large file on you and your exploits with this Chapter, Captain. You had better discard that attitude of yours.’

‘We have a small file on you, Dark Angel. You had better be careful who you chose to lecture,’ the assassin answered, leaning forward to plant her fists on Azrael’s desk and smile salaciously. Seth bit his lip. Azrael had commanded the Chapter for longer than Seth had been alive. He had seen the Supreme Grand Master tear a genestealer’s head off with his bare hands, shoot an almost invisible Eldar scout from two hundred metres with a single pistol shot and lead an entire Chapter against a Chaos Legion, but he had never seen the legendary marine so incapacitated as at that moment. He stared wordlessly at the young woman, his mouth opening a little. Seth should not have been surprised; the Officio Assassinorum had created and trained assassins to defeat every known threat to the Imperium – creating a perfect woman to manipulate men and even wrap veteran marines around her little finger was child’s play next to some of their creations.

Sapphron, perhaps the only marine in the room immune to her charms, hissed a curse under his breath which seemed to bring Azrael back to his senses.

‘Now you listen to me, Captain,’ the grizzled marine scowled, ‘I requested your presence here to keep that big mouth of yours shut. But I noticed that your shrine had already sent you here and I know why. Feydallus has taken an interest in one of my Lexicania. You’re here to use your looks to get information from him, but I’ve seen your type before. And quite frankly, you don’t impress me, even if you do impress that poor boy outside. I was running this Chapter before you were born; your type comes and goes. Mess me about, and I’ll personally ensure that you go.’

Andestes smiled broadly. She smiled because she knew her charms worked just fine on Azrael, as they would on Ezaviel.

‘We’re on our way to an outer fringe world by the name of Pascal III’ Azrael continued, standing up from behind his desk, ‘the Eldar seem to think they can claim back territory the Imperium captured from them centuries ago. It should be a tough, so both of you train hard and get ready. Dismissed.’

Seth stood at the back of the semi circle of marines who had formed around Andestes. All of the gymnasium’s occupants had turned to stare at her when she had entered wearing a similarly revealing syn-skin outfit to the one she wore on her arrival.

‘If you had a figure like mine, you would show it off,’ had been her response when he had quizzed her on its appropriateness.

A marine from Five Squad had approached her as she practiced on a punch bag and asked respectfully if she had anything to teach his squad about hand to hand combat. She turned to address the semi circle who had formed around her.

‘Your problem,’ she began, ‘Is that you do not pick out your opponent’s weaknesses. Marines tend to train in close combat and then use the same technique on every opponent. If you know his weakness, you can defeat him with but a single blow.’

A murmur of disapproval broke from some of the marines; but Seth, Elim and some of the more experienced Dark Angels knew full well how dangerous assassins were. As hard as it was to admit, any killer churned out by the Officio Assassinorum was more than a match for the vast majority of Space Marines.

‘It sounds like you need a demonstration,’ Andestes said curtly, ‘Lexicanium Ezaviel, please step forward.’

Ezaviel looked up from the other side of the gymnasium.

She beckoned for him to approach. Ezaviel walked over, an uneasy expression on his face.

‘Attack me.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘As hard and as fast as you like. Try to kill me, Lexicanium.’

Ezaviel held up a conventional martial arts guard and danced warily towards her on the balls of his feet. She placed her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow and watched him through half closed eyes. When he was close enough she slipped an arm around his neck and kissed him. After a few seconds his arms fell limply to either side of him. She swept his legs from underneath him, sending him crashing to the ground awkwardly. Seth saw only a flash of her wrist, but a long stiletto blade slammed into the floor an inch from Ezaviel’s head.

‘The moral is: never let an armed assailant kiss you.’

Two or three of the marines allowed emotion through their stony exterior and even smiled a little. She pulled her dagger from the ground and replaced it in her belt before leaning over Ezaviel and ruffling his hair playfully.

‘That’s an old one,’ she said to him sympathetically, ‘I didn’t think it would work as well on you as it has on other men, farm boy.’

She offered her hand to him. He scowled, knocked it away and jumped to his feet.

‘I hope you’ve all learned something,’ she addressed the marines, before turning back to the punch bag.

The next two weeks passed quickly. Seth spent many hours in The Rock’s librarium, scouring ancient scrolls and archives for information regarding Pascal III. It was the site of an old Warp Gate; the Blood Angels had fought the Thousand Sons for years over this planet during the Horus Heresy. Seth found that particularly noteworthy; the Space Wolves had fought the Night Lords for years over the Warp Gate at Ryloth IV.

Pascal III was classified as a paradise planet; a world of great scenic beauty, which had been recolonized by the Imperium a few hundred years ago, after they had managed to recapture it from the Eldar.

Elim and Hanan spent day after day in the gymnasium, practicing hand to hand combat. Ezaviel seemed to spend most of his time with Grand Master Ezekiel, the latter having almost adopted the former as the son he never had, and trying to help him discipline and control his new found skills. As for the assassin, she disappeared for the fortnight’s journey, which was for the better, Seth thought.

The cluster of drop pods broke through the planet’s atmosphere, glowing red on entry. The Rock’s defense lasers had blown a hole a good three miles in diameter in a jungle on one of the major continents, so that the marines could land safely, establish a perimeter and construct a base camp. This conflict was going to be substantial; two entire Imperial Guard regiments and several titans were on their way. Unfortunately, the defense lasers had also told the eldar precisely where the marines would land, which was why the landing zone was right next to a waterfront; they could only be attacked effectively on one side.

Onboard the 7th Company’s command pod, Seth’s command squad readied their weapons.

‘Well,’ Andestes began, ‘where will we be going from the landing point, Seth?’

‘We move in accordance with the orders I issued during the Brief,’ Seth replied curtly, ‘I suppose you might as well do your own thing, Captain. That is what assassins are best at, is it not?’

The drop pod’s lights faded to red.

Seth turned to face the pod’s occupants.

‘Assume positions.’

The pod jolted and the charges exploded, blowing the doors off.

‘To your positions,’ Seth commanded assertively, rushing from the open doorway and dropping to one knee in the fresh air outside the pod.

The marines quickly filed out and dived to the ground into the burnt earth of Pascal III, scanning the trees for enemy movement. Ezaviel stood and holstered his bolt pistol

‘There’s no-one for miles around, Master Seth.’

Seth looked up from the sights of his gun.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The marines stood. Seth glanced at his position on the global map on his arm. He opened a channel to his company on the comm link.

‘7th – on to phase two. Advance by squads to establish perimeter as briefed. Expect light resistance, purge anything not in the Emperor’s sight.’

It was early afternoon by the time the 7th Company reached a small town on the other side of the jungle. Personnel had arrived to begin construction of an operations base at the landing site, but enemy forces had been detected at the town. The 4th and 7th Companies had been dispatched to eliminate them. Seth watched his squads advance on the little town through his magnoculars. The 7th Company’s command squad had stayed by the entrance to the jungle, so that Seth could manoeuvre his forces from the greatest vantage point. Elim was twitching restlessly; this was his first action as part of a command squad. Andestes hurriedly assembled a large calibre sniper rifle.

‘A new rifle, Captain? Your Shrine seems very well equipped,’ Seth remarked dryly, irritated by the distracting influence the young woman had on his marines.

‘Sniping is not my main talent, but I imagine I can outshoot any of your automatons. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in that bell tower,’ she gestured to a tall spire sprouting out of a chapel.

‘The bell tower?’ Elim folded his arms cynically, ‘the elder will never think to look for a sniper there.’

Andestes ignored the tall Sergeant and slung the huge gun over her shoulder before darting stealthily into the town.

Content that his marines were in position to begin clearing the town, Seth nodded to Elim before leading his command squad up to a dry stone wall which formed the town’s perimeter. He could see a few eldar guardians in their shining red armour dotted about the town; none were out in force and he could not see any sentries. A trap. Nobody ambushed the elder, they were simply too underhand, too devious. Best send in a few scouts first. Better still, he would go.

‘All squads: hold positions and await further orders.’

He turned to his squad.

‘Hanan, Ezaviel, stay here. Elim, on me.’

The two marines vaulted over the wall and ran downhill to take cover behind a row of neat, single story houses. A solitary guardian wandered down the street, looking up at the sun, miles away in thought. Elim unsheathed his scout knife; Seth placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. He was still certain that this was a trap.

‘All squads, report in,’ Seth whispered into his comm. link.

One by one, the squads acknowledged their presence. There was no response from Eight Squad.

‘Seven squad; you’re supposed to be in visual contact! Where are they?’ Seth hissed over his comm.

‘Lost visual contact, Master,’ the crackled reply of the squad’s Sergeant issued from Seth’s earpieces.

‘Explain,’ Seth demanded, peering around the cover at the red armoured Guardsmen.

‘No sign of them, sir,’ the Sergeant replied, ‘they are not on scanner, either.’

Seth swore. He had faced the elder before and knew better than to play the game their way – elder were best defeated overtly with massed firepower, not skulking around in the shadows where the conniving aliens had the upper hand. To hell with it. Seth nodded at Elim. Elim followed the guardian, darting from alley to alley until he was within striking distance. Seth saw the eldar suddenly yanked into an alley. A pool of blood slowly expanded over the pavement next to the alley.

‘Target eliminated,’ Elim reported over his comm link, ‘Master, I believe there is a… shit!’

‘Come in, Sergeant. You think there’s a what?’

Elim ran out of the alley, swearing out loud and pointing behind him.

‘Run! Run!’

An eldar Falcon grav-tank plunged through two houses behind Elim and hovered over the rubble spattered gardens before them, turning in place to aim its laser cannon at Elim. A shuriken cannon from the turret opened up, kicking up the ground by the marine’s feet as he ran.

’7th Company, move in,’ Seth ordered over his comm link, ‘weapons free!’

The laser cannon thundered, blowing a large hole in the road by Elim’s feet; he struggled with his balance but kept running. The crackle of boltgun fire began from all over town simultaneously. Elim dived and rolled behind the building where Seth had taken cover. He struggled with his breath and pointed.

‘It’s a tank, sir,’ Elim smirked grimly.

‘Now is not the time for joviality, Sergeant,’ Seth warned Elim, peering around cover again as his marines advanced into the built up area. Hanan and Ezaviel slammed into the building’s wall and slid down next to the two marines.

‘How many of them are there, Lexicanium?’

Ezaviel shrugged, worry evident on his face.

‘The eldar have very controlled minds. I can’t help you, sir.’

Elim pointed out into the street again. ‘How about that, Lexicanium?’ he managed in between breaths, ‘Can you kill that?’

Ezaviel stood up.

‘I believe so.’

Seth looked up at him.

‘Don’t be a bloody fool! Get down!’

Ezaviel walked around the corner of the house and into the path of the Falcon. He held his hand out and closed his eyes. Nothing happened. The Falcon faced him, inactive as if deciding whether to shoot him or not. Ezaviel turned to face the other three marines.

‘The crew have been eliminated, sir.’

Seth’s eyes widened. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Sir!’ Hanan shouted, pointing to the other end of the street. A squad of ten Dire Avengers ran towards them, moving nimbly from cover to cover in pairs.

‘Up, marines, and at them!’ Seth shouted, sprinting towards the eldar, boltgun blazing. Two of the eldar fell, craters gouged out of their armour from Hanan and Seth’s boltguns. Quickly, one after another, a further three Dire Avengers were blown to the ground, precise shots from an invisible shooter punching through their graceful armour. The remaining five dived for cover. Seth followed suit, hurling himself into a nearby garden and rolling behind the house’s front porch, his three marines quick on his heels.

‘Perhaps she isn’t such a bad sniper,’ Seth admitted to himself. He turned to Ezaviel.

‘Purge the aliens, Lexicanium,’ he gestured at the five Avengers, who were busy taking pot shots at the chapel’s bell tower. Ezaviel shook his head.

‘There is a warlock nearby, Master Seth. She’s blocking my powers.’ He checked the breech of his bolt pistol and stood up.

‘I’m going to go and kill her.’

Seth nodded.

‘Sergeant, make sure that the Lexicanium doesn’t get into too much trouble.’

Elim sprinted after Ezaviel back along the street they had just advanced up. The Dire Avengers fired a few shots after them, but they were ambitious. Elim could hear the thunder of heavy weapons on the other side of town; the 4th Company must have caught up. Ezaviel ran back to the perimeter wall, jumped to the other side and ran in the direction of the north end of town; Elim was close behind.

‘Where are we going, sir?’

‘Avoiding the main fight,’ Ezaviel answered, ‘I think the warlock will be providing psychic assistance from the safety of her own lines.’

‘Sir!’ Elim protested, ‘If we go through the centre of town we can help our forces on the way.’

Ezaviel stopped.

‘Of course, Sergeant. We’ll do that, then.’

He jumped back over the dry stone wall and headed off in the direction of the heavy gunfire. Ezaviel suddenly changed direction and dashed down an alley in between two large houses.

‘I think she’s this way.’

The two marines charged out of the alley and into a large car park. It was a scene of carnage. The ten marines of Five Squad, the same brethren who had served as audience to the assassin in the gymnasium a few weeks ago, lay scattered across the tarmac, hacked into pieces. Six Howling Banshees stood among the corpses, their squad leader removing her power sword from Chaplain Samekh’s shattered body. She looked up and pointed at the two marines. Her five subordinates shot towards them and Ezaviel opened fire.

Elim winced in disgust; Ezaviel could not make command decisions or shoot – his shots flew wildly far of the mark. Elim snapped off a shot at one Banshee, tearing into her legs and downing her. He began to charge forward, but Ezaviel pushed him back.

‘These are mine, Sergeant.’

He charged forward and they scattered, forming a loose circle around him. All five warriors stopped; the four Banshees watched Ezaviel, whirling their power swords menacingly. With a deafening shriek they charged him. He jumped forward to meet them, smashing an armoured fist into the first assailant, twisting her head around at an unsurvivable angle. He landed, back handing a second Banshee in the face and side kicking a third in the stomach; both fell. The fourth held her sword over her head and swung it down at the Lexicanium. Elim emptied his bolt pistol into the back of her head before she could take advantage of the opening, scattering her cranium to the four winds. He felt something burning bite into his ribs and he collapsed to the ground.

The Banshee squad leader pulled her sword out of his split breastplate and swung at his head. He swept her legs from beneath her and dived at her, smashing his knife hilt into her face and tearing her helmet off. The two rolled over each other, Elim swearing at her viciously and reaching for his bolt pistol; the two stopped and stared into each other’s hate-filled eyes, breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Elim slammed his pistol muzzle under her chin and felt her pistol muzzle against his temple.

Elim pulled the trigger and the magazine clicked empty. He glanced at her laser pistol, saw that the power reading was full and returned his glare to her enchanting eyes. If he was going to die, it might as well be a capable fighter who killed him. She cocked her head to one side and raised her eyebrows.

‘Some other time perhaps, Sergeant,’ she said in the tongue of the Imperium, her voice softer than any Elim had ever heard. She stood, grabbed an injured comrade and was gone.

Grand Master Sheoul of the 4th Battle Company walked over to Seth, removing his battered helmet as he approached.

‘Good thing your marines arrived, Brother Sheoul, we didn’t have the heavy weapons to tangle with those tanks,’ Seth bowed his head in thanks.

‘Sorry we were late,’ Sheoul replied, scratching the back of his neck. ‘Anyway, we have the bastards on the run. They’ve been fighting all day and are tired. I say we advance on them and strike before they recover.’

‘My thinking also. I’ve lost thirty of my brethren, though; these scum can fight, the Emperor curse them.’

Sheoul whistled. ‘Thirty? I am sorry we were late.’

Seth exhaled.

‘I lost one squad without even knowing what hit us. No scanners, no visual.’

‘Sounds like harlequins,’ Sheoul grimaced. ‘Tread carefully, Seth.’

He donned his helmet and ran back to his Rhino Armoured Personnel Carrier. Seth cursed: harlequins. He ran back to join his company and plan their advance.

The 4th and 7th advanced steadily through the night, heading north towards Pascal Centre, the largest city on the planet. The dense jungle slowly began to thin, and next day it transformed slowly into desert. At the rendezvous point it was revealed that a tactical squad from the 4th had disappeared without trace during the night. The 7th Company’s Rhino APCs finally caught up with the main body and Seth’s force travelled the rest of the distance in the relative protection of the personnel carriers. At dusk, they arrived at Pascal Centre.

Seth scanned his eyes across the command squad. Bright, keen, alert. Samekh’s replacement, a Chaplain by the name of Darrelius, had joined the squad at the rendezvous. He looked distracted and unfocused. A day’s fighting would change that. Or kill him, Seth thought. A deafening crash sounded and the Rhino skidded to a halt. Seth dived for the rear hatch and flung it open.

‘Get out!’

He jumped out and stopped in horror. A huge pillar of metal stood where one of his Rhinos had been. He followed it up and realised with terror that it was the leg of a Phantom class titan. The towering juggernaut looked down curiously, aimed its pulse laser the size of a small space ship at the Rhinos, and fired. Huge, blue bolts of energy swept across the convoy, tearing four personnel carriers apart. The Dark Angels scattered.

A few marines from the 4th Company’s Assault platoon bounded towards the hundred foot monstrosity on their jump-packs with the intention of cramming grenades into the vulnerable knee joints. Seth saw the eldar titan begin firing at them and swatting them like flies with its power fist. He ran as fast as he could towards the centre of the city, where the titan would have difficulty manoeuvring amongst the taller buildings. The crackle of weaponry began and Seth realised that the eldar’s sizable garrison at Pascal Centre had been mobilised. Then he realised that he was totally alone.

Ezaviel kicked down the door of the tall office block and darted into the building. He sensed that there was one other person in the building, but he could not read the mind. Must be an eldar. He patted his mangled shoulder pad and looked at his hand. The bleeding had not stopped. He had caught a chunk of shrapnel in his right shoulder from an exploding Rhino and had then charged blindly towards the tallest buildings he could see. Now he had to kill this eldar. He unholstered his bolt pistol and began the long walk up the stairs towards the presence. On the eight floor he began to tread a little more stealthily; he sensed that his target was on the next floor.

Ezaviel crept slowly up to the next floor and silently slipped towards a room at the end of a long corridor. All the lights were out; he had to rely on his occulobes to see in the dark. He eased the door open and rushed into the room, bolt pistol at the ready.

He stopped. He was staring down the barrel of a large gun.

‘Hello, Aaron.’

‘Ma’am?’

Andestes lowered her rifle. She was sitting in the corner of the room, hidden from view from the window.

‘What are you doing here, Captain?’

‘Hiding from titans. There’s a limit even to what I can do.’

Ezaviel holstered his bolt pistol.

‘Come on. It’s not safe here.’

The assassin raised one eyebrow.

‘Slight problem. I was caught in an explosion. I can’t move my legs.’

Ezaviel hesitated. She was not one of his Chapter brethren, but she was still an Imperial soldier. He could not leave her.

‘You’ll have to carry me. Let’s go, Lexicanium.’

Ezaviel looked down at his limp, right arm. He walked over to Andestes, picked her up with his good arm and slung her over his shoulder.

‘H…hey! I’m still conscious back here! Put me the right way up!’

Ezaviel swung her around so that he could carry her in front of him. He bit back a cry as pain seared through his shoulder.

‘Now what? Come on, marine. March!’

Elim led the remnants of Nine Squad around the twisting labyrinth of side streets and alleys which formed the slums of Pascal Centre. He had found seven marines, broken and leaderless after the titan attack on the convoy. Elim had assumed command and now frantically searched for any other Dark Angel survivors. Nine Squad rounded a corner and crashed into another squad of marines heading in the opposite direction.

‘Identify yourself!’ a challenge was hurriedly issued.

‘Sergeant Elim, acting commander, Nine Squad, 7th Company.’

Another Dark Angel sergeant approached Elim.

‘Sergeant Erech, One Squad. Where is Master Seth?’

Elim shook his head at the shorter man.

‘Lost sight of the rest of Command Squad after that titan hit us.’

Erech nodded.

‘Six Squad was annihilated. A Devastator squad from the 4th, too. Did you see what happened to that Assault squad?’

Elim shook his head again. ‘I doubt they made it. The whole thing is a bloody disaster. We’ll have to retreat back south towards base camp; hopefully we’ll run into any other survivors and meet with the relief force.’

Erech nodded in agreement. The marines headed towards the city limits.

Hanan poked his head around the corner of a large residential building and surveyed the street. He turned back to Darrelius.

‘Looks clear, Interrogator-Chaplain. Let’s go.’

The two marines charged across the street. Half way across a gun opened up on them, hurling shurikens into the street around them. Darrelius stopped to return fire; Hanan grabbed him by his back pack and dragged him to the other side of the street. The gun fired again as another marine charged out of the residential block and followed them to their side of the street. Hanan fired cover above Seth’s head as he dived out of the gun’s line of fire.

‘Where the hell have you two been?’

‘We were lost, sir,’ Darrelius replied sheepishly.

Seth stood up and quickly ran his eyes across his surroundings.

‘We’re heading south. It’ll be dawn soon and then these scum will have us, so let’s move quickly.’

The three marines dashed from garden to garden, hurdling fences down to the south end of the street. At an intersection they ran into a squad of five guardians. Hanan was the first to open fire. He saw his shells crash into a guardian’s chest; he span around, spraying blood on his comrades. Darrelius charged at the eldar, his crozius arcanum baton held high over his head. The guardians snapped a couple of shots off at him; his conversion field flared as the shots were dissipated. The Chaplain swung his arcanum into the first guardian, connecting with his jaw and lifting him clean off his feet. Darrelius knee-dropped his adversary, breaking his neck. The other three broke and ran.

Seth tracked one with the sights of his boltgun; when he was sure of his shot he pulled the trigger, blowing a neat hole in the small of the man’s back. The surviving two guardians escaped into the night.

Ezaviel carefully opened the door to the tall apartment block. He crept up the stairs slowly; the pain had spread from his shoulder to his arm and Andestes was asleep again – he did not want to wake her. They had spent the entire day trekking east across the desert, occasionally avoiding eldar patrols and outposts. Andestes had spent the majority of the trip asleep in his arms. She would wake now and again and complain about something or other. He much preferred her asleep. At about midday they had run into a column of a few hundred refugees who had left Centre a couple of days ago. They looked tired and gaunt, and stared at Ezaviel and Andestes with detestation in their eyes.

At sundown Ezaviel had entered a small city he had not seen on the map. He had spent the last hour dodging in and out of sentries and observation posts, and had finally arrived at the apartment block. Andestes stirred and murmured something. She looked so sweet to him when she was asleep. It was a shame she did not act it when she was awake. He found a neat little bedroom on the top floor of the block and gently laid the wounded assassin down to sleep on the bed.

He carefully removed the armour from his injured arm, piece by piece. He felt immediate relief as his shoulder was no longer constrained by the battered alloy plates. He was surprised to see how intact his shoulder was – a jagged shard of metal bit deep into it, but that was about it. It had felt much worse. Feeling weary, exhausted, Ezaviel removed the rest of his armour, leaving him in the combat trousers and vest he wore beneath it, before picking up his bolt pistol and wandering over to the window. The night sky flashed with what looked like lightning; the Imperial Guard must have arrived, as Ezaviel recognised it as the flash and boom of heavy field guns and artillery. Small arms fire snapped occasionally off in the distance and a trio of tall, graceful eldar titans paced slowly across the horizon. Ezaviel felt an arm slip around his waist.

‘I thought you were hit. How come you can walk all of a sudden?’ he demanded.

‘I lied. I just couldn’t be bothered walking.’

Ezaviel felt rage momentarily, but decided not to act on it. He should have expected something like this from her. He yelped in pain as Andestes suddenly tore the shard of shrapnel from his shoulder.

‘Oh, don’t be such a big baby.’

The assassin began to bandage him. He kept his back turned to her and watched the eldar titans suddenly sprint off to where he presumed the 3rd Company were advancing from.

‘The 3rd should be here tomorrow. We can tag onto them until we reach the main force.’

Andestes wrapped both arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder.

‘Is that all you ever think about, Aaron? Fighting and killing? Can’t we talk about something else?’

He turned to face her. She reached up and touched the black strip of silk around his wrist.

‘You kept this?’

Ezaviel looked at the floor.

‘How sweet,’ the assassin sniggered.

He turned his back on her again as the feeling of rage returned to the surface. She had just made him carry her for miles across a desert with a wounded shoulder and all she could do was ridicule him. He faced her once more.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Captain. All you care about is yourself, and occasionally carrying out your unscrupulous orders. You are cold, unfeeling and when you die it will be alone, because you shun everyone who tries to care for you. Seth warned me about you, about your orders to seduce me to get information for the Officio. And I, ever the fool, thought you really wanted to be my friend. You are the most cold blooded and self centred person I’ve ever known.’

Andestes took a step back and bit her lip, her face distressed. She reached down the front of her syn skin vest and pulled out her identity discs. She pulled a battered disc off the chain, threw it at him and turned her back. Ezaviel caught it. It was one of his.

‘I took that from your body three years ago, before the apothecaries got to you. I wanted something to make sure I would never forget the boy who died to save my life. I never needed it.’

Ezaviel had never felt so stupid. How could he have been so wrong? He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. She looked up at him.

‘You’re wrong about me, Aaron. My orders aren’t to…’

He pulled her close and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. A few minutes later she gently pushed him off and smiled. He stood, lost for words. Best say something quick, pretend to still have cool.

‘What were you saying about your orders?’ Ezaviel asked, the first question to enter his head. She stared into his eyes and smiled broadly.

‘I was saying that my orders aren’t to seduce you. My orders are to kill you.’

Erech ran towards the eldar lines, zigzagging to throw off their aim and screaming like a man possessed. Elim looked at his squad.

‘Forward!’

Nine squad followed close at the heels of One squad, charging across the dunes of the immense desert which spanned south as far as the eye could see. The eldar forces, superior in number, charged at the remnants of the 4th and 7th Companies. The ground began to shake. Elim looked over his shoulder and saw a Reaver class titan of the Morning Stars charging towards the elder; the first bit of luck the marines had had all night. The eldar advance suddenly halted. The guardians opened up on the Imperial titan with heavy weapons; laser bolts dissipated harmlessly on its void shields. The titan reached the eldar lines and the massacre began.

The Reaver charged straight over the eldar, crushing a dozen underfoot before it had even began firing. The titan’s vulcan gun then wound up to fire; its twenty barrels whirled around, spitting shells into the eldar. The projectiles tore across the ranks of troops, scattering bodies in every direction. They broke and ran. The Reaver’s missile launcher erupted, streaking white lines across the night sky after the fleeing aliens. The missiles impacted into the ground and Elim saw guardians and aspect warriors blown dozens of feet into the air. Even the Dark Angels, known for their stubborn attitude and lack of emotion, cheered the Imperial titan.

Elim watched the Reaver sprint off in pursuit of the surviving eldar. He saw Erech standing motionless on the ridge of one of the giant footprints left by the titan. Elim slung his boltgun over his shoulder and ran to join him on the ridge of sand. Erech stared into the pit, a look of interest on his face. Elim looked down. There were a few pieces of flattened metal imbedded in a thin, red paste. All that was left of a Dire Avenger squad. Erech finally spoke.

‘It pays to honour the Emperor, Brother, lest you end up looking like dog food.’

Ezaviel threw her against the wall and pointed his bolt pistol at her.

‘Kill me? Why?’

Andestes folded her arms and smirked.

‘The High Lords find it hard to believe that a marine can die, then just come back to life with enhanced powers. They suspect that you have fallen under the influence of chaos. My orders are to evaluate you and if I deem chaos involvement, neutralise you.’

Ezaviel’s bolt pistol began to shake.

‘D…do you think I’m possessed by daemons?’

Andestes smiled and shook her head. She paced slowly towards him.

‘What are your orders, if I’m not possessed?’

She gently took his gun from him and dropped it on the floor.

‘To make sure that no one hurts you,’ she answered, ‘I’m here to look after you. Now, shall we carry on where we left off?’

A lop-sided grin appeared on Ezaviel’s face. Deep down he knew better, but he was exhausted and paid little attention to his common sense.

‘It was rather fun…’ were the only words he managed to fumble out.

‘Fun? Well, we’re both intelligent. I’m sure that if we put our heads together, we can think of all manner of fun things to do.’

A Land Raider main battle tank pulled up, its tracks spraying sand to either side of it. The top hatch opened, and a sergeant clambered out.

‘Master Seth, of the 7th?’

Seth nodded. The horizon behind the huge tank was glowing orange as the first rays of sun announced dawn.

‘We’ve found your Company, Master. And the 4th.’

Darrelius looked up at the tank commander.

‘Well?’

The sergeant shook his head.

‘My apologies, Master. We have recovered the bodies of perhaps sixty of your Brethren. There’s only twenty alive in the 4th. The 3rd and 8th have had some success though. We are all pulling back to base camp to regroup. Can we offer you transport, sir?’

Seth, Darrelius and Hanan clambered into the back of the tank. Seth closed his eyes and shook his head. Sixty of his marines, dead. If he added up the number of men who had died under his command, he could probably form a whole new Chapter.

‘Forty of us left,’ Hanan whispered, ‘do you think we’ll all be drafted in as replacements to the Battle Companies?’

Seth nodded slowly. Darrelius quietly mumbled prayers for the fallen. What a disgrace. What a slaughter. They had overheard casualty reports all night; so many of the Chapter were dead, another hundred marines Missing In Action. It would take the Dark Angels years to recruit and train replacements. It was a good thing that the Imperial Guard and titans had arrived when they did, otherwise there might not be any Dark Angels left at all.

Seth stood at the edge of the jungle, listening to the deep pounding of guns from Eluthra, the small town they had first encountered the eldar in five days ago. He had spent the last couple of days anxiously counting his men as they returned to base camp in ones and twos. Thirty two marines left. The rest of his company were dead or missing. He wandered along the outskirts of the jungle, taking in the crisp, night air.

‘Evening, Master.’

Seth looked up to see Lexicanium Ezaviel walking in his direction, smiling broadly.

‘What are you so happy about?’

Ezaviel shrugged. Seth guessed. He had seen Ezaviel entering the base camp the previous evening with the assassin. He walked slowly back down the line of trees, towards the sandy beach at the south side of camp. The Librarian quickened his step to keep up.

‘You do remember what I warned you about, Lexicanium?’

The young marine nodded, still smiling.

‘It’s alright, sir. I spoke to the Captain and she says that her mission is different to what we thought. She told me that she is here to ascertain whether I am under the influence of chaos, and if so, kill me. But as I’m not…’

Seth held up a hand to silence him.

‘Did she tell you this?’

Ezaviel nodded, grinning. Seth closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

‘And you believed her. Tell me that you didn’t tell her anything about what you’ve been up to for the past three years.’

The Librarian appeared confused.

‘Well, sir, I told her about…’

His expression changed to one of despair as the truth dawned on him.

‘She used me,’ he concluded quietly.

Seth tried to be angry with the naïve, young marine, he would already be feeling bad enough.

‘Stay away from her, Brother.’ Seth tried to sound compassionate, but his advice sounded much more like an order.

‘I have something I must take care of, sir,’ Ezaviel said softly, his voice choked.

He turned and headed back towards the camp, his head held low.

Ezaviel kicked the plasteel door down. It snapped in two and fell to the floor, briefly surprising him at his own strength. Andestes lay on her bunk, idly flicking through an intelligence report, failing even to acknowledge his presence. He strode towards her.

‘You lied to me!’

She continued to ignore him. He stood before her, glaring.

‘The past two days meant nothing to you. Just an opportunity to get information for your superiors. How can you be so cold?’

She yawned and shrugged her shoulders. He turned away from her, trembling. His fists clenched and shook, his eyes closed tightly.

‘All my life I’ve trained to fight and kill,’ he hissed, ‘I know nothing else. You took advantage of my naiveté and exploited me. What a fool. Am I even the only one of my Chapter you have slept with to uncover our secrets whilst you have been with us?’

‘No,’ the assassin answered nonchalantly.

Fighting to control his anger, he heard her let out a long sigh. He felt her hand on his shoulder.

‘Hey…’ she whispered gently.

He turned and stared her dead in the eyes.

‘Take your hand off me, or I swear to the Emperor, I’ll kill you.’

She backed away. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, he saw fear register in her eyes. He had scared her. The warm feeling of confidence flowed through him, calming and steadying him. He advanced on her.

‘You toyed with a force more powerful than you can comprehend,’ he warned her, his voice even, but still bitter, ‘never cross my path again.’

Ezaviel walked slowly out of the assassin’s chamber. He wandered down to the waterfront, and slowly kicked his way through the sand. The full moon reflected along the crests of the mild waves which swept across the beach. Ezaviel removed the silk strip from around his wrist; as fast as it had arrived, his confidence left him. He considered throwing the black silk away, but thought it better to keep it, to remind him that he was put in the Emperor’s galaxy to kill, not to romance. He wrapped the material tightly around his right wrist again. Behind him, the Imperial artillery continued to hammer away relentlessly, spoiling the untouched beauty of the planet.

Ezaviel saw a shadow move slowly across a small pile of rocks further down the beach. Strange, he had not sensed anything. He quickened his step to investigate and almost immediately realised what it was. The huge, hooded figure stepped slowly along the sand towards him, the robes of white and dark green moving gently with each step, the face of the figure hidden beneath the dark hood. Ezaviel sank to one knee and bowed his head.

‘Rise, son.’

Ezaviel complied. He knew that it was not truly the Primach, merely a psychic echo. The real Lion El’Jonson was lying deep within The Rock, in the self-induced coma he had slumbered in for the past ten thousand years, known only to the Emperor himself. This was merely an image projected directly from the Primach’s mind to his, just the same as the one who had trained him for those long, hard years.

‘There will be time for questions later,’ the Primach said softly, answering Ezaviel’s question a second before he had thought of it, ‘for now you must listen.’

‘Of course, father.’

‘Your mission now begins for real. The Emperor’s Children are en route to this planet as we speak. Your first adversary is waiting in the warp.’

Ezaviel felt cold. He cast his mind back to the three years of training, to El’Jonson’s definition of his mission.

‘The Apocalypse is upon us,’ he had told him, ‘the Primachs will return within your lifetime, my son. The morale of my children lags; they can no longer remember what they fight for. You must remind them; let them know that I will return, and soon. Most importantly, you, like the others chosen to represent their Primachs, must defeat those chosen by the chaos Primachs.’

That had been one of the longest conversations that The Lion had held with him. He was a man of very few words, saying only what had to be said.

Ezaviel looked up into the noble features of his Chapter’s father, barely visible in the shadows of the ancient robes. He did not have to ask; he knew that Fulgrim, the damned Primach of the heretic Emperor’s Children Chapter, had chosen his champion. And his prophet would soon be here, on Pascal III. That was what the old warp gate was for. A Chaos Space Marine of immense power was about to be unleashed in the real universe, forged in the unimaginable horrors of the warp.

‘I understand, father.’

The Lion stopped and looked down on Ezaviel, his face as impassive as ever.

‘You want to ask questions. You deserve some answers.’

Ezaviel remained mute. There was little point in saying anything; the Primach could read his every thought before he had thought it himself.

‘I chose you because you impressed me with the way you gave your life. When you died, you had none of the powers I have given you now. You gave your life so heroically with only the strength of your spirit. Also, you remind me of a good friend I once had, a long time ago.’

‘Thank you, father,’ Ezaviel whispered sincerely. He had always presumed that he had been born with these powers and that three years of meditation and training had only unlocked them. He knew that his death had been impressive – now it was all the more impressive because he was but a mortal marine when he had charged the Bloodthirster in that sun-baked town square what seemed like decades ago now. He was glad the Primach had told him what he had. He felt renewed, invigorated and ready for this chaos bastard who dared to intrude into the Emperor’s realm. Then he remembered why he had been feeling so awful and his spirit seemed to deflate inside him.

‘Your name is Aaron Heradez. You were recruited from an agricultural world in the Inner Core when you were six years old, based purely on your psychic potential. You have an older brother, Nathaniel, who was also recruited and is alive and well, serving the Emperor as you now are. I wanted you to hear that from me before the young lady you chose to keep with told you. She broke into our mainframe on The Rock. She knows all about your past.’

It took a long time for all this new information to sink in. With it came many memories which Ezaviel had never experienced in all his time as a marine. That fateful day when The Inquisition had arrived and torn the two brothers away from the arms of their parents. So, she knew; that was why she had called him ‘farmboy’ in the gymnasium.

‘Why are the eldar here, father?’

Ezaviel surprised himself – his mind was back on the job in hand quicker than he thought it would be.

‘The same reason. They don’t believe the Imperium can stop this prophet of chaos entering through the warp gate, so they are here to do it themselves.’

Ezaviel paused.

‘So we’re fighting for the same reason, even though we fight each other?’

The Lion nodded slowly.

‘Correct, Aaron.’

Ezaviel stopped, shocked. The Primach had never called him by his Dark Angel name: Ezaviel. Yet now he knew the name his parents had given to him, the Primach used it.

‘You have enough answers for now, but you still fail to use your full potential. With the powers I have bestowed upon you, you can destroy these eldar titans as if they were toys. Remember what I have taught you. Take the fight to them and do not stop. For the Emperor.’

Ezaviel snapped to attention.

‘The Emperor.’

The apparition faded.

The next morning the remnants of the 4th and 7th Companies were transported by Thunderhawk gunships to a continent on the far side of the planet; a Slaneesh fleet had arrived during the night and deployed a force of unknown size on Pascal III. As the 4th and 7th no longer constituted a worthwhile fighting force, they had been sent to investigate the landing site in a reconnaissance role. The journey to the far continent had been long and uneventful. Seth had noticed that even the assassin kept her mouth shut for once. She had sat hidden away in a corner of the gunship, cleaning two enormous, chrome plated pistols and her sniper rifle. Ezaviel had occupied the opposite corner, breaking the silence with the slow, menacing noise of metal scrapping on metal as he sharpened his enormous force sword. He had spent the entire journey staring directly ahead, pure hatred darkening his eyes. No one else dared to speak.

The two Thunderhawks had landed in a desert which was even more barren and inhospitable than the desert which separated Eluthra from Pascal Centre. Seth disembarked and jogged over to Sheoul, who had what was left of the 4th Company separated into sections of eight marines, ready to head off.

‘We are ready, Brother.’

The older marine turned to face Seth.

‘Our intelligence says that there are unconfirmed reports of eldar activities in the area. We’ll approach the landing zone from the west, the 7th from the east, as briefed. We’ll meet you at 1900. Keep your eyes peeled for those eldar.’

Seth nodded and returned to his command. The next eight hours were spent marching across the desert in silence. Luckily, a sand storm appeared out of nowhere and the marines’ progress was hidden, visually at least.

Seth marched at the head of the column, setting a pace that a troop of ordinary men would find impossible to keep. He was nervous; he had never fought followers of Slaneesh before and had little idea of what to expect. The followers of Khorne, the blood god, worshipped by fighting. He had no idea what the twisted purpose of fighting for the god of pleasure was. He would find out soon enough, he thought.

The cruel, red sun gradually sank behind the horizon as the marines marched on, each deep in thought, yet keenly aware of their surroundings, ready to fight. The searing heat of day was replaced by the bitter chill of the night wind and the horizon transformed from shades of fire red to midnight blues. Seth checked his chrono. 1834 hours. They should have seen some sign of enemy activity by now.

‘The enemy landing zone is some twenty miles ahead, there is perhaps a thousand of them, Master,’ Ezaviel said over the comm-link, his tone bitter and disinterested. Seth nodded grimly: one thousand? The entire Emperor’s Children Chapter of chaos marines had deployed? But why? This was a fight between the eldar and the Imperium and no concern of theirs. Maybe they had an issue with the eldar; after all, rumours had said for centuries that Slaneesh was somehow connected with the great downfall of the eldar race all those thousands of years ago. Seth did not doubt Ezaviel’s estimation of the force size for a moment – he was beginning to believe that maybe the boy was something special, like The Inner Circle seemed to believe.

‘Understood, Lexicanium, contact base camp and inform them. And send for immediate evac – we’ll meet up with the 4th and get out of here.’

Ezaviel hesitated.

‘Evac? Yes, sir.’

The stutter of gunfire whispered in the distance. It somehow comforted Seth, made things seem as if they were getting back to normal. As the minutes passed, the gunfire drew closer. 1847 hours – they should be running into the 4th soon and the gunfire had nearly reached them. Seth decided against breaking comm silence and led his force to a ridge, overlooking the local area. Explosions lit the horizon, sending up mushrooms of smoke and sand.

‘Get down,’ Seth ordered his marines.

The Dark Angels lay down on the small ridge, and watched the figures off in the distance quickly grow into marines as they ran towards them. Seth raised his magnoculars to his eyes. A dozen Dark Angels were sprinting away from a force of purple armoured marines, perhaps ten times as large in numbers. The Dark Angels kept up a steady stream of fire as they ran; one fell, then another. Seth cursed; common sense told him to keep his men in cover, where they had a commanding position and could remain undetected. But common sense was quickly overridden.

‘Follow me.’

Seth led his men towards the survivors of the 4th, sprinting at full pelt. He felt the ground tremble – titans in the distance. The 7th charged down a tall mound of sand into a large, natural crater in the desert. Sheoul and one other marine appeared on the opposite rim of the depression, running towards Seth’s force. The ground shook with explosions and shells slammed into the sand surrounding the Dark Angels. A missile erupted next to Sheoul; the other marine vanished in the missile’s fireball.

‘Come on!’ Seth screamed at Sheoul.

Around him, the marines of the 7th Company opened fire on the chaos marines as they appeared on the edge of the mound. Seth turned back the way he had come and looked straight up into a second company of Emperor’s Children who had moved to outflank the Dark Angels.

The gunfire stopped.

The Dark Angels formed a defensive circle in the pit, standing back to back as the two hundred chaos marines looked down from the summits of the surrounding dunes.

The Emperor’s Children charged and the Dark Angel’s boltguns lit up.

‘What is our duty?’ Sheoul roared.

The chaos marines fired as they advanced down into the pit.

‘To serve the Emperor’s will!’ the marines of the 7th shouted in response.

A marine next to Seth collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach. Seth reloaded his boltgun and resumed firing, downing a champion of Slaanesh who had led his cursed marines half way down the mound.

‘What is the Emperor’s will?’ Sheoul continued the chant. Seth heard the immense thunder of the assassin’s huge pistols and saw two purple armoured marines fall to the ground. A heavy bolter from the top of the ridge spat into the Dark Angels, killing Ezaviel and the two marines next to him.

‘That we fight and we die!’ the marines yelled, closing up to cover the gaps in their ranks. The earth shook as the titans marched closer. A laser bolt lanced through Sheoul’s chest and the 4th Company was no more. Seth retreated into the middle of the circle to take his place, holding the 7th Company banner high above the marines.

‘What is death?’ he shouted above the din of battle.

A shell crashed into the magazine of Erech’s boltgun, the blast of the combined explosion superheating it and melting it. In less than a second, the boltgun and Erech’s arm had melted together to form a twisted combination of glowing metal and flesh. Erech collapsed to his knees, screaming in pain, already grabbing for his bolt pistol with his other hand.

‘Death is our duty!’ shouted the remaining marines, their combined cry barely audible above the noise of gunfire, as they now numbered in single figures. The sounds of gunfire and laser shot seemed all of a sudden impossibly loud as the Chaos Marines crashed against the rank of Dark Angels. Seth unclipped his power sword and ran to Elim’s side as two chaos marines jumped on the sergeant, knocking him to the floor.

‘What is our duty?’ Seth shouted as his sword cleaved across the torso of a chaos marine, spilling insides over Elim as he gutted a second marine with his scout knife.

‘To serve the Emperor’s will!’ shouted a handful of voices as Seth kicked a chaos marine in the stomach, knocking him back far enough to give the Dark Angel time to bring his pistol to bear. He fired and his adversary fell back, arms flung to either side.

Silence.

Seth’s smoking bolt pistol fell from his hand as he surveyed the carnage around him. Twenty or thirty dead Dark Angels. Over two hundred Emperor’s Children lay massacred in the burnt and bloodied sand. On the ridges of the dunes stood rank after rank of eldar guardians and aspect warriors. Towering over them, two Phantom titans peered down into the open grave, clouds of steam rising from their pulse lasers.

Seth scrambled for his gun. The eldar silently turned and began to walk away.

Andestes slowly lifted the dark green blanket from Ezaviel’s corpse. She sighed, and gently brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes.

‘Hey, kid.’

She was alone, except for the corpses of a few dozen marines recovered from the desert, which were arranged in neat rows before her. The chaos marines had been left where they had fallen. Off on the ridge, the half dozen surviving Dark Angels conversed with a handful of eldar aspect warriors who had stayed behind the main force.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I couldn’t save you, again, and this time you won’t come back. And there was still so much I had to tell you.’

She gently brushed a finger across his cheek.

‘I never told you that I…’

Ezaviel sat up groggily and slowly opened his eyes.

‘I wouldn’t finish that sentence, Captain. I think you have already embarrassed yourself enough.’

He struggled to his feet and looked down at where the shell had exploded against his ribs. The armour was punctured, revealing the untouched flesh below it. Twenty minutes ago it had given a good view of Ezaviel’s internal organs. The Primach had told him that he would have miraculous healing powers against conventional weapons. On the battlefield he could be knocked down, but he could not be killed.

‘What on Terra do you think I was going to tell you, boy?’ the assassin sneered, ‘That I love you, perhaps? Don’t be so melodramatic. Live, die, do what you want. I don’t care.’

She stood and walked off, away from where the surviving marines stood with the eldar.

Elim looked around at the surviving marines. Seth stood with the eldar farseer, sheepishly thanking him for saving his life and those of his marines. Darrelius wandered systematically through the corpses of the Dark Angels, mumbling prayers for their departing souls and sprinkling holy water across their hearts. Erech sat on another mound, alone and staring over the rows of the fallen, his one remaining arm resting across his knees. The Apothecary who had amputated the other arm wandered after Darrelius through the dead, recovering the gene seed vital to the Chapter’s survival from the dead marines’ necks and chests. Hanan and another marine he did not know stood with Elim.

Everyone else was dead.

‘We meet again sergeant,’ a soft voice said from behind him.

Elim turned to see the Banshee squad leader who had spared his life in Eluthra. She smiled at him. Elim did not know what to say.

‘I was very impressed with your fighting,’ the tall woman continued, ‘a touch savage, perhaps.’

Elim shrugged. He had never before held a conversation with someone who had tried to kill him. He was a Dark Angel, through and through and had no time, trust or respect for the eldar.

‘Are you not going to tell me your name?’

‘Elim. Sergeant. 35764324.’

The fair haired eldar laughed softly.

‘You are not a prisoner. My name is Lestalia. C’letheres. That is the same as a sergeant, I suppose. I am afraid I do not have a service number.’

The two stood in silence for a few moments. The first rays of morning sun illuminated the eastern horizon.

‘I can see that you are not in a very talkative mood,’ Lestalia said, ‘I would not be either. I shall see you at the Slaneesh staging area, I have no doubt.’

‘Sergeant,’ Elim nodded.

‘Sergeant,’ Lestalia smiled. She rejoined her squad at the foot of the mound. The high pitched whine of a Thunderhawk broke the silence of the morning.

Ezaviel stood before what was left of the reconnaissance patrol. A marine and apothecary were helping Erech into the Thunderhawk. Seth, Elim, Darrelius, Hanan and Andestes stood before him. The marines had not been surprised to see him alive; when the farseer had questioned Seth on how one of his men had risen from the grave, he had replied.

‘Ezaviel? He dies all the time.’

The assassin and the four marines looked at him expectantly. He cleared his throat.

‘I am here to announce the return of the Primach, Lion El’Jonson. I have spent the last three years in training with him. Each of the Primachs will select a messenger to herald their return. All of the Primachs will return within the next one thousand years.’

The four marines did not even attempt to hide their shock. He had already told the assassin days ago.

‘So why are we here, on this planet?’ Darrelius asked.

‘Well,’ Ezaviel answered, ‘the old warp gate on this planet is where the messenger who precedes the return of Fulgrim, Primach of the Emperor’s Children, will enter the material universe from the Eye of Terror. He also cannot be killed by normal weaponry.’

‘We have to try,’ Elim said, his voice full of determination, ‘we can’t just let him run amuck in the Imperium.’

‘That is why I’m here,’ Ezaviel replied, ‘I think that I can kill him. Master Seth, with your permission I intend to go to the warp gate and kill Fulgrim’s Champion.’

‘Good,’ Seth grumbled, ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘I hoped that you would say that, sir,’ the young marine said, ‘that’s why I requested that Grand Master Ezekiel would send some heavier firepower for us onboard the evacuation ship.’

Elim stepped forward.

‘We are all with you, Brother.’

Darrelius nodded.

‘For the Emperor,’ the young Chaplain whispered to himself.

Hanan shrugged in compliance. The assassin turned her back on the marines.

‘We’ll die, won’t we? You won’t, Aaron, but we will.’

‘Probably.’

She turned to face him again.

‘Let’s do it.’

Elim stomped down the Thunderhawk’s egress ramp. Inside the huge gauntlets he flicked on the power switch and the lightning claws hummed into life. It felt good to be back in the huge Terminator armour. Sparks of electricity danced along the four immense, metal claws jutting out of each glove. He activated his target acquisition sensor and jumped off the ramp onto the sandy surface of the desert. The enormous, ten foot tall suit of armour did not feel in any way cumbersome thanks to the neuro-electric fibre bundles which replicated the wearer’s muscles. If anything, Elim felt more agile and certainly much stronger.

He heard a dull thumping behind him and turned to see Seth walking slowly down the ramp; it had been a while since the Master had used Tactical Dreadnought Armour and he was taking things slowly. Elim saw the ignition flame of Seth’s heavy flamer burst into life, the blue jet of fire hissing menacingly before the two main barrels of the weapon. He looked across at Elim, smiling like a little boy with a new toy and thumbed his chainfist briefly into life. Ezaviel and Darrelius followed in their own suits of Terminator armour. The Chaplain’s was coloured black and he carried his crozius arcanum: his symbol of office. Ezaviel carried his huge force sword and a multi-barrelled assault cannon; even he could not miss with a weapon with that rate of fire, Elim thought.

Erech, with a hastily fitted bionic arm, had led Hanan and the assassin on ahead, as none of them were trained to use Terminator armour. Instead, they were burdened with an array of heavy weapons. Seth nodded and looked at the other three Terminators.

‘Let us sell our lives dearly, brothers. We have to ensure that Ezaviel arrives at the warp gate. This is for more than even our beloved Chapter. This is for the entire Imperium. Bless your weapons. To war.’

Two hours later the four marines ran through killing fields of fire, burning away and hacking down the enemies of the Emperor. Ezaviel sensed that they were too late to stop the ceremony; a great evil had entered the galaxy. He smiled as he watched his brother marines slaying adversary after adversary.

Fulgrim’s Champion did not stand a chance.

I am going to tell you a little something about myself. To begin with, I will explain, in a roundabout way, the nature of my existence.

I am a creature of immaculate terror, a horrible thing conceived in fear and borne of nightmares. I stalk the darkness, filling the void of night with the screams of my victims.

I am a nasty, spiteful thing, really I am. But I am not without my virtues. You see, I’m a rather conflicted being at my core. I suppose we all are, when it comes down to it.

There are many of us. I’m not sure of the exact number, mind you, but I know it’s more than forty-five, because I am number forty-six. Some of us are built for strength, some for speed. Others, like seventeen, are built for intelligence. Twenty-three was built for anger. Twelve was built for toughness.

But forty-six, little old me, was built for fear. To create it, to mold it, and to wield it as a weapon. I suppose you could say that fear is my greatest tool, but that wouldn’t be the truth, not really. My greatest tool is my axe.

My axe is my friend. His name is Hatchet. Hatchet is a good axe, a fine tool. He has never left me, never failed me when I need him. Hatchet will do anything for me. He kills for me. He finds my foes and cuts them down, hacks them down, rends them and spills their warm, red blood.

Hatchet is a good friend. My best friend.

There are times when people call me names. Psychopath. Nutjob. Serial-killer. Folk say all kinds of cruel things about me. But when they meet me, they always regret their words. Hatchet makes sure of it. There’s a brief moment of terror, of utter abject horror, before Hatchet comes down. There is a scream, and if not a scream then a gurgle or perhaps a whimper, and then all is silence.

That’s how Hatchet likes to do things. Quick and brutal.

I like to think of myself as a bit more… Sophisticated, you might say. I enjoy science and the arts. I love to read, and I can write a passable sonnet, if I do say so myself. I am also a skilled painter, though to look upon my works is to invite depression and madness.

Believe it or not, I’m actually not a bad person. I just have a rather nasty habit of killing people. Luckily for me, my employers are very understanding. They enjoy pointing out my targets, and I enjoy killing their enemies. It seems that, so long as you kill the right people, everyone is willing to call you a hero. To be honest, I just enjoy the murders. Good for me that I happen to murder primarily bad-guys.

Still, my reputation isn’t exactly peachy. I blame Hatchet for that one. What do people think when they hear about an axe-wielding madman who takes out seemingly random business-tycoons and upstanding politicians by night? Would they think better of me if I carried a sword and wore shining armor? Perhaps. But I’ll stick with Hatchet, for he’s not failed me yet!

Of course, once the sordid escapades of my chosen victims are brought to light by my employers and surreptitiously leaked to the media, my reputation does tend to regain some of its color. When businessmen are revealed as drug lords and politicians are shown to be child-molesters, my role shifts. I go from murdering madman to avenging angel. By my very nature, though, I am an easily dislikable fellow.

I am a rather frightening individual, you see. I wear a dark coat, made of black leather, and long grey corduroys. Though sometimes, when my grey pants are dirty, I wear green ones instead. I like my coat and my pants, but I like my hat best of all. It is wide-brimmed, this hat of mine. Wide-brimmed and made of woven straw. It has a band around the crown, and in the band are tucked two feathers, one white and one black. I like to wear my hat at a rakish angle, because I fancy it makes me look roguish and secretive. Below the straw hat, I wear a mask stitched from burlap. The mask hides my features, but not my eyes.

My eyes, you must understand, are the most important part of my costume. They are maddening, you see. They drive men insane with fear, with a sheer feeling of overwhelming horror. A sense of fear that smashes through their synapses like a wave overcoming a dam.

My eyes are strange. They change colors to suit my moods. When I am calm and contemplative and empty of anger, my eyes are a dull orange, a smoldering reminder of the power that lies bottled within me.

When I am angry or sad or hurt, my eyes glow a bright, powerful red. An unyielding, uncompromising shade of red. It’s strangely appropriate, in a way. My red eyes symbolize the blood that is spilled when I am in a state of anger.

The most intimidating aspect which my eyes take on, however, is very different from the other two. It is the form of my eyes when I am trying, consciously, to create fear. In such times, my eyes undergo a terrible change. They shift and warp, grow larger and smaller by degrees. They go black, utterly empty and devoid of light, like the darkness of cold, unfathomable space. And deep, deep, deep down, in the very blackest part of those twin black pits, there lie a pair of specks.

If a man even glances at me, his consciousness is drawn to and swallowed by my gaze. And he is inevitably propelled towards those twin specks, his mind forcing itself towards them as if compelled. When at last he has fallen well and truly into the hollows of my eyes, he will find the truth written on those two kernels. He will find the truth, and it will paralyze him with fear.

And while he is stunned by the truth that lies at the center of my being, I will consume his soul.

Oh, don’t act so surprised! That’s only one of my methods. The other involves Hatchet, and a great deal more blood. And really, to say that I consume a person’s soul would be technically incorrect. I merely remove it and send it on to its final, fiery destination. In a sense, I suppose you could say that I recycle souls. Recycling is big these days, is it not?

I have a fearsome reputation. Some people call me the Reaper, but that’s not my name. Number One is the Reaper, and he hates it when people usurp his title. But enough about One. He can be a bit unpleasant at times, and I’d rather not dwell on the thought.

It’s ironic though, really. If you saw me on the street, sans my mask, you probably wouldn’t take me for a killer. I am young and clean-shaven, and not particularly handsome, but not ugly either. I am tall and slim, and I have a thick jaw and small nose. Of course, my eyes might be a bit off-putting, but I never go out in public without contact lenses or dark glasses, so I suppose it’s a moot point. I have the visage of a twenty-five to thirty year old man, but I’m really much older than that. I know I’ve been around since the Great War, at least.

Oh, I’m sorry. Nowadays they call the Great War “the First World War”, though it really wasn’t much of a “world war” compared to the second one. They were both terrible, nasty affairs, though. I remember I spent the majority of the Great War in a trench somewhere in… Where was I? It was somewhere in France, I remember that.

Alas, the details have grown a bit fuzzy. When your body is twenty-five and your mind is at least one-hundred, some little disconnects start showing up. For instance, I cannot remember my childhood. Perhaps I never really had a childhood. I can’t remember ever remembering one.

Does that make any sense? Remembering a remembrance? Seems a bit like the old “recursion syndrome” to me. But I’m beginning to babble now. I do that a lot these days. Babbling, I mean. In any case, it’s time for me to bring this story to a close. I am entrusting this audio-tape to you for safe keeping. It will be the first of several. Heavens, it may even be the first of many! I’m sure that you’re trustworthy enough to protect this data from harm.

I want to record my life and times. I want to leave a sort of journal to chronicle my memories, so that if I ever forget, I may revisit the log and remember my past. I feel that this is a necessity, for as I grow older I will surely grow more forgetful as well.

I leave you with two directives. One, keep this safe from physical injury, and do not lose it! Two, keep it secret and reveal it to no one except for me! Most especially, do not let my employers get ahold of it. That is of utmost importance.

I trust you. But if you dare to disobey either of my very reasonable requests, then I will be quite displeased. I will hunt you down. No matter where you might hide, I will find you. I will sniff you out, I will corner you, and my axe will spill your warm, red blood.

They call me Splinterjack, and I am number forty-six.

[RECORDING ENDS...]

—

I think I was given this task to be out of Magos Ehrenrei’s way.

Actually, I know I was. I might not know much about technology, and sometimes I daydream about going home to the grox farm, but it doesn’t mean I’m a halfwit.

Nobody wants the adept from the Administratum Anthrologos running around and under their feet. They get annoyed being asked too many questions, and I know I’m viewed as a nuisance. Some fear I’m an auditor or an undercover arbiter, or worse yet, an agent of the Holy Inquisition. But I’m not. It is my sworn duty, as part of the Anthrologos, to ask questions in order to gain answers. It’s a risky business, trying to identify with people from all walks of life. This might be a heretical approach to some, but to others, it’s a way of life.

The only reason I am tolerated is that Boaz, my mentor, is a generous donator to all of Magos Ehrenrei’s expeditions. To continue having favour with Boaz, Magos Ehrenrei was required to take me on his current outing. Which he did, then promptly forgot about me for most of the voyage through the Warp.

And while planet-side.

Magos Ehrenrei summoned me to the main operations tent after the dig site incident. I still maintained my innocence. How was I supposed to know the crane couldn’t be operated by just anyone? He cut me off before I could finish my sentence.

“There is a specimen we caught on the outskirts of the dig site. I request that you engage its attention and study it.” His voice, sharp and metallic, came through the mechanical grill that replaced his mouth. Most of his body was a mechanical mass hidden under red robes, augmented so completely I was sure there was no longer any flesh remaining.

“Study what sort of specimen, Magos?” My ears perked at the chance to have some actual, meaningful work.

“A local xenos was caught skulking around the site, taking pieces of machinery, befouling the sacredness of it with its touch. I want to know why it came here and the threat it presents. Now.” One of his metallic servo-arms handed me a data-slate. “You will find the xenos along the western embankment. Bring two servitors with you for safety.”

“Safety?”

Magos Ehrenrei chuckled, waving me off, and went back to the plans for his excavation. Dismissed, I tightened my indigo robes about me and pulled the hood up to protect against the harsh sunlight. Finding the servitors as my security detail was easy, getting down to the western embankment proved more difficult. I finally made it down to where the xenos specimen was, covered in the fine grit and dust that floated in the air.

Sitting in a large titanium pen, originally constructed to hold grox and now converted into a cage, was an Ork. The ‘supposed’ xenos specimen was a very large, very smelly, and very green Ork. Currently picking his nose and examining the contents. I… suppose he looked the same as any other Ork. His left ear seemed as if it had been gnawed on, his bald pate criss-crossed with multiple scars. Large tusks, a sickly yellow colour, jutted out from a considerable under bite. Red eyes squinted at me under a low brow, cautious and judging.

Like I said, I know I was given this duty to be out of the Magos’ way.

This was the xenos I was supposed to question? Granted, I had never been close to an alien in my entire life, but like any Anthrologos, I had dreams. Dreams in which my first encounter would be debating with the advanced Tau, or learning from the enigmatic Eldar. Not a common, run-of-the-mill Ork.

Everyone has a story to tell, Boaz voice ran through my mind. It doesn’t matter their station or birthplace, each has something unique to deliver and which can be added to the Imperium’s knowledge.

“Yeah, but not an Ork,” I whispered to my non-existent mentor.

Oh, the sheer embarrassment of it all! If Boaz knew I was questioning an Ork, he would fall out of his chair and die from laughter. Is this what my years of studying had led me to? No, I railed against my negative thoughts. No! I would turn this around. There had never been an Anthrologos who had undertaken an ethnographic study of any Ork. I would be the first. I would make a name for myself.

If this Ork didn’t smash through the grox pen and rip me in two. He looked strong enough, even without the metal armour they were known to wear. And the cage, an 83-N model, wasn’t the greatest model the Magos could have used. I knew, from first-hand experience, that the pins in the bottom could give with enough of a solid jar from an outside force.

“Excuse me,” I cleared my throat and stepped toward the cage. “Ork? Can I–”

The bellow he unleashed caused me to lose my footing. The data-slate went sailing out of my hand, hitting one of the servitors on the side of its head. Rattling the bars of the cage, the Ork cracked his knuckles in my direction and started laughing. Spluttering at the indignity of my fall, one of the servitors had to help me rise, handing me back the data-slate. Alright, this would be more of a challenge than I had anticipated. I knew Orks were temperamental, perhaps dull-witted, but I refused to be scared of one. He was in the cage, not I. Dusting myself off, I walked within a few feet of the cage, coughing to get the Ork’s attention.

His head snapped up, teeth jutting out at awkward angles. “Oy, wut you want, ooumie?”

I gripped my data-slate, trembling more in excitement than fear. This was my first time being so close to an Ork, engaging in an actual conversation with one. I worried less about the fact it might be heretical over wondering what topics I could discuss. “I– I was told by the Magos that I n-need to ask you a few questions…”

My voice trailed off as the Ork stood up, his head nearly brushing the top of the grox pen. By the God-Emperor, he was huge!

“Git ta da point and quit mukkin aboot,” the Ork growled, red eyes narrowing.

“They want to know why you were around the campsite.” My voice unexpectedly shrilled, causing me to wince. I waited for another guttural bellow of defiance. Behind me the servitors shifted as though bored.

The towering green skin snorted. “Jus’ lookin’ for bits for me trukk. It’s broke. I can’t go an’ herda squigs wiffout it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Herda?” It was certainly easy to get the truth from this Ork.

“Iz wot I do. I herda squigs an’ make shure dey git ta their pens. Make shure dey eat an’ stuff. Iz wot I do when dere’s no stompin’ happening!”

“Oh!” My mind connected the information. I smiled brightly. “Like a job!”

“I ‘pose so. You ooumies gotta make everyfing complicated. Now dat yer done the speakin’ wit me, lemme outta ‘ere. I gots ta git back ta mah trukk.”

Looking over my shoulder at the dig site, I turned back to the Ork, shaking my head. “I can’t do that. The Magos is in charge of what happens; I was only asked to come and see why you were running around the edge of the camp.”

“An’ I told ya bleedin’ ooumie why! So lemme out for me ta feed mah squigs! They eat dem other uns if not suppervized! Mah squiggoths will break dem pens an’ I’da be wrusslin’ all dem back home!” Rushing the titanium bars, the Ork grabbed them with fists the size of my head, shaking and bellowing at the same time.

I’m sure they heard him up at the dig site. Maybe the Magos was hoping I would be torn in two. Even from the western embankment, I could hear the mechanical whine of the machines, the crash of rock and debris being dumped. They would never hear the sound of an Anthrologos adept crying for help as the Ork broke out of his cage.

Not that Magos Ehrenrei would really care or believe what the Ork told me. It seemed sincere enough. Ehrenrei wasn’t genuine in my study of the Ork, but I would show him. Orks were considered a primitive xenos and thus might not have the capacity or ability to lie. I jotted the musing down on the slate before I lost it. At any rate, I had lots of time before I was due back at the main camp. Not that anyone would be wondering where I had gone to.

Sighing, I pulled an empty crate over to sit down on, wondering what to do next. What would a sanctioned Anthrologos do in my shoes? Could I really ask this Ork detailed questions and get coherent responses? I took a chance and chose a subject I knew well, hoping it would give a response.

“You said you herded squigs. Are they like grox? I grew up on a grox farm myself, and ran off to the Schola when I had the chance to do so. I wanted to get away from the boring farm work and see the galaxy. Broaden my horizons.”

The Ork paced the grox cage, muttering to himself. I continued on, remembering the best way to interact with any subject was to be as friendly and open as possible. Not that I had anything sinister or mysterious to hide in my unexciting life, or the Ork cared for pleasant conversation.

“My name’s Margaret. I was named after my mother, who was named after her mother, who was named after her mother, so on and so on. All of them were grox farmers. All of them were born on the same planet and most of them died there. I didn’t want to end up with the same tedious existence, the routine. I wanted to show them–”

“Da Krussha.”

I blinked in surprise. “Can you repeat that?”

“Wut, got sumthing in your ears? Da name’s Da Krussha, an’ I be da stompiest Ork outta all da Boyz with the biggest choppa when I ain’t herdin’ da squigs! It takes a big ork to wrassle down dem gnarly squiggoths, ya know?” He grinned proudly, the ugly face contorting to look even more brutish. “Youse better ‘member it, stoopid ooumie Margot. An’ squigs iz better than dem grox.”

“No, they aren’t,” I quickly shot back, and then groaned. Yes, it was feasible to go lower than interviewing an Ork. Now I was fighting with one over the superiority of a grox to a squig.

“Yeah, dey iz. Dere’s growler squig, hair squig, juicy squig, eatin’ squig,” Krussha licked his lips at the thought. “An’ da best iz da face eatin’ squig. Nex’a dem, grox got nothin’.”

During this exchange of words, I quickly wrote down everything said, noting the differences in squigs. Putting the slate aside once finished, I began my cunning rebuttal. “Well, Mr. Krussha, that’s all well and good, but grox can be processed into many different–”

“Why youse say ‘mista’ ta me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Usin’ a wud for dem ooumies. Mista, like I’ma big ‘un.” He chuckled, and I watched as it turned into a full harsh laugh. “Heh, Mista Krussha. Gots a ring, classie.”

Forget the pre-conceived notion of Orks being dull-witted, at least this one. He’d picked up on my habit of using polite titles quicker than I had. Not only that, he seemed to like it.

We also had something in common. As different as both our races could possible be, I was able to talk with Krussha about herding. From there, who knew how far I could open the proverbial door. This impromptu interview had become more interesting, and perhaps more unorthodox. Not that the threat of heresy was a prime concern of the Administratum Anthrologos. We were accustomed to receiving allegations on a monthly basis. Boaz had dealt with more than one inquisitor who questioned the integrity of his work.

“Oy, ooumie Margot.” Krussha pointed at me through the bars. One of the servitors stepped forward, seeing this as a threat, but I made a gesture and it stopped. “How big yer grox git? Mah squiggoths can eat youse for brunch, I betcha. Da Krussha’s squiggoths have all dem Bosses comin’ ta see me an’ git a proppa squiggoth. Dem grox like that?”

“See the forklift over there?” I pointed behind me to one of the Magos’ massive contraptions. I spoke with pride. “My family bred one that big once. It won a few prizes. The local Arbites judge bought it from us and my family’s name was known in the community after that.” My face soured. “One of the Schola teachers made fun over the whole thing.”

Krussha grunted, then smiled. It was unnerving. “Teach ears, bah. Dem jus’ pinkies who act biggun all, but dem gots nuthin. Kay, ooumie Margot, we’s crunchin’ dem words, but how’s ya let Da Krussha go?”

“I can’t.” The sun was beginning to fall beneath the tree line, and I didn’t want to walk back to the dig site in pitch black. Rising to my feet, and dusting another layer of dirt off me, I shrugged. “The Magos is the one in charge, not me.”

“Da Boss of dis here diggin’?” When I nodded, Krussha grunted. “Youse betta let me go, or you gonna have problems.” He gestured threateningly at me. I crossed my arms and scowled. Now this was verging on the comical. An Ork, trying to strong-arm me, while he was the one in captivity! I made a note of the threatening display, cataloguing it under an authority aspect, before looking at Krussha once more.

“Look, I have to get going, but I’m coming back tomorrow. I’ll send a servitor with food so you can eat, and when I get back, we’ll talk some more.” Boaz would have approved my humanitarian treatment of the Ork, especially now since we were on a first name basis.

My plans… did not make Krussha happy. He attacked the cage again, roaring with all the ferocity his kind was known for. If he was threatening me, I didn’t understand a single word of his garbled speech. I gave a quick wave before I started up the embankment and back to the site.

—

“Wut’s with dis dubba-headed birdie youse wear?” He pointed to my aquila broach, a was a family memento I had brought with me.

It was the following morning and I had arrived early at Krussha’s cage. The remains of last night’s meal, along with the servitor who had brought it, were tossed about in the dirt. Magos Ehrenrei wouldn’t be happy when he found out a servitor had been ripped apart, but I would tell him after I presented my report. Which could be awhile with the number of questions I wanted to ask.

I spent all of last night wracking my brain for topics. I looked at reports Boaz had composed in his younger years, taking notes on multiple subjects, and came armed for this day’s interview. I also brought Krussha breakfast, a mixture of fungus and raw meat in a plastex container. Taking my seat on the familiar crate, and watching the Ork squigherder eat his food, I powered up my data-slate, tumbling through folder runes until I found the one I wanted.

“The Imperial Aquila,” I stated matter-of-factly. Of course Krussha wouldn’t know what it was. “It’s the sign of the Immortal Emperor, may He watch over Mankind.”

“Where’s he at?”

“Fighting the daemons of Chaos, who are the enemies of the Imperium. We worship Him for he keeps us safe, continuously fighting–“

Krussha interrupted me with a huge peal of laughter. “So he’s a krumpin’, eh? Betcha he’s tryin’ ta clobber Gork an’ Mork, but they’ze iz thumping right on back.”

“Excuse me?” Hands on my hips, I boldly stared at the massive Ork. “The God-Emperor can take on whoever this Gork and Mork are and win, Mr. Krussha. He is a god, after all.”

“Well, so iz Gork an’ Mork. Dey be da best gods out dere in the univurse. They present th’ epitum of all dat’s best in Orkiness.”

Sitting back down, I opened a new file and labelled it ‘Religion’. I could sense the beginning of something much larger here. “And just what is the epitome of all that makes Orks Orks?”

“Being brutally cunnin’ and cunnin’ brutal.” Tossing his empty container out of the cage, Krussha mimicked his point by slamming a fist into his open palm. “Iz very importunt ta naw confuse da two. I remumber a time,” he paused, thinking. “Yeah, da Boss confuzed da two. It wuz a sluggin’ match, but we gots a new Boss after dat. Gork an’ Mork liked ‘im more.”

“Gork and Mork.” Intrigued, I leaned closer. Krussha’s breathe smelt like old garbage and leather, but I bore it bravely. “Then there are obvious references to deities in every day life?”

“O’ course! Dat’s how da univurse works. Iz as iz. An’ ‘Eaven iz a place you go to whe n ya git dead! In ‘Eaven, you fight all day an’ nevah git tired! And d’ere’s a big party every night wiff,” Krussha leaned back smiling, “more fightin’! Enough dakka and choppas to go around fer everyone. Dat’s the truff. Fer me, dere’d be fightin’ and squidherdin’, cuz dat’s the most importunt thing.”

I tapped my stylus against my cheek. “So just what do Mork and Gork do as your gods?”

“Told ya already, quit mukkin aboot like youse forgit! Gork’s all dat’s brutal wiff Orks but cunnin’, an’ Mork iz cunnin’ but brutal. Easy ta remumber, Margot.”

The difference in the Orks religion was so subtle there had to be a catch. There must have been one. I was raised diligently in the ways of the Imperial Creed, where ornate ceremonies and long processions were for a higher spiritual purpose. How could you should your devotion if not through hours of careful planning and preparation? Piety was worked through the purging of the flesh, the strengthening of the mind, the severity of life lashing away at the soul.

To find a religion, even a very primitive one, based upon such simplistic terms… well, it made my head hurt.

“Okay,” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “So your gods–”

“Gork ‘n Mork!” Krussha crowed their names. “Dey be th’ stompiest out dere, an’ ever Ork wanna be like ‘em!”

“Are ones of brutal cunning and cunning brutality?” Scrawling the information down, I scanned the words over. It still made no sense to me. “But why can’t they just be the same, Mr. Krussha? They follow the same principle.”

That was the wrong thing to say. If an Ork could look aghast, Krussha’s expression did it justice. Krussha shook his head and worked his lower jaw. “Dat’s hearsay, iz dat! Dey each gots his right place ta be. The thing wit Gork an’ Mork iz wot they do! Mork’ll smash ya when you ain’t lookin’, so watch out! Gork smashes ya when you iz lookin’’ right at ‘im, so…”

“Watch out?” I supplied.

“Dere ya go!” He clapped his meaty hands together. “Not too stoopid, ooumie. Ain’t hard ta understend. Iz two different things, not th’ same.”

Resting my head in my hands, I considered Krussha’s point of view. Were they not comparable? Gork and Mork were two aspects in Orkish culture that played interchangeable roles. At least, that was how I saw it. Then again, Imperial society was chock-full of twists and turns, ideologies overlapping the next, each striving for dominance. It was easy to see in the multiple Ecclesiarchy teachings, but to say this to a priest was a one-way ticket for a lashing. It wasn’t right to point out the hypocrisies of the God-Emperor’s chosen disciples.

I never spoke of this to anyone, not even Boaz. Did I believe in the God-Emperor? Undoubtedly. Did I believe in the teachings which the minister shouted from the pulpit? Not as strongly as a pious citizen of the Imperium should. Maybe the Orks were onto something by keeping things simple.

We reached a lull in the conversation. I watched Krussha grab the mechanical arm of the destroyed servitor, dragging it back to his prison. He looked at the metal joints, the various cogs and wires, then with a dexterity which belied his huge size, began to carefully disconnect the mechanisms. I started making notes on Krussha’s activities, where he seemed content to ignore me. It looked like he was making something, but whatever it was, it didn’t suit him. He took the robotic bits and, in a huff, threw them away.

“Worthless ‘tuff,” he grumbled. “Can’t make a proppa anyting from it. Mah poor trukk iz prob’ly looted by now by da Boyz, mah squigs all gone, dey done eatin’ each others.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Krussha,” I apologized, not knowing what I was apologizing for. I knew I shouldn’t sympathize with an Ork or any xenos, as it was a breech of the Imperial Creed, but honestly. I really couldn’t see how the Magos thought Krussha was a threat to the dig site.

“Jus’ tryin’ tag it mah trukk fixed an’ youse ooumies expect ta worse. Jus’ goin’ aboot mah life herdin’ mah squigs. If I’da wanta fight, I’d have raced mah rig into da camp. Wut’s bein’ dug up, anyhow?”

Krussha’s question gave me pause. I had no clue what Magos Ehrenrei was digging up, though I heard it was a relic from Old Night. Or something about a silver tomb buried deep underground with people sleeping inside. I’m not sure which. I was always chased off by one of the Mechanicum when I went for a closer look.

“I don’t really know. Nobody tells me anything. I was almost left behind on the ship because nobody told me the last shuttle was about to launch. I was lucky to be there at the right moment.”

Great plumes of smoke and dirt rose up from the excavation, hidden by the steep rise. The sound of metal crashing against rock, drills ripping at the earth, and the din of commands over vox-speakers could be heard. Krussha grunted, in annoyance or commiseration, I couldn’t say. Probably out of annoyance that I was still there. Not for the first time since joining the Magos’ expedition, I thought about life back on the grox farm. Boaz had taken me from the Schola because my mind was sharp and I questioned everything, but out in the real galaxy, people didn’t want to be bothered with questions.

“Sumetimes, you gets to dakka th’ ooumie, sometimes the ooumie dakkas you.”

The unexpected quip from Krussha surprised me. Chuckling to himself at the saying, Krussha got to his feet and began to walk around the cage, steel-shod boots thumping along. He had neatly summed up my feelings about this whole voyage.

“I guess you could say that.” A thought entered my head. I responded to Krussha’s saying with one of my own. “’A questioning servant is more dangerous than an ignorant heretic.’”

I wasn’t quoting Boaz; he would never utter those words. It was anathema to him. I had heard it from the inquisitor, one from the Ordo Xenos, while he and Boaz were engaging in a heated debate. I had been packing my belongings at the time, but it had been easy to hear the thundering rhetorical verses. Thinking of my instructor gave me pause. I wondered where Boaz was at the moment. Most likely acting as an emissary to a Craftworld. He was lucky like that.

“Do you have any other… Ork sayings, Mr. Krussha?”

He nodded his massive head. “Nevah shoot an Ork in da back, shoot ‘em in da front, cuz dat’s wut Orks do!”

The remainder of the morning was spent exchanging quotes. I gathered more fungus and raw meat for Krussha when I returned to the dig site for lunch, and the afternoon passed with questions regarding Ork technology. This routine continued for the better part of a week, my data-slate filled with tidbits of information I wrangled from Krussha about Ork culture. Mekboys, Weird Boyz, Da Boyz in general; trukks and the colours to best paint them, ways to become the Boss. It went on and on. I was left alone by the Magos’ crew, never questioned when I left the camp with the two servitors in tow, and given as little thought when I returned.

I never realized just how little I was considered until I returned one evening to my tent.

—

Even Krussha noticed my mood the next morning. “Youse look like da buggy’s gone an’ trampled you.”

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious, Mr. Krussha.”

After giving the Ork his breakfast, I took my customary seat. How kind of the Ork to note my haggard appearance. My eyelids felt heavy, not to mention itchy. Sleep was at the forefront of my mind, but I had to continue the ethnography. I refused to waste time. Boaz would cane me if he caught me taking a nap. Powering up my data-slate, I nodded off in the middle of scrolling, snapping to when I nearly fell off the crate.

Krussha belched, his noxious breathe hitting me like a slap in the face. It jarred me to consciousness better than the kaffe I had at breakfast, but caused my stomach to roil. He started laughing at me as I waved my hands, trying to clear the air and not be sick. These actions, compromised by a severe lack of sleep the night prior, caused me to slip off the box.

That cinched it.

“That was vile! Absolutely vile and disgusting!” I stamped my foot, voice rising. “Show some proper manners for once, why don’t you, you green skinned lout?”

“Wut’s dat mean, pinkie?”

It was no longer about the belch Krussha had made. It never had been. My pent-up rage, needing to be expressed, had Krussha as the perfect catalyst. “I’m certain you’re thrilled every day to wake up and be in that stupid grox cage, rattling the bars and waiting to get out to rip my head off!”

“’ey now–“

“I went back to my tent last night and you know what? Guess what?” I barrelled on before Krussha could presume. “The Magos was using it as storage! All of my things had been dumped in a bin, some broken. Gifts, important gifts! When I went to the Magos, you know what he said? Do you know what he said?!”

“Youse gots froth here,” Krussha tapped the left side of his huge mouth. “I’da recommends youse give ‘em a good thrashin–“

“Magos Ehrenrei said ‘We made a more practical use of the space you never occupied.’ He actually said that! I slept against the side of a metal bin last night because the Anthroplogos adept wasn’t worth a cot! One measly, stinking cot!” My tone dropped to a hiss. “There were bugs crawling in my robes when I woke up this morning. It. Was. Uncomfortable.”

Wiping the spit which flew from my mouth, I sat on the crate with too much force. It tipped, sending me face-first into the dirt, my slate skidding away. Beating the palms of my hands against the ground, growling, I stood up fast enough to rip the hem of my robes. My chest felt constricted. It was difficult to breathe as I turned against the crate, wrestled with it until I was kicking at it again and again, the side splintering under the force. Grabbing it in my hands while shouting at everything and nothing, I chucked it over the heads of the ever present servitors.

It crashed into the hard-packed earth, breaking into pieces.

“Dat make ya’s feel better?”

I wiped the sweat from my brow. “Without a doubt.”

“Dat’s why we Orks go for a Waaagh! Iz importunt ta krump ‘unce in a while.”

The word, the concept, was completely new to me. “The Waaagh?”

“Yeah, da Waaagh!” Krussha expressed the word as more of a roar, spittle flying from his mouth, but he made his point. “Every Ork goes on da Waaagh in dere lives! Iz wut bein’ an Ork iz all aboot. If ya don’t Waaagh, then youse can’t stay wit da Boyz an’ herda squigs. Havin’ a life wiff a choppa or shoota means nuthin’ if ya can’t Waaagh proppa. Every Ork knows dis.”

“What is a Waaagh all about?” Retrieving the data-slate, I started to write, and then paused. And turned it off.

He gestured to the remains of the crate. “Like dat! Youse go out an’ krump an’ stomp anyting gits in youse way. Ya exbress da innar bein’ ta wut you iz, nevah mind wot otherz think ‘o ya. When I wuz small, I knew tree things. Gork an’ Mork, squigs, an’ da WAAAGH!” Krussha bellowed the last, shaking his prison. One of the servitors made a disparaging sound, its vox-comm muddled.

I laughed. In my tired state, a Waaagh made perfect sense. I knew a few people I wanted to stomp. “No human would go around and do that. We have laws condoning the use of unnecessary violence against others.” Then I added as an afterthought “As hypocritical as it sounds in most cases.”

“Ooumies gots dere Waaagh! Goin’ ‘gainst others ta krump an’ smash. Deme armoured guys, dey krump all da time.”

“All right, Mr. Krussha, answer this question For Orks, the Waaagh is an inner expression of the primordial?”

Krussha shrugged his large shoulders. “Iz a reason fer bein’. All Orks gotta have one. Mebbe ooumies do as well. Wut aboot you, Margot? Got youse ya own Waaagh?”

Mulling over Krussha’s words, I concluded that I didn’t have a ‘reason for being’. That frightened me when I grasped the fact. Being a part of the Anthrologos was just a job, one which had whisked me away from a home I missed more by the day. For all the times I made a disparaging remark about the grox farm, I was only fooling myself. Shaking my head, Krussha’s brow furrowed.

“Iz you shur you ain’t muckin aboot wiff your life? Orks do wut we wants wiff dakka and choppa. Ooumies should do wut dey want ta make ‘em want ta Waaagh, else dats jus’ mukkin aboot!” A thick green finger was pointed at me and waggled. I was being scolded.

“Well, excuse me!” I threw back at Krussha. Oh yes, what a witty rebuttal that had been. “You can’t really have a Waaagh while you’re stuck in this cage, can you?”

“Heh,” Krussha waved my words off. “Fer me, I has anudder Waaagh, more importunt. Mah reason for bein’, sides crunchin’ heads an’ stuff, iz squigs. Iz got a talent with ‘em, so I says ta myself ‘Krussha, ya gotta do what ya wanna do’. But I wanna Waaagh as any proppa Ork would, so sumtimes I do dat. Howeva,” and he fixed me with his red eyes, dropping his voice as though revealing an important secret.

I leaned closer to hear. “What?”

“In Krussha’s mind an’ here,” he thumped his chest where his heart was, “I always go back ta mah squigs. Doin’ anyting else iz muckin aboot. I gots mah pershunnel Waaagh waitin’ for me afta da big krumpin’ iz done.”

And just like that, Krussha’s outlook on life made the complexities in my own fall into place. The Ork was brilliant in his own fashion.

—

I lingered in the operations tent, nervously drumming my fingers against the data-slate. I waited for the Magos to speak, stepping out of his aides’ way when they approached, apologizing when they bumped into me, no less. Craning to see over the shoulders of those who huddled around the medicae table, I couldn’t see why the item was generating so much interest. It looked to be insect-shaped, silver, and covered in odd markings. Ehrenrei prodded at the piece of machinery for long moments, until, satisfied with a result, he told an assistant to box away the sample. When he turned to look at me, Magos Ehrenrei tilted his head to the side.

“Anthrologos adept Margaret,” his voice crackled, “as this dig is now complete on this portion of the planetary system, we are preparing to move on. All loose ends need to be tied up.” Magos Ehrenrei’s bionic eyes regarded me. “Your specimen will be terminated. It is a weight not needed.”

“But my report–“

“I do not require your report. You may leave and prepare for tomorrow’s departure back to the ship, adept Margaret. Perhaps your mentor Boaz would find the inner machinations of an Orkish mind of more interest than I would.” A rasping metal sound issued from Ehrenrei’s body, and it took a few moments for me to realize he was laughing at me.

Mocking the research, myself, Boaz and, to an extent, Krussha. My hands gripped the data-slate, knuckles turning white. The last thing I wanted was for someone to ‘take care’ of my ethnographic study.

“With your permission, Magos, I would like to handle the matter of the Ork’s disposal.”

Ehrenrei gave a minute roll of his shoulders, allowing for it before dismissing me. He never took anything I did on this expedition seriously. One further act made no difference.

—

“Mr. Krussha?” I approached the grox cage, a large bag of tools slung over my shoulder. The headlights on the truck provided enough light for me to see with.

“Oy, now wut ya want, Margot? Iz dun talkin’ aboot everyfing. Iz late. I wanna snooze.” The Ork looked from the tool bag to me, then back at the tools. He noticed how sharp and odd some of them appeared.

“I know, Mr. Krussha, I know.” I looked at the grox cage. The 83-N models were really horrible if someone knew the faults. Any grox herder worth their salt knew that much. “Look, there’s something I have to do. Trust me; it will only take a minute of your time.”

—

Sadly, this report will never see be seen by the eyes of my colleagues or superiors, nor will they be able to find me. This is my first time aboard a Rogue Trader vessel, and after I’ve finished writing this, I’ll be throwing the data-slate out with the rest of the crew’s trash.

I let the Ork squigherder go.

Krussha left after I had hammered loose the cage’s pins. Titanium was no match against an adamatium toolset. Krussha thumped me gratefully on the back when he realized the favour I was doing, offering me one of his teeth. Payment, he said. That brutally cunning or cunning brutal xenos, I’m not sure which, hopped into the truck I salvaged from the excavation. He complained it wasn’t red and might not get him away fast enough, but he certainly drove like he knew where he was going. Hollering about feeding his squigs and thumping the heads of ‘Da Boyz’ once he saw them.

How odd. I’ll be missing the conversations we had. They were simple, but they helped me in deciding what was significant in my life. The ethnography I undertook has made me reconsider the Imperium’s view of Orks – I’d be called a heretic if anyone else knew – but still. I laugh more because of it. The universe does have a sense of humour and its green skinned and yellow tusked. Although violent, which xenos out there isn’t? A hypocritical question, but one worthy of contemplation.

Now what to do with myself. I can’t go back to the Administratum Anthrologos. I might, under a moment of pride, be mad enough to blurt out my report and bring the Ordo Xenos to call. I would be killed for the destruction of fieldwork by my Administratum officials. Not only that, I see no future profession for me if I ever did return. Trying to contact Boaz has given me no results. I hope wherever he is, he can forgive me for abandoning a profession I don’t have the heart for.

No, I think Mr. Krussha said it best, and I quote “Iz you shur you ain’t muckin aboot wiff your life? Orks do wut we wants wiff dakka and choppa. Ooumies should do wut dey want ta make ‘em want ta Waaagh, else dats jus’ mukkin aboot!”

I’ve been mukkin’ about for too long. I realized what my Waaagh in life really was. I wanted to go back home and just farm grox. Nothing stopped me save the lack of my own Waaagh, but I found it, out on the expedition. I hope that Krussha, wherever he is, is herding his squigs and following his own Waaagh.

Scratch that. I know he is.

But now let us descend to greater woe

-Inferno (Canto VII)

Wansaman had two eyes, which he considered fitting, though each looked out upon a different vastness.

Wansaman was fairly sure of other body parts, too.  He was dimly aware of a beating heart, for instance.  He probably had ears… or at least one, as, every now and again, he sensed a high chattering noise truncated by rhythmic and rather wet mastication that became apparent -he was sure- through means other than thought.  On rare occasions he was conscious of a citrus-like odour that rapidly intensified into what he decided must be flavour, before fading to nothing – somewhere, and probably in the same locality, he sported a conglomeration of taste receptors and epithelia.  And he still had a brain, obviously, otherwise whither awareness?

Wansaman liked to believe there were more parts strewn about, his remaining organs, perhaps even limbs; but he could find no connection to them, try as he might to induce one with the ghostly memories of what it was to be whole.  Moreover, where all these parts might be situated -both those he was certain of and those he only hoped to exist- he had no idea.  For all he knew, his disparate bits were strewn many kilometres apart, those he was conscious of interconnected with monstrously elongated nerve fibres or some other medium…

Xenos medi-  No!  I’m still human!  I’m just exploded.

And greatly magnified.  Certainly one of his eyes was, at any rate.  He had been unaware of it at first, there being nothing in either of his views on which to base any concept of scale.  The myriad organic structures bobbing before what he called his outer eye -having decided that the tiny white pinpricks of light that provided a backdrop there were indeed stars and not simply distant biolumens- were little help: meaningless masses of blazing colour conjoining, splitting, nudging; bathed in a light source Wansaman could not see off to his right.  They might have been microscopic for all he then knew.  Eye and subjects both.

It was only the introduction of one of the most innocuous objects in the Imperium that gave Wansaman an intimation of magnitude: a cargo container.  It had floated in from the left of his field of view, blackened, ruptured, its denotations illegible… but its dimensions suddenly, and quite shockingly, forcing magnitude on the panorama.

The container was dwarfed by the distended spheres and irregular ellipsoids floating around it; batted here and there by cilia Wansaman realised were tens of metres high; sucked in meditatively by curious lips a half-kilometre wide; spat out in disgust or shat through sphincters a Baneblade could have parked upon.

Knocked indifferently aside by a passing assemblage of pastel-yellow bags continuously inflating and deflating, the container had been sent spinning toward Wansaman’s eye.  He watched it grow, his alarm galvanising the blurry, colourless motes that served him in place of blinking, sending them scurrying here and there ready to spray their pock-filling clear gum and brush up irritants.  For a moment, Wansaman had panicked, his mind sending out desperate avoidance signals to a body it was no longer connected to.

But the container had become faint with proximity before it had even outgrown one of the motes, hitting his cornea to bounce back and be lost in the ever-shifting organic swarm.

Wansaman had felt the impact.  Felt the irritating scratch before the motes came to refresh and repair.

Like grit.

An object twelve metres long and three high had been akin to dust on his retina.

Wansaman’s outer eye was hundreds of metres wide.

He suspected his inner eye was of comparable dimensions, though there was never anything in its sight to properly verify this.  However, the attendance of similar motes -for some reason coloured an iridescent green readily apparent even in their fuzzy immediacy- leant credence to the notion, not to mention Wansaman’s innate desire for some kind of symmetry.

The eye looked out into what Wansaman called the Ribcage, and the horrific nativities he witnessed there -though they could conceivably have been either gigantic or microscopic- were of such a nature that he was sure he at least observed matters on a human scale, whether or not the orb employed shared that characterisation.

Taking magnitudinal orders as a given, then, Wansaman estimated the cubic area of the Ribcage to be many thousands of metres, its irregular ellipsoid shape making a tighter estimate impossible.  Illumination came from roaming transparent bags of luminescent blue gas, their conical bases terminating in a cluster of farting jets that provided vector.  The bags clustered wherever they seemed to be needed, their piscine movements creating alarming spikes of shadow among the circumnavigating ridges that buttressed and trussed the vast chamber like gigantic thinly-skinned bones.  Foresting the roof between the buttresses was a wonderland of pliable pastel-coloured stalactites, constantly dribbling ichor of every viscosity and shade imaginable (and a few that Wansaman had no name for), swaying with a rippling motion like wind on grass (though Wansaman’s eye was never affected by any breeze).  Hanging here and there were pale, many-jointed limbs, their terminations a cloud of writhing pseudopodia and grasping fingers.  These were the stalactites’ tenders: cleaning crusted sphincters, popping blisters, or anointing raw epidermal patches.

Wansaman suspected that the chamber’s purpose, namely organic progeny, was partially to blame for these and other more chronic ailments that periodically sprung up within it.  Who knew what pathogens -the ungovernable side effects of xenos experimentation- might be present at the nightmare deliveries the chamber hosted?

Littering the Ribcage’s floor, in valleys of mottled skin stretched between the buttresses, were the ectopic wombs.  They were nursed by ground-rooted clumps of more jointed limbs lining the apexes and slopes of the buttresses, their most common task being to massage the multi-coloured exudations rained from the rippling stalactites into the wombs’ leathery skins.  The purpose of this chemical soup wash was unknown… unless it was an over-complex method of lubrication.

The empty wombs were merely shapeless bags of flesh.  The occupied, however, were distended mounds of widely varying size, pulsing, shaking, even undulating with the disparate life quickening within them… waiting to burst through the tightly sealed labia that crowned every organ.

Waiting to rend and destroy.

Whenever a birth was imminent, the jetting bags of blue gas would cluster, jostling for position – pooling their lambency with a voyeur’s avidity that had Wansaman fervently wishing he could tear his gaze away… or simply that he retained an eyelid.

At least he couldn’t hear proceedings.

-oOo-

It had started out as the sort of rough-and-tumble Kaelee had once often had with her three brothers – wrestling, pathetic attempts at martial arts, that sort of thing.  Kid’s things.

But this time a button had been pressed, a lever pulled, and the Inevitable Machine had been set in motion.

Just like her mother had said it would.

Perhaps it was her own fault.  After all, she couldn’t deny that the warning signs had been there, could she?  The way the games they used to play together seemed to suddenly just stop, her brothers going off without her to patrol the corridors and halls of Level Nine – whereas before it had always been the four of them.  They were once known as the Bewley kids, now it was the Bewley boys and their sister.

More obviously it was her brother’s lingering stares whenever she undressed in their shared bedroom, trying to keep her newly ‘filled-out’ -as the slightly disconcerting phrase had it- body angled away from them.  Their hot gaze led her to eventually hang a tarpaulin between her cot and theirs – a barrier of modesty and discretion she had never felt the need for before.  She patched holes in it with thick duct tape… tape that kept mysteriously peeling off.  With gut-churning frequency she had been aware of one or more of her brothers watching her through the holes; but she had done nothing – something within her frightened of the outcome were she to snatch the tarp aside and confront them.

But Kaelee had never thought it would actually come to this.  The Male Beast had been switched on, had consumed all three of her brothers.  In fact, were they her brothers anymore?  It was like the possessions the Father Groddish always spouted about.  Except that this had nothing to do with Foul Chaos.

She really should have known better.  An hour before, after months of ignoring Kaelee in almost every fashion other than the sly attention they paid to her physical differences, her brothers had come home from their shift at the forge and launched into a bout of tag.  Just like the old days, the -yes- innocent days, they had pushed their beds against the sweating iron walls of their room to clear a space, and begun to wrestle.  As it had always been, it was her two younger brothers, Jon and Keril, both fifteen, against her eldest, Har, who had just turned eighteen.  As usual the bout had, amidst much grunting and laughter, descended into mayhem, with both younger brothers attacking Har simultaneously.

Kaelee had been giving the kitchen food dispenser its bi-annual overhaul, listening to the barely muffled thumps and shouts from the adjacent room.  The Hive Edification Vox in the kitchen’s upper corner had been sputtering Beati Mundo Corde through the rags mother had stuffed into its copper grill years ago.  For about a minute there was an unexpected silence from her brothers, suddenly broken by an even more unexpected call of, ‘Kaelee, Kaelee, come and get these two grox-heads off-of me!’

Just like it used to be.

She had actually smiled, giving in to the rush of sibling warmth the once-familiar call engendered within her.  She had put down her tools and rushed next door.

And, for about a half hour, it had been just like it used to be.  The laughter and the mock outrage at mock betrayal, the taunting and mock commiseration, the victorious shouts, and the enjoyable flush of physical exertion.

Nevertheless there had been an edge to it.  Kaelee had smelled the coolant moonshine on their breath – the chemical stink of it had filled the room.  Yet she had chosen to ignore it, as lately her brothers had often come home enveloped by its nostril-flaring reek.  She had also chosen to ignore the looks passing between them: surreptitious glances, raised eyebrows, tiny nods they thought she hadn’t noticed.  And their hands, the way they seemed to slip over her body with an urgency they never had before – rough caresses and pinches she knew were anything but accidental.

She had chosen to ignore those, too.

And then the buttons had been pressed, the levers pulled, and the holy programmes that had been her brothers were overwritten, hacked by the Inevitable Machine, the Beast that was within all men.

She was no longer in a room with Jon, Keril, and Har, but three rutting animals.

The tide of the wrestling turned – it became Kaelee’s brothers against her.  Rapidly overwhelming her suddenly desperate defences, they pinned Kaelee to the warm iron floor with Jon and Keril at her arms and Har squatting over her lower legs.

And that look had passed between them.

‘Me first,’ said Keril, his gaze travelling over Kaelee’s jerkin.

‘You?’ said Har, ‘You wouldn’t know where to put it.  I’ll go first, it’s my right.  Besides,’ he added, his fat-lipped mouth wide in a beast’s grin, ‘I think you both probably need a practical demonstration.’

Har leaned over Kaelee, his big hands resting just beneath her armpits… like he used to do when he was going to tickle her to a hair’s-width of unconsciousness.  Breath she could have ignited wafted over her.  ‘Don’t struggle, Kaelee.’

Momentarily, the beast was eclipsed in her brother’s face, and Kaelee was cast back three years to a time when she had scalded her hand due to a sticking faucet stat – the concern on Har’s ugly, dear features.  ‘Don’t struggle, it’ll go easier for you.  It’s our right, sis, you know that.  Just…  Just let us do it, then it’s done.’

And the lever was thrown and the beast returned.

‘Undo her buckles.  Hurry – he’ll be back, soon.’

This reference to their father cancelling any further argument with their older brother, Jon and Keril shifted around to fiddle with the buckles that secured Kaelee’s one-size-fits-all leggings…

Allowing her right hand to properly grip the stem of the Smelt Boy of the Year trophy Jon had been the proud recipient of two years ago – the heavy pewter cup having fallen from Jon’s bedside cabinet during their scuffles.

Har’s head moved closer to hers as he used his right hand to fumble clumsily with his own buckles.  He grunted, even giggled.  ‘While you’re down there, boys, you might have to undo -’

Kaelee’s arm snapped upward from the elbow.

The thin lip of the cup must have gone into Har’s temple quite deeply.  It certainly seemed that way to Kaelee – she was sure she felt the scrape of bone.  And the amount of blood spurting from the wound was certainly supportive.

For a moment Har’s eye’s met his sister’s.  The beast was knocked from them – there was only hurt and incomprehension.  He didn’t even make a noise.

The other two, still trying to unclasp Kaelee’s buckles, didn’t notice anything wrong until Har collapsed against Jon, his unexpected weight pushing the younger boy clear enough to allow Kaelee to free that arm and clumsily buffet the still oblivious Keril on his ear.

Amidst the pained, shocked, and quickly dismayed grunts and half-articulated words, Kaelee managed to scramble to her feet.  She brandished the cup, its brim dripping as if recently upturned after being filled with her brother’s blood.  Blood that slicked the left side of Har’s face and neck; that was warm and slippery on her hand and forearm.

But the beast had fled them now.  The levers were returned to their neutral positions, the Inevitable Machine de-energised.  Har was unconscious (dead?), the others were still trying to comprehend the sudden change in their situation – from priapic rut to bloody pain and mess.

Kaelee dropped the cup and ran.

She ran through Level Nine’s familiar humid corridors, the two assembly halls, the Launce Boulevard with its eon-dead trees, along the mezzanine skirting the multi-level Logus Arcade.  At first she ran simply to be free of that room, of its stink of male sweat and moonshine, of her brothers. But, as some equanimity gradually returned, her strides took on direction and intent.

She would go to her father.

At a public drinking font that still provided a trickle of coppery water, she cleaned Har’s drying blood from her hand and arm, rinsed her face, and then continued at a quick walk.

Kaelee felt as if levers were being pulled in her, now, setting her into mechanical, programmed motion that involved the minimum of volition.  She kept her mind blank other than to focus on her destination.  If she started to think, to go over what had just… what had nearly just…

She heard her mother’s voice, its Level Twelve twang as clear as it had ever been before the cancer ravaged her throat (first target before a more general assault).  ‘You were warned, girly.  That sort of thing’s rife in this hive.  You can’t squeeze so many people together without the basest instincts squirting round the edges – Father Groddish’ll tell you that.  And there ain’t much more to men than base instinct at the best of times.’

Twenty minutes and two conveyancer belts later, Kaelee stood before the wide maw of Manufactory IX.  From around her came the low conversation of the compline shift crowd as it waited for the scream of the factory whistle.  When it came, Kaelee covered her ears like she used to do whenever she and her mother had waited for Father or her brothers to finish work, trying to muffle the reverberations in her skull.

Compline shift shuffled in, intermingling with vespers shift shuffling out; the minds of the former already booting the programmes they needed to run to enter Holy Communion with the Omnissiah and become gears in the Imperial Machine; the latter briefly enjoying the relief of a completed shift before it was clouded by the realisation they would repeat the process tomorrow… they only had the freedom to dread its return.

She saw her father, his close-shaven silver head bowed between his massive shoulders like all the others, his white skin still damp from the shift-end affusion.  He wore only a vest and leggings, always claiming to be too warm for the ubiquitous jerkin.

He would be going to the nearby refectory for his usual coffee.  Kaelee fell in alongside him.

Neither spoke.  Kaelee wondered if, so soon after emerging from his shift, her father even knew she was there, if he had ever known she and her mother were there when they used to wait for him.  He never acknowledged their presence until his first sip.

They sat at one of the plastic tables arranged in long rows in the low-ceilinged refectory.  Around them, others from vespers shift did the same, the familiar scrape of chair feet on heavily worn flagstones filling the air.  There was little conversation – they all waited for that first sip.

Kaelee hadn’t been here for years, but everything was just the same: all the old routines of her childhood, the old smells.  She recognised many of the other faces – only their frowns seemed to have deepened.  All that was missing was her mother… No, that’s not true.  There’s a child missing, too – the child I no longer am.

Dispensing servitors fixed to ceiling rails that clanged and sparked at every intersection deposited steaming mugs of thick black coffee before each worker.  Father got his, and, as Kaelee watched him stare meditatively into its inky depths, she wondered -as she always used to- how the servitors differentiated – neither she nor her mother had ever been given coffee.

Father sipped, bending down to the mug and tipping it slightly rather than lifting it to his mouth.

‘Why are you here, Kaelee?  You haven’t done this since…’

Mother died.

Kaelee stared at her father.  She wanted to tell him, but found herself suddenly unable to articulate the words.

Father took another sip, and for the first time actually looked at her.  With a shock, Kaelee realised she couldn’t recall him considering her that way, actually focussing all of his attention on his daughter, since Mother’s incineration day.  Then he had laid his heavy hand upon her shoulder, shouting above the roar of the furnace vent to say, ‘You’re the woman of the family, now, Kaelee.  Your brothers and I have to work the forge; you have to take on all her duties.  That’s the way of it.’  His grey eyes, dull with loss, had held her gaze, and she remembered the absurd pride she felt as she nodded (absurd because she had quickly come to realise the drudgery the ‘woman of the family’ underwent), the pride at her father’s direct attention upon her – rare even then.

Pinned by his gaze once more, she felt that pride again and actually found herself stifling a pathetic smile of self-importance.

But there was an edge to his stare she had never noticed before: something she intuitively grasped to be a commingling of extant loss, irresolute anger, and soul-crushing dismay at the total unfairness of human existence on Level Nine… in this hive… on Ghast itself… Why not throw it all in?  Hm?  Why not say ‘in the Imperium of Man’? Instinctively she knew that this edge had always limned her father’s gaze, but the child she had been was incapable of recognising it.

Kaelee knew she would see the same thing lurking behind every other expression in the refectory, in every other face she would ever see.  Has it come to mine, yet?

She blinked, her near-blasphemous thoughts breaking the spell of her father’s stare and allowing her to speak.

She was hesitant at first, of course – she was telling her father that her brothers, his sons, had attempted to rape her.  However, as she relived the attack, spoke of the last few months of their incestuous intimidation, she felt anger rising within her, its heat lending impetus to her words.  They talked of ‘right,’ but what right could they possibly have for… that?

Again, Kaelee felt Jon’s Smelt Boy of the Year trophy in her hands, felt it puncture Har’s temple.  But this time she didn’t stop.  She caved Har’s skull through into his brain… did the same to Jon and Keril.  Surely that was now her right?

Father said nothing, but his coffee was slowly cooling before him.  Kaelee could see his anger intensify, filling his stare.  There would be punishment, she knew.

Yet when he did speak, it was also of rights.

‘How dare they?’ he asked, his huge hands flexing powerfully against the rigidity of the plastic mug.  ‘How dare they think they could take this?  They will be disciplined.  They have no right.  It is the father’s.  It has always been the father’s.  That’s the way of it, here.  They come after.’

Right…?  Father’s…?  The way…?  After…?

Kaelee stared at her father as the last remnants of the world she knew were absolutely shattered.

Then, again, she ran.

-oOo-

Wansaman had little concept of time.  In fact, it was arguable if he had any at all, there being nothing in his existence by which to measure it.  The purview of his outer eye was all random, multi-coloured behemoths, idling through his field of vision like impossible piscine creatures in an impossible tank.  And the terrifying births he witnessed through his inner eye were far too irregular to stand as chronological increments.

He had tried to set aside part of his mind as he once heard certain adepts could, disciplining his consciousness to mark the passage of time… but without success.  He lacked the force of will or grasp of the necessary methods for the task, and his mind continually wandered.  Wansaman consoled himself with the thought that perhaps certain implants were a prerequisite for such abilities, that a perfect internal clock could not be achieved through simple mental regulation alone.

Therefore Wansaman had no idea how long he had occupied his exploded state.  He did, however, make the deliberate decision to declare his existence as a whole human being to have been A Very Long Time Ago.  The memories were so faint, so sporadic, that he often found himself considering them more as a cluster of strange dreams than the recollection of actual events (ignoring the fact that he never properly slept, of course).

There had been a ship, a science ship, the name of which had something to do with eyes and ancient stone cups.  There had been an experiment, a vast experiment: prodding and agitating the Immaterium in a manner which retrospect allowed -if not demanded- the qualification ‘foolhardy.’  The resulting warp storm had flung the vessel an incalculable distance (Wansaman vaguely recalled the phrase ‘extra-galactic’), spitting it out directly into the midst of a tyranid hive fleet.

A snowball materialising in the core of a neutron star – that was the chance they had.  Wansaman recalled screams.  He recalled blazing blurs of beautiful colours quickly made uniform with simple, glistening red.

He recalled teeth and torn flesh and pain.

While playing disassembler beams subsumed the ship into its atomic -sub-atomic, for all Wansaman knew- constituents prior to amalgamation into the incalculable immensity of the hive fleet, its crew were similarly treated within tyranid stomachs.

And yet Wansaman came back.

Even after passage through xenos digestive tracts and waste treatment systems, his DNA coding somehow remained intact or was reassembled, miraculously discovering mediums through which it could nurture its genetic capabilities and once again blossom into multi-cellular life and awareness… though the results fell somewhat short of any human norm.

But was it a miracle?  There were surely no more fertile grounds for genetic sports than a tyranid hive fleet (ignoring the unquantifiable capabilities of Chaos); even so, Wansaman strongly suspected something quite deliberate in his resurrection.

Leaving aside his physiological aspect, the likelihood of such a successful and entirely coincidental return to life was patently astronomical.  Wansaman was sentient; he could sense; he had identity and memories.  He was a human in a purely xenos world.  Such an existence could only occur through manipulation – outrageous chance simply could not be a factor.

The voice was confirmation.

At disparate intervals Wansaman believed to be irregular, he suffered another presence within his mind.  With a thrust of alien thought he was violated, his mental struggles and screams of protest swept aside or ignored as if they were nothing.  Helplessly, he was forced into an empty corner of his psyche to endure its trawling – ‘watching’ as it was read and cogitated upon by this other.  His knowledge, his experiences down even to those dim, grey memories of lost intimacies, parental love (things he rarely cared to dwell upon lest despair drown him), were analysed.  And when the other departed, Wansaman felt a perverse antipathy towards his memories -as if they had been sullied and soiled, used by that other- that seemed to take some while to pass.  He was left internally at odds, almost self-detached – and being the only human for uncountable light years, what else had he but himself?

This occurred many times before the other first spoke.

You understand me, Once-a-Man?

It verbalized directly into his mind, timbreless and sexless, though nevertheless evocative of great age and immensity.  That is your new name – your old one is meaningless and I have removed it.

Sympathetic hunger engulfed Wansaman.  Yet it was not the hunger of an empty belly (which could never be anything other than psychosomatic in Wansaman) – it was the hunger of a race. Eternal, unappeasable, infinite starving – an undeniable drive to consume.

It is dry here, now.  I want wetness.  Your galaxy is still wet.  I will suck it to dust.  And you will watch, Once-a-Man.

The mental take-overs became more frequent, their selections more specific.  Stellar charts Wansaman had only glimpsed in passing during his more… typical human existence flowered in his mind as if he had studied them with the intent and love of the Navis Nobilte.  Military news reports he barely noticed as backgrounds to his life where repeated with the clarity and import of an Imperial Navy tactical overview.  Laymen’s ordnance encyclopaedia he had idly flicked through in his barely-remembered youth flashed in his mind as if backlit by explosions.

And always, the hunger.

All this metal you humans enclose yourself in.  All this crystal and plastic.  No faith in the capabilities of the organic.  I will find your Imperium and teach your kind the error of its ways.  I will force such faith.

In contrast to the sentiment of its words, however, the other’s intrusions now gradually dropped off – as if it had gleaned all it could from Wansaman and now had little use for him.  However, even when the other was absent, Wansaman found himself aware of the other’s ever-watchful presence as the fundamental consciousness upon which his own had been rebuilt – revealed as omnipresent now he could recognise it through their conjoining.

The other had always been here, would always be here, was everything here.

Time passed without proper marking.

Then, as Wansaman blankly watched the gargantuan pavane without, and the myriad multi-coloured drips of ichor within, the familiar, immeasurable starvation engulfed him once again.  However, this time Wansaman retained control of his exploded body.

I have found it!

As one, the nudging behemoths outside shuddered, their dance disarrayed as individual monstrosities began to careen and collide with previously unseen violence.  Quickly, the collisions escalated into conflict, giant maws tearing into the flanks of formerly peaceful neighbours.  Ichor jetted and clouded, fogging Wansaman’s shocked gaze.  Occasional clumps of torn flesh started to thump off his cornea, agitating his attendant motes into scurrying motion.  Shadowy masses shifted in the murk, clusters of gigantic cilia writhed in and out of clarity.

And, in the Ribcage, the spawning began.

The multi-jointed attendant arms on both roof and floor jerked spastically, waving and flexing.  Simultaneously, the myriad pastel-coloured stalactites sprayed their polychrome ichors like ecstatic ejaculate, flooding the chamber floor in blazing morass of intermingling hues.

And every single one of the leathery womb sacks began to swell.

I have found your galaxy, Once-A-Man.  I have found food.  My long eyes look upon it now.  It glitters so.  I select targets.  Watch as I prepare my muscle-and-flesh engines, my many mouths.

The view of Wansaman’s outer eye finally began to clear.  Gigantic shreds of flesh, each trailing bloody contrails that looped and intersected into an impossibly complex -and rather graceful- knot, were all that remained of the once docile behemoths.   Now a new entity eclipsed the stars.

It was roughly spherical, its pastel blue surface forested with crimson phalli.  Slowly it revolved, as if exhibiting itself.  Shadows lengthened and shrank, imbuing insubstantiality – as if the sphere was more image than corporeality.  As usual, Wansaman found size almost impossible to judge; however, certain familiar star formations were occluded, and this, coupled with the quiescent state of his attendant eye motes, pointed to something of at least a kilometre in circumference.

As he watched, subcutaneous sphincters commenced an uneven ascent from the phalli’s bases – a rising ripple of red flesh.  Slowly, they each gained the tips -Wansaman refused to say ‘glandes’- before dropping at a slightly faster rate to their starting points.

The process became continuous, the sphincters’ speed increasing.  The globe began to shudder, the phalli to vibrate.

Oh, this is ridiculous, thought Wansaman.

Pale fluid spurted in distinct globular clusters from pursing lips crowning each of the phalli, jetting outwards for a short distance before clumping together into amorphous masses.

The sphincters returned to their starting positions and were still.  The shudders and vibrations subsided.  Spent, the pastel ball rolled from Wansaman’s field of vision, scattering gently heaving globules of pale matter from its path.

A new creation, Once-A-Man, inspired by your memories and the records of your ship.  Was it familiar?  Was it appreciated?  Watch now.

A mottled globe of beige and brown now hove into view.  Much larger than its predecessor, it filled Wansaman’s vision, its surprising resemblance to human flesh coupled with recent events sparking unwanted memories of intimacy.  A tear appeared in its lower hemisphere, splitting into a red gash.

Whether from their own unseen means of locomotion or some compulsion from the sphere, the pale globules were suddenly mobile, merging into a milky river that swept swiftly into the gash.

The globules gone, the gash resealed.

The sphere began to glow.  Ripples of coruscating energy mapped its fleshy surface, spreading to form a vast, radiant shield of purple – an atmosphere of lightning.

The sphere disappeared.

A contingent of my clandestine forces, Once-A-Man.  Now, with your inner eye, witness my vanguard.

In Ribcage, wombs were torn open.

Look at them.  With these, I will rape your Imperium of Man.

-oOo-

Until she careened off the corner of the Space Marine’s pedestal, Kaelee had no awareness of where she was.

Of who she was.

There had been corridors. There had been blurred ovals that must have been faces. Patches of light interspersed with patches of dark.  That was all.

No thought; no feeling; just a simple, meaningless succession of shape and shade that was without definition – there being nothing in Kaelee’s mind to provide it.  She didn’t even recall the floor beneath her feet.  It was as if she had floated, disembodied, or like the suspended servitor skulls that occasionally patrolled Level Nine’s thoroughfares.

Yet even those automatons, executing the will of HiveSpirit, would have had more awareness of their environs.

But impact with the pedestal literally knocked the sense back into Kaelee.  Her mother’s voice, sounding from somewhere behind the silver stars fracturing her vision, suddenly expanded to fit her mental vacancy, ‘What are you doing?  Damned idiot!  Come here and I’ll batter brains into you!’

Kaelee slumped to the ground, now all too aware of the physicality of her existence as pain detonated through her cranium and the silver stars were almost engulfed by their black backdrop.  Tentatively, she touched her forehead.  Her fingertips came away freshly coated in red.

Like they were from that cup when I hit Har when he was -

‘Are you alright?’

Kaelee looked up, trying to see through the stars yet peppering her sight.  Had the Space Marine spoke?  Would the statue be offended at the blood now splattering its marble pedestal?  She had heard Space Marines underwent all sorts of medical procedures on their path to becoming the ultimate tool of the Emperor’s will, one of which was rumoured to be castration.  Would that mean that the Emperor’s finest where the only men she could feel safe with?  Men from whom the Beast had been surgically removed, the Inevitable Machine permanently de-energised?

‘Are you concussed?  You really smashed into old Augustus there.  Are you alright?’

A hand, a male hand, parted the slowly-dimming stars and gently touched her shoulder.

Ferociously, Kaelee knocked it aside, pushing herself to her feet in spite of the way everything around her tilted and slid.  Sudden rage nullified her nausea and pain.  ‘Would you -  Have you swived your daughter?!’  She was almost snarling, ‘Have you had your rights?!’

The man was dressed in the mass-produced tweed of the lower Administratum echelons.  He backed away from Kaelee, fear and confusion eclipsing concern.  His pulled down his loosely-fitting and slightly askew bowler hat more securely.  ‘I was only asking.  No need for…  You just…’

And then he was gone, lost in the crowd milling around the statue.  Kaelee glared about her, waiting for further comment, some other helping -groping- hand.  But nobody in her vicinity would make eye contact with this dishevelled, bloodied, obviously mad girl.

Shaking, almost drunk with emotion and returned pain, Kaelee pushed through the throng, the crimson of her torn forehead carving a path as if it were some kind of laser.

She did not recognise this place.  A huge, elliptical dome of blue and purple crystal, heavily leaded in a cunningly intermingling pattern of cogs and imperial aquilae, arched far above.  Each intersection of its frame supported a cluster of globular lumens, some intensely bright, others coldly dark.  The dome’s lower edge terminated in a ring of wide archways divided by towering statuary, mainly consisting of noble Space Marines similar to the one with which Kaelee had collided.

She headed toward the nearest arch, intent upon finding a map or area designation.  Kaelee didn’t recall any upramps or elevators in her flight from the refectory (but then, she hardly recalled anything after her father had stated his rights, did she?); however, she must have traversed some because this certainly was not her own Level Nine.  The dome was well maintained, clean even – factors repeated in the people swarming its floor, where there was not another stained jerkin or patched pair of leggings in sight.

She forced her way toward the wall.  There automatic vending machines where ranged, offering all manner of food, drink, and other consumables ‘essential’ to hive life.  There was even one, heavily armoured, that dispensed glittering jewellery and stylish wrist chronometers.  Here, at least, was something familiar, as similar vending machines lined the corridors and arcades of Level Nine – albeit offering considerably more basic produce.  Behind them would be maintenance ducts and crawl-ways – the ‘tweenwalls she had known since her first toddling steps away from her family home.

Family...  No.

With a quick look around to be sure nobody watched, Kaelee ducked behind the vendors.  There the warm air rising from refrigerator condensers with its familiar stench of rotten food and vermin almost made her smile.  Almost.

She quickly located a service hatch in the wall, more or less where she expected to find it.  It was prominently labelled with a yellow ‘G.’  ‘G’?  What does ‘G’ mean?  It should be a number. As usual, the hatch lock was broken. She pulled the door back on its greased hinges and crawled through, careful to close it again behind her.

The ambient roar of the crowds was muffled, replaced by the humming and clicking of the complex sorting cartridges that supplied the vending machines, the mechanisms occasionally clattering into louder life as selections were made without.  Stretching away from Kaelee down the narrow crawlspace were the rubber belts and ducting that automatically stocked the cartridges, jarringly lit by strobing maintenance lumens.

Kaelee began to crawl.

It had been some time since she had last explored such places on her own Level Nine, and it wasn’t long before her palms and knees began to feel raw and the small of her back and the span of her shoulders began to ache.  Nevertheless, she continued on, the new pain going a little way to cancelling that in her aching head and the thoughts that would otherwise crowd it.

She wasn’t worried about apprehension.  She knew from experience that, ‘tweenwalls, she would be ignored by any maintenance servitors so long as she didn’t interfere with the belts and ducts.  This wouldn’t be the case if she followed the crawlspace to its termination in the inevitable production plant, but she had no intention of doing that.  Other tunnels would intersect with this, and it was one of these she sought.

Presently her certainty was realised by an elliptical and badly rusted metal hatch held shut by a simple latch.  Freeing the latch from its rusted pivot and pulling the hatch open with a vibrating creak so severe Kaelee expected the hinges to break, she peered down the new tunnel.

Blackness that was relieved only by pinpricks of linear white lights.  At first the lights seemed to bar Kaelee’s entrance, until her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she made out the tunnel’s smooth iron walls, dry and echoing to the belts behind her.  She clambered in, pulling the hatch closed after her as best she could, there being no handles on this side.

She resumed her crawl, silence gradually smothering her.  Soon there were only the sounds of her hands, knees, and feet scuffing against the tunnel floor and the rasp of her breathing.

Kaelee had no idea of where she was going – she was simply succumbing to the imperative to get away, to get somewhere safe.  And ‘tweenwalls was the best place she could think of.

Now that it was no longer home.

In spite of the pulsing pain in her head and the rawness of her palms and knees, images began to play before Kaelee’s mind’s eye, images she didn’t want to see.  Her brothers’ faces twisted with lust.  Her father’s…

No.

She would not think about -

Flowers?

Sweet, heady, thick on air Kaelee now realised swirled to a slight breeze, the smell of blooming plant-life wafted over her.

That was something she had never experienced on Level Nine.

The smell grew stronger as she continued; as did the breeze.  A dusky light began to seep into the blackness between the sparse lumens.  Soon, Kaelee could discern a bend in the tunnel.  Rounding it, she found herself squinting into verdant light so bright her eyes momentarily ached as much as her head.  She crawled out into a lush garden…

And rose to her feet on the floor of a cathedral.

Well, perhaps garden was inappropriate.  Jungle suited better.  Green, in every shade from something that was almost yellow to something almost black, was everywhere.  Small trees choked with vines, intermingled bushes, erratic paths of thick-stemmed, knee-high grass.  And, spotting the green like the symptom of some wonderful disease, were the flowers.  All shapes, all sizes, all aromas, all colours; hanging, spiking upright, chastely closed, wantonly open; elegantly simple, garishly opulent.  The air was so thick with their mingled scent Kaelee found it difficult to breathe, or, rather, she feared to breathe: surely such laden air would be poisonous?  She could taste it, for Emperor’s sake!

And it was warm, too.  Really warm, like the corridors of Level Nine’s Area XV, which ran parallel to a giant mainline steam duct.

Kaelee looked up.  The cathedral’s brown rockcrete walls tapered smoothly above into a funnel roofed with a series of huge fans, long disused judging by the runnels of rust and desperately clinging fauna that had taken root in the shallow dust gathered there.

But what was that?  Between the massive impellors, Kaelee could see… pearly white cloud?  A sky of the deepest chemical blue?

Sky?

Suddenly, Kaelee understood two things at once.  She knew what this jungle was, and she knew what the ‘G’ had stood for in the statuary chamber, behind the vending machines: Ground Level.

She’d heard of these places during one of her rare scholum attendances.  This wasn’t a seat of worship at all, but an exhaust tower for an ancient atmospheric processing plant, built in the distant past when it was still thought possible to reverse the runaway pollution of Ghast’s uncountable factories.  All now abandoned (like this), demolished, or converted, they had been of many different designs incorporating many different concepts… one of which had been the introduction by the Biologics Division of engineered high-yield oxygenating fauna.

This circular jungle was one such that had survived.

And gone wild.

Kaelee breathed in deeply.  Silence and scents.  She felt light-headed from a combination of the thick air and recent events.  Suddenly, she just wanted to rest.  The turf was springy yet soft underfoot… inviting.

Kaelee lay down where she was and promptly fell asleep.

When she awoke it was dark, yet had remained warm.  Her head still throbbed, though not as severely as before.  The air had thinned somewhat: there was a detectable acid tang to it now, seeping down from the poisons skimming through the sky.  She looked around.  The ambient glow of hive lights reflecting off streaking clouds above provided a dim illumination, allowing Kaelee to see that many of the flowers were now shut, trapping their dizzying scents -and much of their oxygen-producing capabilities- within.

And it was snowing.

Grey flakes of… something were falling between the seized impellors far above, dusting everything about her… dusting her.

What was it?  Ash?  It certainly wasn’t the near-mythical snow her mother’s fairy tales often mentioned – this wasn’t cold.  In fact, it was quite warm.  In fact -

Kaelee’s skin began to burn wherever the flakes had touched.  This was snow that didn’t melt… it melted.

She scrubbed at her arms and face, desperately trying to brush the flakes off.  But they had become part of her, merging into her skin.  Panicking, Kaelee began to run, heading for the maintenance tunnel, trying to escape the fallout.

The burning suddenly eased, and Kaelee gasped at the unexpected cessation of pain.

And then screamed as the burning resumed within her.

-oOo-

The Ribcage was empty.  The ectopic womb sacks lay flaccid, some of them partially floating in pooled multi-coloured ichor that had not yet drained away.  The udder-like stalactites also hung limp from the roof, spent after their orgasmic jetting during the birthing frenzy, gently cleaned now by the attending clumps of many-jointed limbs.  Shadows lay thick and black, lazily expanding and contracting to the desultory movements of the jetting bags of blue gas, their number less than half what it was.  As Wansaman watched, another bag flickered, dimmed, and spiralled slowly to the ground.

The Ribcage was being decommissioned, mothballed, its purpose for the time being done with.

And that purpose was the production of tools for the consumption of mankind.  The cutlery with which the Hive Mind will dine upon the Imperium of Man, thought Wansaman, giddily. He was still in a state of considerable shock.  The hundreds of nativities he had witnessed in the Ribcage, the templates he had watched tear free from their wombs (their terrible forms the physical representations of barely contained tyranid violence and unappeasable hunger), had left him dismayed.

What hope for the Imperium?

And it’s your fault.

With his outer eye, Wansaman had watched dozens of segmented umbilical cords grow from his peripheral vision to attach in a complex tangle to seemingly random points on the gargantuan organic battleships that had waited in an untidy queue.  He had seen the bulges forced peristalticly along the umbilicals, in many cases still madly writhing and threatening to tear through.  Within the bowels of each ship factories would clone the newly-birthed monsters millions of times over, growing the armies with which the Hive Mind would rend and consume.

And it’s your fault.

He had watched as, one by one, the battleships and their terrible payloads had begun to coruscate with blinding snakes of light that rapidly coalesced into encompassing ellipsoids before winking out of existence, vessel and all – off to rendezvous points un-guessable light-years away prior to attack.

And this was surely only one instance of the whole process of birth, loading, and departure – only a small fraction of those that must be taking place all over the hive fleet.

Your fault.  Your fault.

Now the space beyond Wansaman’s outer eye was peaceful, empty save for a few young behemoths that had come -still glistening with the frozen fluids of their own nativities- to take the place of those ancient creatures that had torn each-other apart in violent, ecstatic orgy at the Hive Mind’s locating of the Milky Way.

The xenos calm Wansaman was familiar with had returned.

But not in the Imperium of Man, eh?  Never there.  And its further aggravation is your fault, isn’t it?

Another voice spoke in Wansaman’s mind.  Your conscience is correct, Once-A-Man: I would not have found this new meal where it not for you.

No.  Nonono.

But your usefulness is not over, Once-A-Man.  I cannot properly direct consumption from here.  A localised portion of my intellect is required – and I feel that it/I will need you as advisor there.  You are going home, Once-A-Man.

No.  Nonono.

Close your eye – you would not wish to see the interim.

Eye?  But I have no lids! I -

-oOo-

Kaelee’s father put the steaming mug of coffee down beside the sink, gazing into the suggestive static on the kitchen windowscreen.  Occasionally, the screen showed pastoral scenes meant to give the impression of looking out of some fictional farmhouse over the fields and hedgerows of an idyllic agriworld.  He had always found the fizzing static more to his liking though, its inchoate, enigmatic depths sympathetic to his moods.  Sometimes he lost himself in the grey chaos for minutes on end, with no recollection of his thoughts while he was there… assuming he had any.

However, pain prevented any such immersion now.  He winced, flexing his right hand slowly.  The knuckles were bruised, the hand patchily bloody to the wrist.  The bruises were stinging, yes, but the blood wasn’t his.  It was an amalgamation of his three sons’, though most of it belonged to Har, his eldest – the beating having re-opened the wound on his temple.

The wound Kaelee had given him when the three of them had attempted to rape her.

Rape their sister.  But she’s your daughter.  And what were you expecting to happen?

She had been gone for two days now, and he was seriously considering the fact that he would never see her again.  Why would she come back after what her brothers had done?  Now that she knew what he wanted?

His own shift normally preventing him from seeing Har, Jon, and Keril, he had actually booked time off work to confront them.  This was a measure of the matter’s seriousness – the last instance of deliberate absence from the forge’s infernos was to bury his wife.

They had left for their shift at the forge now, sulky and sore, but in no doubt as to their father’s righteous wrath.  They thought they had been beaten for their impudence, for their sheer audacity in attempting to take Kaelee’s…  To force…  It wasn’t theirs to take.  It was his.  How dare they.

For they had been right – that was how he saw matters.  Fresh from the his shift, head still filled with the protocols and mindsets required to tend the gigantic forges, he was a simple cog in a vast machine, his human nature suppressed and the animal -the barbaric- side therefore allowed free reign.

But as his fists rose and fell, as his sons screamed for him to stop, Kaelee’s father had experienced catharsis.  He found the violence released something, or allowed something in, and he remembered what he should be.  What he was.

Father.  Once husband.

This, this calming, this return to essential humanity, was something only his wife’s soothing presence -waiting for him day after day at the forge gates- had been able to achieve before.

His wife…

His eyes suddenly felt hot.

If she still lived, her presence would have prevented his fall into the black side of hive society, into membership of this all but officially recognised fraternity of incest.  Stories whispered and swapped in the refectories and washrooms and bars; actions excused and sanctioned by talk of right and, for those who required further excuse, comparison to the animal kingdom: we’re treated like animals, so we act like animals.  But where were the animals to compare to in a hive?

Excluding rats, none but Man.

It was his wife’s fault.  She shouldn’t have died.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the liquid gathering there.  But the action only caused them to brim over.  Salt water dripped into the sink in slow accompaniment to the coppery water dripping from the tap.

Dripping tap.  A job for Kaelee.  Who was never coming back.

Yes, he was human again, now.  Human and riddled with guilt.  He’d driven his only daughter away; terrified and betrayed her when he should have consoled and protected.  Wasn’t that the role of a father?  It wasn’t about rights, was it?  It wasn’t about that… other, secret, black side of masculinity.  That was an ephemeral thing of lust and power, a by-product of living in the inhuman conditions suffered deep in any hive.

Fatherhood was a much more profound thing.  Fatherhood was selflessness, unconditional, constant.  Fatherhood was…

He almost smiled when the little word ‘love’ bobbed gently before his mind’s eye.

Yes.  That – that’s what fatherhood was.  Like much else that truly mattered, it was that little word.

Resolve filled him.  He would teach his boys better.  He would raise them above the filth they had fallen into, the animal barbarities.  He would rear them into the brightness of the Omnissiah’s electric gaze.

And he would find Kaelee.

The door chimed, clicked open.  He frowned.  The door’s spirit would only admit family, and his sons had just gone to their shift.  That only left…  He turned.

Kaelee stood in the kitchen doorway.

For a moment, he didn’t recognise her.  A huge cut festered on her forehead; her clothes were torn, dirty, and smeared in something green.  Her skin looked blotched and sweaty, as if raging with fever.  A wild child from the underhive – that’s how she looked.

But he knew that smile, had known it since Kaelee could fit comfortably in his hand.  A smile that could brighten even the dingiest room, could charm even the angriest temper.  A smile so full of innocence…

No.  There was no innocence in his daughter’s smile now, was there?  Now it was brazenly wide and full-lipped, and Kaelee’s eyes were full of… want?

A blood-red exotic bloom adorned her greasy hair.  Where had she managed to get such a flower on Level Nine?

But none of that really mattered, did it?  She was back.  He had a chance at reparation.

‘Kaelee?  I…  Kaelee, is it too late to say I’m sorry?’

She didn’t answer.  Slowly she walked toward her father until she stood just before him, gazing up.  The look in her eyes intensified.  Coquettishly, she pulled at her lower lip with her upper teeth.

His began to tremble.  Was she…?  Will she…?

Kaelee’s right hand snaked upwards.  Hot and definitely feverish, it curled around the back of her father’s thick neck, tugging him gently down.

She is…!  She wants…!

He relented and bent forward, thoughts of fatherhood drowning in the tide of his rising lust, eclipsed by his daughter’s compliance.  The Inevitable Machine, as his wife had once called it, was energised.  ‘I didn’t think -’

Kaelee’s lips parted.  Wide.  Wider.  Too wide.

It was black inside her mouth.  Pitch.  Night.  Void.

Nevertheless something glistened there.

And then erupted; pistoning up and out and through her father’s teeth, ramming down his throat.

Kaelee sat on the threadbare couch, still smiling.  Behind it her father thrashed and moaned, his body still vainly fighting the changes tearing through it.

She looked at the cheap wall-mounted chrono her mother had bought before she was born.  A few more hours.  Her smile broadened.  Her father would be ready by then.

Ready for when her brothers came home.

Ready to give them their rights.

He was exhausted to the point that he occasionally fell asleep while the column of troopers slogged their way through the murk to their next fighting position.  Despite the uncomfortable helmet, the sling of his lasgun cutting into his shoulder, his cold wet feet, and all the other minor annoyances that are a standard part of the infantryman’s life, he still managed to doze off while keeping his feet moving, one after the other.  Sometimes he would bump into the man in front of him.

Even when he wasn’t sleepwalking, his eyes would cross with fatigue, leading him to stumble on the uneven ground or bump up against another trooper with the clack and clatter of equipment.  He wasn’t the only one, and occasionally the sergeant leading the column would turn and swear quietly at them to keep the noise down and pay attention.

They were moving to fill the gaps left by the rout of another regiment.  The Tau had overrun this position and sent the troops there fleeing back into the city, before Imperial air strikes and a Titan had managed to drive them back.  His regiment and the remnants of another had been pulled from the eastern trenches and were being hastily sent to the southern approach to keep the alien invaders from simply rolling through the hole in the Imperial lines and into the heart of the city.

Yevenov didn’t care.  All he knew was that he had been fighting for more than thirty hours straight, with little water and only meager rations, and without anything even resembling sleep.  He longed to get into the trenches and take a nap.  An experienced soldier could settle into a foxhole, lean his rifle on the rampart, and then plant the edge of his helmet on his rifle, at which point he could doze off and take a light snooze until something caught his attention and brought him back out of it.

There was still fighting going on in the woods to the west of the city.  The city itself, a stark Imperial settlement incongruously called Serendipity, was largely in ruins, but the massive geothermal steam vents that had provided power to this portion of the continent for five hundred years were still operating, drawing their power from the molten core of the planet itself.  It was these that the Tau were after.

Yevenov listened dully to the sounds of fighting from the northwest.  At this distance, artillery was a dull rumble, while automatic weapons fire, the heavy bolters of the infantry, echoed with a hollow “pock-pock-pock… pock-pock-pock”. There was the occasional deep long burrrrup of the multiple-barreled rotary cannons of the Warhound-class scout Titans, and over all of it was the high keening of the fighter-bombers raining death from the sky.

No matter;  his place was here, and more importantly, the potential for sleep was here.  As his company filed down into the earthworks ahead, he took stock of his new surroundings.  Like the trenches he had just left, the earthworks that had been overrun yesterday were a morass of mud, splintered wood, scraps of concertina wire, and, here and there, pieces of unfortunate Imperial Guardsmen, caught in the Tau assault of the day before.

The exhausted soldiers shuffled down into what had once been actual trenches but were now really just a low point in the terrain, and the sergeant who had been leading them motioned for them to gather round him.  “Take a knee, people,” he began.  His name was Sergeant Zurino;  Yevenov knew him as the squad leader for 2nd Squad in their platoon.  He was apparently now the leader of their entire platoon, which did not speak well of the fate of the previous platoon leader.

“Take a knee, and keep quiet,” he said in a low, flat tone, one which carried well through the cool morning air despite being quiet enough to be appropriate to a monastery.  “Here’s the dirt.  We know the Tau are probably regrouping somewhere to the south of here.  We need to repair and improve these trenches and get ready to repel them again.  For your information, the Lieutenant died of his wounds a few hours ago, so I’m in charge until something else can be figured out.”  He paused as another company of men filed past just behind their position.

A trooper raised his hand.  “Are we getting any support from the tanks, or are we expected to hold this line by ourselves?”

“The tanks are busy, but I’m told we should have some armor here shortly.  Maybe even a superheavy.  But for now, act as if we have to fend for ourselves.”  He gestured across the battered plain behind him, which sloped gently away from their lines until it met a wooded area nearly a mile away.  “With any luck, we’ll have enough lead time in order to call in artillery.  And there’s a chance that the Warhounds will be able to support us in an emergency.”

Sergeant Zurino looked around at his platoon.  Normally thirty to forty strong, he now had just twenty men, and two heavy weapons.  “The Tau have dishonored our brothers, and we must see to it that they pay dearly for the insult.  Grab shovels if you have them and start repairing these trenches.”  He motioned to the two heavy weapons teams to follow him, leaving the rest of the wretched Guardsmen to find their entrenching tools – little folding shovels – and begin the task of turning the muddy depression into a position worthy of the name “trench”.

Yevenov had lost his e-tool during the fighting the day before, but he and another soldier found the wreckage of a destroyed Chimera personnel carrier not far behind their trench line, and were able to retrieve from it a pickaxe and shovel.  It was sad, he reflected, how the other men made jealous and covetous noises when he and the other Guardsmen slid back into the trench with their prizes.  They dug with as much energy as they could muster, while the light rain dripped off their helmets down inside their collars and trickled down their backs and arms.

“Water!” called someone, and then behind them there was a team of horses pulling a huge metal water-cask on a trailer normally meant for a vehicle.  A short sergeant with a big bushy mustache hopped down lightly from his perch on the tongue of the trailer.  “Come fill your canteens, lads!  No telling when you might see fresh water again!”  Men scrambled out of the trenches to fill their nearly-dry canteens;  some had even looted extra canteens off the dead and were filling them up to have on hand.  You just never knew.

Yevenov held his canteen under the spigot and noticed that it was shaking.  He was so damned tired.  After spilling water all over his cuff, he capped the canteen and plodded heavily back to his spot in the trenches.

The man next to him was named Kashinko, whom Yevenov had gotten to know fairly well over the past few weeks.  He was a young man raised on the cabbage farms south of Serendipity.  Like Yevenov, he was a conscript, possibly even one of the young men snatched off the streets of his village by the press gangs that were a permanent hazard of life on an Imperial planet under siege.  Yevenov had been ordered to enlist by his factory foreman, which was preferable to being beaten and dragged off by the press gang.  Kashinko was a good lad, but not especially bright.  He was currently leaning up against the dirt parapet, with his lasgun poised to shoot at anything that might show up in front of them, and he turned and grimaced as Yevenov took his place beside him.

Yevenov noticed that Kashinko’s eyes were sunken and hollow, as he assumed his own were.  “Hey, Kashi,” he grunted.  “Let’s split up sleep shifts.  I’ll sleep for two hours, you can sleep for two hours, and we’ll just swap back and forth.  What do you think?”

Kashinko nodded dully.  “All right.  Grab some shuteye.”  He leaned his rifle over the parapet of the trench and tucked his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat.

Yevenov sank down, ignoring the shallow water filling the bottom of the trench.  Sleep came in moments.

* * * * *

A boot was kicking him awake.  Bleary eyes made out the stubble-covered chin of Sergent Zurino.  “I didn’t say to take a nap.  I said to fix these trenches.  Get off your duff.”  He didn’t bother shouting.  No one had the energy.

Zurino moved on, and Kashinko helped Yevenov to his feet.  “How long did I get?”

“Prob’ly half an hour,” replied the other man.  “Better than nothing.”

Kashi shifted his lasgun’s sling over his shoulder.  “You pull watch.  I’m going to grab some timbers from back there -“ a toss of his head vaguely indicated somewhere behind their lines “- and put it in front of us here.”

Yevenov nodded wordlessly.  He leaned up against the forward embankment of the trench.  Two shattered posts on the ground out front of him made a convenient vee on which to rest his rifle.  All he would have to do would be to reach out and pull the trigger.

There was a metallic squeal of tracks behind him, over the low growl of a combustion engine.  He didn’t bother looking, but he could tell by the sound of the engine that it was a lighter vehicle, maybe a Chimera or a Griffin mortar carrier.  Whatever.  All he wanted to do was sleep.

As he leaned motionlessly against the trench side, the world began to darken… his head snapped up.  He fluttered his eyelids and breathed in and out deeply.  Again he leaned against the parapet.  And again, his eyelids began to drop of their own accord…

Someone nudged his shoulder.  “Food.”

It was one of the cooks’ orderlies, bringing around something in a crate that smelled nasty.  Yevenov took one without a word and bit into it.  Hot grease dribbled down his chin.  It was a fried potato roll filled with some kind of ground meat.  It tasted vaguely like lamb, but he knew it was probably one of the cavalry horses, serving the Emperor’s forces still in death even as it had in life.

His stomach turned.  There comes a point when you are so tired that you feel nauseated.  Yevenov wrapped the pie in a scrap of handkerchief and tucked it away in a pocket.  The grease coated his mouth unpleasantly and he could feel it with every breath.

Kashinko returned with a few empty sandbags and an armload of wood.  Together, they spent a good hour filling the bags and trying vainly to rebuild some sort of cover to put between them and the Tau.  They eventually gave up, loaning away the tools they had looted from the wrecked personnel carrier.  Both of them positioned their rifles on the rampart and leaned against the trench.  The water was over their ankles now.

Judging by a brightening of the gloom overhead, Yevenov figured it was mid-morning, perhaps approaching noon.  He rested the front edge of his helmet on the butt of his rifle, and soon was sliding off…

“Hey, Yevie,” Kashinko called softly.

He didn’t even bother opening his eyes.  “What?”

“Have you seen Tatyana?”

Yevenov opened one eye, glared blearily at him in startled annoyance.  “What?”

“She was behind us when we were filing over last night.  I haven’t seen her since we got here, though.”  His voice was filled with a quiet urgency that struck Yevenov as oddly humorous.

Yevenov sighed.  “No, I have no idea.  Go find her.  I’ll keep an eye on our happy little home here.”

Kashi slapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly and disappeared down the trench, sloshing noisily through the mud.

Yevenov leaned his helmet back down onto the butt of his rifle.  He stared in childlike fascination at the tiny raindrops that speckled the dirt in front of him and ran down the sides of his rifle butt.  They were very calming.  So very, very calming.

* * * * *

He awoke with a start.  Kashinko had slid back into the trench beside him, and on his far side was a short, stout trooper whom Yevenov recognized as Tatyana.  Her face beamed out from under her helmet, and Yevenov marveled at the fact that it seemed to be mostly clean.  A few wisps of blonde hair had escaped at her temples and were waving freely in the breeze.

“Yevie!”  She said happily.  “I’m so glad to see you’re still alive!”

“Yeah, well… me, too,” he replied lamely.  Tatyana was a joy, but Yevenov had no energy for joy right now.  Sleep was too much on his mind.  “Although I wouldn’t mind trading that for some sleep.”

She clucked her tongue.  “Clown,” she said merrily.  “There will be plenty of time for sleep when we chase the grey-skins away.”  She lugged her own lasgun off her shoulder and placed it up onto the rampart, like his.  “And when my mother re-opens the steam baths, you’re both welcome to come and work out your aches!”

Yevenov grunted.  Kashinko leaned closer to Tatyana and muttered something, to which she just giggled.  It was completely out of place in the trenches.

“Would you two mind?  You’re ruining the ambience,” Yevenov chided sternly.

Tatyana stuck her tongue out at him and resumed her whispered exchange with Kashinko.

They were in love, Yevenov knew.  Once, a month or two ago, he might have been jealous, maybe even felt like competing for one of the company’s handful of women.  But not now.  Now he simply wanted to store away as much sleep as he possibly could, anticipating that the Tau would soon make such a luxury completely impossible.  Besides, Kashinko was much larger than he was and could probably have broken Yevenov over his knee without much effort.

The rain picked up a bit.

Soon Sergeant Zurino appeared out of the mist.  He gestured to the three troopers to put their heads near his.  “Scouts say that there might be something headed this direction.  Stay awake and alert.”  He moved on, missing completely Yevenov’s groan.  Awake and alert?  How was that possible, given the state they were in?

Yevenov looked over the rampart towards the distant woodline.  It was probably a mile or so, over broken and chewed-up ground littered with the remains of Imperial and Tau soldiers and vehicles.  Countless puddles of muddy water were growing under the light drizzle.

“Grenades!  Come and get ‘em!”  A trooper slogged through the waterlogged trench with a heavy satchel, stopping long enough for the three comrades to plunge their hands into the sack and pull out several grenades each.  Yevenov came up with three, which he stuffed into his pockets.

He was settling back down into a comfortable position against the parapet when a deep, throaty rumble and squeal of metal tracks drew his attention to the rear.  A pair of enormous tanks, dull drab-green superheavies, were slogging through the mud a few dozen yards behind the trench.  One, a Shadowsword he believed, had a single huge cannon mounted on it, flanked by two smaller turrets, while the other – a Baneblade, perhaps? – had multiple smaller turrets and sponsons strewn over its enormous hull.  The two tanks ground to halt, then pivoted to face the woodline, their tracks spewing fountains of mud as they clawed into the sodden ground.  Small chunks of mud from the sides of the trench dropped sloppily into the water at his feet as the vibrations from the tanks shook them loose.

Great.  When everything went to hell, they would have tanks shooting over their heads as well.

“Kashi!”  Yevenov nudged the other man, momentarily breaking his focus on Tatyana.  “I’m taking a nap.  Wake me if… never mind.  Don’t wake me for anything.”  Kashinko nodded, and Yevenov settled into an uncomfortable position leaning against the trench wall before sleep took him.

* * * * *

When he awoke, it was to shouting.  He could hear the electric whine of lasguns powering up as Kashinko and Tatyana slapped fresh magazines into their rifles.  Blinking rapidly, his first sight was of plumes of black exhaust belching into the air as the superheavies fired up their engines.

His body was cold with the shock of adrenaline and panic.  “What’s happening?” he demanded, pushing his aching body up to look over the rampart.

Kashinko grunted.  “Movement in the woodline.  I think they’re coming.”

Hours had passed, and the brightness of midday was retreating before the oppressive gloom of late afternoon.  It had to be around suppertime, he figured, although the heavy grey clouds kept him from judging the position of the sun.

Yevenov checked the charge on his rifle.  His heart was racing, as one’s heart often does when woken suddenly out of a deep sleep.  He could feel the cold weight of the grenades in his pockets and was vaguely aware of a trickle of water going down his neck.

Sergeant Zurino was suddenly there.  “Okay, you three.  Your sector is from that tree stump –“ he pointed out across the open field – “to the Chimera wreck over there.  Shoot anything that moves in that zone, but otherwise hold your fire unless a target of opportunity presents itself.”  And then he was gone.  Yevenov would never see him again.

The three Guardsmen leaned into their rampart, rifles held ready.

The first indication that Yevenov had of an actual enemy presence came from the massive cannon of the Shadowsword.  With a thunderclap of displaced air, an enormous laser bolt leaped away towards the treeline.  Yevenov noticed that a small tail of steam followed it wherever it came within a foot or so of the waterlogged ground.  He didn’t see where it went, but there was an explosion in the trees that could only have been something carrying fuel and munitions.  Trees weren’t known to explode like that.

The range was too great for lasguns.  All along the line, troopers huddled down and hunched their shoulders against the crashing report of the guns of the Shadowsword, the Griffin mortars, and a Destroyer-pattern tank-hunter that had crept up behind them.  The concussion made Yevenov’s earlobes want to curl up.  He would have chuckled if he didn’t have his face pressed tightly into the crook of his arm.

Rockets from somewhere behind them arced up and fell into the woods.  The trees that hadn’t been destroyed in yesterday’s action were taking a beating, and the soldiers could see the flashes of rockets exploding in amongst the gloom and smoke.

Then out of the treeline came a wave of cream-white Tau tanks and personnel carriers.  The anti-gravity Hammerhead tanks all had rectangular railguns mounted atop them, which sent hypersonic rounds towards the vehicles arrayed on the Imperial side.  Fatter, yet still sleek, Devilfish personnel carriers came roaring out behind the Hammerhead tanks.  Plumes of water kicked up behind them as they skimmed across the battlefield, and Yevenov could see that they would cross the mile or so in not long at all.

Looking out into his sector, he spied two Hammerheads and two more Devilfish carriers trying to take advantage of the rolling terrain;  they were moving from depression to depression, firing as they went.  One of the Destroyer tank-hunter’s bolts caught a Hammerhead in the side;  the tank slammed hard into the mud and skidded for a considerable distance, before exploding into fragments.

The Baneblade behind them began to open up with its battle-cannons and lascannons.  Its fire tracked the oncoming vehicles relentlessly.  Yevenov watched one of the Devilfish lose altitude and plow nose-first into the muddy field, but it was lost to view as the surviving tank crossed through his sector, its railgun firing non-stop at the Guardsmen.

An explosion close behind them threw them all to the bottom of the trench.  Kashinko was first on his feet.  “They got the Destroyer!” He groaned, reaching down to help his companions up.

Yevenov couldn’t spare any attention for that.  The Hammerhead had disappeared off to their right, but in front of them, coming on a direct line for their pathetic little fighting position, was the second Devilfish.  It was just about within lasgun range.  Knowing it wouldn’t do a thing, Yevenov squinted over his sights to take aim…

Another volley belched forth from the Baneblade, and the Devilfish faltered in its flight.  A pair of bolts from the Baneblade’s lascannons flashed out and raked the side of the carrier, and its nose dipped into the mud.  It didn’t cartwheel, but instead came to rest with its tail in the air at an angle, a scant fifty yards to their front.  Hatches popped, and Tau infantry began spilling out.  Yevenov aimed and squeezed, but his laser went wide.  One or two Tau sent plasma bolts back his direction.

Kashinko and Tatyana were both firing as well, and now the three of them noticed that there was a subtle rise in the ground that had escaped their attention previously.  The rise created a dead space where the Tau infantry were taking cover, and no laser bolt could reach them.

Kashinko swore.  “Keep their heads down;  I’ll be right back!”  He charged off down the trench.

Tatyana and Yevenov looked at each other, then resumed firing.  In the distance, beyond lasgun range, he could see the survivors of the first Devilfish making their way towards the dead space in his sector.

Wonderful.

Every time a helmet poked up over the rise, the two troopers sent a couple of lasgun bolts at it.  Most of them exploded into steam in the mud, but one lucky shot by Tatyana caught a Fire Warrior in the face;  they had a brief view of the body tumbling backwards out of sight.

The Baneblade behind them turned a pair of heavy bolters towards the rise.  The mud on the rise was chewed up as the explosive shells thudded into it, but it was soon clear that the Baneblade also didn’t have the height necessary to see into the depression.  The Shadowsword might have taken some chunks out of the hill, but it had moved off to their left to engage something coming from that direction.

Kashinko splashed back through the mud to their side, followed by a man Yevenov didn’t recognize.  The new man was carrying one of the fat, drum-fed Cadian-pattern grenade launchers, and he was looking eagerly at the rise even as he fell in beside them.

Kashinko leaned close and yelled over the thunder of bolters and cannons.  “They’re right behind there!  Are you good enough to lay some eggs on top of them?”

The soldier nodded.  “Yep!  Stand clear!”  He put the launcher to his shoulder.  “Firing!”

The grenade launcher barked its short, hollow bark, the concussion hitting Yevenov in the face like the slap of a ghostly fist.  The first round went short, and the second disappeared far past the depression.  The third round, however, dropped neatly behind the rise.  There was a blast, smoke and debris went briefly skyward, and the man was firing again.

It was around the time the fourth grenade was coming into their midst that the Tau made a break for it.  Coming over the rise, led by one of their tall angular battle-suits, fifteen or so Tau Fire Warriors came in one swift wave, their pulse rifles spitting plasma bolts at the Imperial defenders.

Yevenov fired.  He caught one Tau in the chest with a double shot;  the first laser bolt burned through the armor, and the second burned into flesh, which exploded as the moisture within it suddenly turned to superheated steam.  He caught another in the leg, and another lost a hand to his lasgun.  He didn’t stop until his magazine gave the triple-beep signal of being exhausted.

He pressed the magazine release with his trigger finger, letting the dead power cell fall into the mud as his left hand pulled a fresh one from a pouch on his belt.  A plasma bolt kicked mud and dirt into his face, and then he was up and firing again over the parapet.

The battle-suit had disappeared;  he didn’t know where.  He picked out Tau amongst the mud and put rounds into them as best he could.  Some were already dead;  some shot back.  Kashinko collapsed with a curse beside him, but Yevenov couldn’t stop to look, because a Fire Warrior was drawing a bead on him.  They seemed to fire at the same time, and both missed.  The Tau ducked away into a crater.

“Tatyana!  I think Kashi’s hit!”  He yelled.

“I know!  Just keep shooting!”  He risked a glance;  she was holding down the spoons on two grenades, their pins already pulled and gone.  He put a series of shots across the sector at ankle-height to keep the aliens’ heads down, and was rewarded by seeing Tatyana’s grenades sail over into the no man’s land beyond them.  Two geysers of mud sprang up, then nothing.  No more shooting came from in front of them.

Yevenov scanned his sector over his rifle sights, trying to steady the heavy breathing that threatened to ruin his aim.  The raindrops landing on the barrel of his rifle sizzled and puffed away into steam.

Kashinko was still swearing.  Yevenov saw activity out of the corner of his eye as Tatyana and the grenadier threw a quick field dressing on him.  Kashi was on his feet in a moment, a bright white bandage wrapped around his left bicep.  He looked up, smiled wryly as his eyes met Yevenov’s.  “They ruined my last good uniform, too.  Do you think the Commissar will fine me for it?”

Yevenov chuckled.

Behind them, the Baneblade suddenly churned to its right and rumbled off down the trench line, its tracks throwing up rooster tails of mud as they spun for purchase.  Sounds of battle grew from their right.

“That’s not a good sound,” Tatyana said, looking that direction.  She nodded to the grenadier.  “Thanks for your help, Kovalefski, but you’d better get back over to your own sector.  Sounds like you’re needed there!”

He nodded wordlessly, smiling, touched the brim of his helmet to them all, and hustled off down the trench.

“Nice chap,” Kashinko remarked.  He was tenderly adjusting his field dressing.

Yevenov grunted.  His attention was on the field.  He couldn’t see anything moving out in front of their sector.  Off to the right, though, things sounded like they were getting worse.  “Ammo check!  How are you two doing?”

Tatyana had a single grenade left and two magazines, while Kashinko had four grenades and three fully-charged magazines.  Yevenov checked his own pouch;  he had two magazines whose power strips glowed a dim green.  The power meter on his current cell was yellow and half the length of the healthy green “full power” strips.  And one magazine was on its own somewhere in the muck under his feet.  It would have to take care of itself.

He fumbled for his canteen and was just taking a deep cold drink of water when shouts and yells came over the tops of the trench ramparts to their right.  In moments, a half-dozen Guardsmen came scrambling around the bend in the trench line, hell bent for safety.  A wild-eyed corporal slid to a halt in front of them, sending a small wave of water over their shins.

“You’d better move!  They’ve broken the line about fifty yards down, and their rolling up the trench in either direction.  We’ll need to fall back and set up a defense.”

Kashinko shook his head.  “No, we need to go hit them hard while they think they’ve got us on the run.  Grenades!  Every other man, sling your weapon and get a grenade in either hand!  Riflemen, cover fire!”

They charged back down the trench line, all nine of them, Kashinko in the lead.  As they neared a bend, Kushinko or another Guardsman would hurl a grenade around the corner or over the tops of the trench walls, then the group would charge on over the freshly smoking bodies of their enemies.

They eventually came to a straight stretch that presented a distressing sight.  The Hammerhead that had escaped their previous gunnery had been brought down right on top of the trench, and Tau infantrymen were piling into the trench behind it.  The tank’s main cannon was still alive and was cycling back and forth, firing into the rear lines behind the Imperial trench.  Bodies and parts of bodies, mostly in Imperial uniform, floated in the water and littered the ramparts.

One of the small disc-like Tau gun drones came skimming into view, and Yevenov and another man dropped it with a pair of snap shots.  A Tau slid down into the trench after it, his (her? Its?) momentum too great to stop even in the face of certain death.  Yevenov drilled it through the stomach.

The railgun on the Hammerhead would swivel their direction at any moment.  Kushinko hesitated only briefly.  “Let’s go, folks!  Grenades!”  And he was off down the trench, Tatyana and Yevenov on his heels.  Several grenades flew out beyond the trench to delay the attackers.

They were up against the hull of the tank in moments.  Kashinko hefted himself up onto it and held down a hand, which Yevenov used to pull himself up.

There was a hatch on top of the turret of the Tau tank.  Yevenov began to hammer at it with the butt of his rifle, and in return the gunner inside began making wide sweeping arcs with the railgun, trying to sweep the humans off.  After a few moments, however, the hatch shifted with a quiet ping, and it only took another blow with the rifle butt to pop it fully open.

Yevenov quickly reversed his rifle and fired a few shots at random down into the hatch, then scrambled backwards as Kashinko dropped not one, but two grenades down inside.  They slid down over the sloping armor of the alien tank, to land in a muddy heap in the trench below.

A pair of dull thuds, like fireworks going off inside a barrel, rang throughout the Hammerhead, and smoke billowed out of the hatch.  The railgun crept to a halt and lay motionless.

“Excellent!  Let’s go!”  Kashinko had already borrowed another couple of grenades from somewhere, and the whole crew began to climb under or around the tank to get to the trench line on the far side.

They didn’t make it far.  As soon as they were around the dead Hammerhead, Fire Warriors appeared at the bend in the trench some twenty yards beyond.  Plasma bolts flared around the Guardsmen, and the corporal who had led the initial retreat went down, trailing smoke.  Kashinko was yelling and throwing another grenade, as Yevenov drew a bead on a Tau and pulled the trigger.

Beep-beep-beep.

Bloody hell.

Cursing, he dropped the expended power cell out of the magazine well and jammed another in.  In the ten seconds that took, three more Guardsmen died from pulse-rifle fire.

Tatyana was beside him, making carefully-aimed shots along the exposed trench line.  A group of Tau were huddled just beyond the bend, poking their pulse rifles out over and around the corner.  The two sides fired blindly at each other.

“Cover!”  It was Kashi.  Yevenov considered what it meant to have more guts than brains; here was a living example.  But this was also a good time for it.

He fired repeatedly at the Tau until Kashinko made his way just shy of the bend. He pulled the pins on a pair of grenades, and Yevenov saw the spoons fly away; the fuses were burning, and Kashi’s life was currently measured in breaths.

At the last possible moment, Kashinko tossed away the grenades, around the bend.

There were two blasts, and Yevenov, Tatyana, and the handful of Guardsmen behind them rushed the corner, putting a finishing shot into every body, whether it was moving or not.  Kashinko was still crouched at the bend, letting them pass.  In the deepening blue of approaching twilight, Yevenov thought he could see him grinning.

“Kashi, let’s go!  I’ve got some more grenades — “  As he turned, he saw the burning patches of clothing and flesh on Kashi’s chest and stomach.  He’d been hit at least three times.

“How’d I do, Yevie?”  He said, dimly.  He sagged back onto his rear, back to the wall and seat in the muddy, bloody water.

“…You did good.  Got at least a dozen of ‘em,” replied Yevenov.  He kneeled and ripped out his own field dressing, pushing it against the worst of the wounds.  He shouted over his shoulder.  “Litter-bearer!  Litter-bearer, here!”

Then Tatyana was at his shoulder, and she also pushed dressings against Kashi’s wounds.  She was a good soldier, Yevenov reflected;  she didn’t waste time or energy crying or fretting.  She just worked with speed and focus to plug the wounds.

Splashing in the trench behind him made Yevenov turn, expecting to see Imperial medics bringing a litter.  But it was nothing of the sort.  It was the Tau.

He couldn’t get his hand onto the grip of his weapon fast enough, so instead he lurched to his feet and slammed the barrel of his rifle into the stomach of the leading Fire Warrior.  His momentum knocked the alien down, and his second swing caught the following warrior across the chin with the butt of his rifle.  Helmet or no, the Tau’s head snapped backwards and it, too, fell heavily into the water.

There were more, but they were too far to reach.  Yevenov snapped his rifle to his shoulder, but their plasma bolts were faster than he was.  His abdomen exploded in pain and fire, and he fell against the trench side, then onto his back in the water.

He lay there, ears ringing.  He could see Tatyana standing by his feet, firing and yelling back down the trench, but he couldn’t hear her.  He noticed the sky.  The clouds had cleared enough to see the first stars.  He thought he could see flickers and flashes of light high in the sky, but there were also will o’ the wisps swimming around his vision, and he couldn’t tell one from the other.

He decided it was time to catch some sleep.  His eyes closed.

It was blissful.  His mind swam in the warm black depths of utter exhaustion.  He was vaguely aware of wet, of cold, of noise, but none of it mattered.  He gave himself fully to sleep.

* * * * *

Someone was shining a light in his eyes, one at a time.  How rude.

“Ah, good to see we still have you, trooper,” came an oddly cheerful voice.  “Nearly lost you there.”

Blinking away the blurriness, Yevenov was finally able to focus on a man in a white smock, much blood-stained, leaning over him.  He was in a tent, on a bed of some kind.  Alive.

“Oh.  Yes?”  He couldn’t think of anything else.

“Yes, indeed.  But by the Emperor’s grace, you lived through that last assault.”  The man was older, with bushy grey eyebrows, and he was pulling back a sheet to examine Yevenov’s chest and stomach.  “Only one wound was deep enough to be mortal;  your armor took most of the brunt of the others.  Luckily, we were in time to put your insides back together before you died.”

“That’s good, I guess.”  Yevenov hurt everywhere, but especially the tight patches on his midsection where the burns and sutures pulled at his skin.

“Good, indeed!”  The medic exclaimed happily.  “You’ll be up in about a week, just in time to rejoin your regiment.  Final mopping-up of the invaders should take another month or so, but they are truly defeated, even if they refuse to lay down their arms.”

Yevenov’s brow furrowed.  “Huh.  It sounds like we’re winning, then.”

“Yes.  It was by the Emperor’s will that the Imperial Navy showed up in time to rout the Tau starships besieging us from orbit.  With no support, the invading forces will eventually be ground away to nothing.  Ashes.  Nothing else.”  The medic’s voice was far too cheerful to be describing such pain and suffering, Yevenov thought.

“Oh, and your sergeant is here to see you.”  He gestured to someone outside Yevenov’s field of vision.

It was Tatyana.  Her golden hair was pulled back in a tight weave and her rifle was slung across her back.  New sergeant’s stripes were appliqued to the shoulder plate of her body armor.  “It’s about time you’re up, lazybones.  I’ll be needing you to fill out the rest of Fourth Squad.  I’m platoon sergeant now, you can see.”  She tapped her new stripes cheerfully.

“Ah… I see.  Kashi?  Did he make it?”

“He’s sleeping.  He’ll be out of here in a day or two, and then the company’s moving out.  We’ll have you sent down with a supply train once you get out.”  She tousled his hair playfully.  “I’ve asked the commander to make you a corporal.  You need to take some responsibility for once!”

He sputtered indignantly, but she was laughing when she said it, so he let it go.  His head sank back into the pillow’s embrace.

“But you did good with that Hammerhead, real good.  I’ll tell you about the rest of the fight when you’re up and about, but not now.  I’m headed south this afternoon, and I’ll see you down there.  For the moment, you just need to get some sleep.”

“That’s all I’ve been wanting to do,” he murmured.  His eyes were already closed.

The End

And then are the screams. There’s always the screams, next. They take me out of my nostalgia, my thinking. It doesn’t matter what kinds of screams. The bellowing Orks from Isendor, or the cackling monsters on Everos Prime, or the screams of Corporal Violet as she writhed on the ground, clawing at the spikes embedded in her stomach. The screams would some, and I would look away from the vastness of the sky, the stars, the moon. I would return to reality, to the mission; there was rarely time to enjoy the stars. Unlike the universe they inhabited, I lived in a much different reality. Where time was endless in the vast basin of existence itself, down here, on the surface of whatever world I was stationed on at the time, there was only war.

This time around, the planet is Verven VI and the mission is assassination. The fishheads are holed up on one side of the city, the remnants of the Elysian 33rd in the other. The entirety of the world was engulfed in war, but this city was special. In the depths of this city, the fishheads were footed. All their offensives, their actions, traced roots back here, to the city of Eren. To the chief fishhead, the one they call Aun’o. The one they call Ethereal. Today, they will learn to call him by a new name: sushi.

I wave two fingers forward, pointing at the wall ahead. It is covered in heretical xenos glyphs and symbols. Sergeant Reth advances cautiously, hefting a heavy lascutter and crouching, resting the device on his knee. I hold up my left hand, fingers counting down from five. As I fold my index finger and tuck it into the palm of the hand, Reth pumps the bulky tool once and squeezes the trigger. A liquid-hot jettison of fire pours from the burned, metallic nozzle, ripping into the wall and melting away steel like skin from the scalp of a burning man. The fwoosh-hiss of the lascutter echoes once and begins to die down as the jettison comes to a stop, a small hole carved into the side of the building. The alien symbols have dissolved into a contorted blob of reddish markings from the heat, and the wall is searing hot to the touch.

Jerking my head and waving forward, I move into the dark corridor slowly, quietly drawing Lilah from her sheathe, the nimble sword an extension of my own limbs. In the other hand is my bolt pistol, a silencer capped to the muzzle. My navy blue and dark crimson garments blend in seamlessly with the dankly lit shadows. Behind me, the other members of my squad follow, careful and quiet. Sergeant Reth watches out rear, moving up slowly from the six – in these tight quarters, his lascutter will function as much as a weapon as it will a tool.

I lighten my step, coming to a cautious halt at the end of a corner. I can hear heavy footsteps, thudding against the floor. Each fall of the foot is like a sharp click, ringing out plainly. Alien voices mutter amongst themselves. Holding up my left arm in a rigid bend, darkened casing of the bolt pistol a mere outline against the hallway, the squad stops. A moment later, a pair of Tau Fire Warrior round the corner, hooves a milky brown, armour a gray-black camo pattern. Each one hefts an elongated rifle, a pulse-carbine. More importantly, however, neither are expecting my team. I roll forward almost naturally, Lilah unfurling in my grip like an elegant baton. She hums to life, cutting through the first Fire Warrior like a knife through hot butter. Its armour cleaves in two, skin evaporating at the touch of the blade.

As the bisected remains of the alien fall to the ground, a purplish blood splashes against my boots. I am already onto the second Fire Warrior, Lilah plunged deep into its torso. The alien makes a foreign noise and stumbles back as I yank my blade out and kick the creature away. Two muffled shots of the bolt pistol finish it off, blowing melon-sized holes into its body as chunks of bone and blood lap against the wall behind it.

The corpse thuds to the ground with a clang and we are on our way once more.

“Looks like they know we’re here, Lieutenant,” Corpman Tress mutters softly from behind me.

“Let them come,” I answer back coolly as I near a staircase. The air smells like dead fish mixed with boar and singed wood, the only lighting the faint blue back-up sticks along the wall.

At the top of the staircase there stands a lone Fire Warrior. He is dead before he can react, a trio of shots in the mesh of his neck. Behind me, smoke wisps from Tress’s autogun. This time, our presence does not go unnoticed. A door opens in the hallway to the left, a Fire Warrior steps out, holding a pulse pistol. It squeezes its trigger once, and behind me, Trooper Dath howls in pain. I put a shot in the Tau’s head before it can do anything else, and blood explodes on the doorway, the body slumping lifelessly to the floor.

From the window leading to the roof, another pair of Tau emerge, taking up firing positions from the roof outside, rifles rested on the window sill. I dash next a wall, obscured to the xenos. The rest of my squad similarly seeks cover. I nod at Trooper Dak, slouched behind an overturned crate, and he tosses a pair of flashbang grenades into the corridor. A second of a pause, and then: bang. Tress and Trooper Jath pop out of cover and open fire, shotgun and autogun ringing together. The Tau drop to the ground, and we advance once more, in the direction of the enemy. I kick out the window and leap down onto the roof below. In front of me one of the Fire Warriors lays on its back, trying to crawl away. It shakes its head feverishly as I raise my sword, and then it is dead, head skittering against the paved rooftop like a stone in the water on a cool summer’s eve. Blood puddles on the ground.

“Dak, can you make it?” I ask, almost as a second thought – I already know the answer.

“I’m good, ma’am. Little hungry, though. I hear the locals make great steak. Mind if we stop somewhere on the way back?”

“Not sure if we’ll have time for that,” I answer, “How do you feel about fish?” I unfurl a rope from my backpack and bolting it in place on the ledge of the building.

“Sounds fine to me, ma’am,” Dak responds, setting his own rope in place. Beside us, Jath does the same. The three of us rappel down together simultaneously, the guards at the front of the building completely aloof to the threat behind them. As my feet hit the ground, I step away from my rope and cover Tress and Reth as the pair make their own descent. The five of us dash into the cover of the shadows cast by an overhead building, Dak on our six and limping slightly. Although his wound had been cauterised on impact, it is still noticeable, layer of flesh seared right off of his thigh. The soldier does well to cover his pain, but with each muffled grunt I know it is becoming harder for him to keep up.

I motion for the squad to stop as I hear noises ahead. The door on the building in front of us hisses open to reveal two Fire Warriors, side by side. They are felled almost immediately, and the doors shut behind them for a moment. When they open again, a stacatto of pulse fire rips into the air. Dak is ripped to shreds before he can reach cover, but the others make it. I prime a frag grenade and throw it into the door, then signal for Jath and Reth to advance. Gunfire as the smoke clears, then nothing. We march into the building and are greeted almost immediately by an elaborate elevator. The four of us that remain enter it as a single entity, and Tress thumbs the button for the top level. “Going up.”

A minute later, the elevator comes lurching to a stop. As soon as the doors open, Jath and I run into the room, the others covering us from the elevator. A wide window that spans the length of the wall is on the reverse side of the room, a xenos in elaborate silken robes beside it. In front of him stand two bodyguards, each armed with a spear jolting with electricity. Various other retinue populate the room. I bring Lilah into the heart of one such soldier as he reaches for his gun, simultaneously firing the bolt pistol into another. I lunge for the Ethereal, only to be blocked by one of his guards. We break apart, eying other carefully as the rest of the skirmish seems to melt away. The warrior whirls his staff, taking up a combat stance. I stand there, pistol at my side, Lilah pointed towards him. Two more honour guard rise to the occasion, blocking my way to the Ethereal. A fourth stands beside his charge. The tension rises as everything in the room is silent for a moment. I can hear the jittering of the buzz-staffs, the nervous breathing of the Ethereal.

And then life seems to pick up again. The fourth guard begins to lead the Ethereal away from the fight, to a door to the left of the room. The others advance forward, daring us to move.

“We don’t have time for this,” I shout, “He’s getting away! Reth, go after him!”

Tress and Jath open fire on the guards, distracting them as Reth dashes past them, after the Ethereal, shotgun in tow. I engage with my own opponent, blade crackling against pike in a whirling, spinning melee. Each motion is barely visible, each nanosecond the difference between life or death. I parry a blow to the torso and break off once more, raising my bolt pistol slowly. The Tau hesitates, for a moment, and that is what I had wanted. I dash forward, and Lilah is embedded in the bodyguards chest. I twist sharply, and look into the eyes of the Tau, its gray skin, its dull retina. It sighs, once, and then dies as I free Lilah of the body. Blood slicks against the ornate red carpeting of the room, and I turn to see where the rest of my squad stands. Tress lies crumpled on the floor, but both guards are dead.

I nod once to Reth: “Come on, we’ve got to catch up with them!”

Racing into the next room, I round the corner to find two Fire Warriors blocking my path. Adrenaline still pumping through my body, I dispatch both of the creatures without thought, not slowing my run as I dash down the long hallway. It ends in a kicked-down door, a dead warrior on the ground, blue blood smeared on the wall. I step over the corpse and enter an elaborate hangar. Lilah cuts into the nearest guard, cleanly slicing his head off.

My long hair is a tangled mess, its black sheen dulled by red and blue smears, matted with blood and grime. I can feel pain in my chest and see liquid oozing out of it. I hadn’t even realised I’d been hit. In front of me I see the smoking remains of Sergeant Reth, beside him three dead Tau. And ahead of that, slumped against an alien craft, Aun’o. He holds a pistol in one hand, though his wrist is limp; his once-white robes are ripped and bloodied.

“Aun’o,” I mutter simply, pulling back the release on my bolt pistol and feeding it a new clip.

“Gue’la,” he answers in kind, “Your masters send you to silence me. But why?” Aun’o grins, smugly, “Because they fear the truth! If only you would see it. If only you would see the Greater Good!”

“I’ve no interest in bowing to your Greater Good, Tau,” I answer plainly, stepping forward and squaring my bolt pistol at the Ethereal, “Better war than bondage.”

Aun’o's eyes flicker. “So says the slave to the free man.”

A pause. And then Aun’o fires his gun, the pulse shot punching through my armour. It takes me by surprise, and I stumble forward slightly, blood spattering on the floor as I wheeze and gasp for breath. Another shot brings me to my knees, and I look down at the puddle of blood welling about my legs.

“You have made your decision, Gue’la. And so in death are you freed.” The Etheral slowly points its weapon at my head, rising to his feet.

“The Emperor protects!” I manage to gasp, surging to my feet with a final rush of power. Aun’o puts another shot into my stomach, but it does not stop me from lunging forward.

Lilah embeds herself cleanly into Aun’o's skull. Blood spatters onto the ground, and the energy sheathe around Lilah begins to boil the Etheral’s brains from the inside out. I stand there for a moment, breathing heavily and dazed, as if frozen by the act, the world around me slowly grinding to a halt… and then time resumes, my blurred senses racing back to a screaming peak as the adrenaline rush returns. I yank my sword free, and the body topples to the ground with an almost ceremonial thump, and I turn around slowly to see Jath approaching me with purpose in his stride, his expression visibly changing as he sees the wounds pock-marked on my body.

“You alright, ma’am?” he asks worriedly.

“Fekking fantastic,” I laugh bitterly, shaking my head and stepping towards him. As I do so, my eyes wander to the open doors of the hangar. It is dark outside, now. The moon shines as brightly as ever, the stars twinkle in its gaze, and I wonder for a moment which star I might call home next. Home is not where the meadows lie, where memoirs of a girl’s childhood lay buried in the attic. Not where memories of hide and seek in the old forest by the river are traced back to, not where the familiar music settles you into a restful slumber. The twinkle of the night sky, the shine of the stars above… So long as there’s a star worth fighting for, there will always be a war worth fighting.

I laugh to myself, remembering an old saying my dad used to tell me on those calm nights, when I still a girl, still curious. I would curl up in his lap and ask him why mom was never home. He would smile warmly at me, brushing the hair off of my face, and tell me that she was home. I would ask him what he meant, and he would say to me, gently, “Wherever she is, I’m sure she is at home. You see, it doesn’t matter if she’s with us, or watching the sun set over the hills, or even across the galaxy on Holy Terra itself… home is where the heart is.”
I turn away from the sight, the memories fading once more, and turn back to Jath. Slowly, I gaze about the hangar one final time. The arid smoke clogs my senses. I am dizzy from blood less, and gore is spattered on the ground like an abstract style of paint. Corpses litter the ground, fires crackle in the background. I can hear gunfire and artillery in the distance, the footsteps of approaching Tau more closely. The first of the xenos enters the hangar, and as Lilah responds with a gentle kiss, alien blood swathing my legs; as the staccatos of gunfire outside and the lullabies of war make their way to my senses, I know I am home.

My name is Lieutenant Mel Raness, and I am a Reikonscian. ]]> http://imperial-literature.net/?feed=rss2&p=1351 12 http://imperial-literature.net/?p=1339 http://imperial-literature.net/?p=1339#comments Sun, 07 Feb 2010 08:20:30 +0000 Fangtorn http://imperial-literature.net/?p=1339 Continue reading →]]> The lander thundered through the skies of the Groden Moon, sweeping over the swampland below with the sound of screaming ram-jets. Its escorts, two similar painted grey-blue Lightenings peeled off and arced back into the sky. The Aquila class lander kept on going, powering barely three metres above the forest canopy. Strange reptilian birds and furry winged mammals fluttered angrily into the sky, squawking at the new predator invading their territory.

“This is nothing short of heresy!” Interrogator Rufus Thracken growled from inside the cockpit, peering with disgust at the green-grey swamps below. The swamp-forest covered the moon as far as the eye could see, a vast snot-green ocean of overgrow fungus spewed under a sickly ochre sky. “We should simply kill this witch and have done with it! Not consort with the fiend!”

“Hold your tongue Rufus, or I will have Orgustos cut it out. That’s strike one. Your words are beginning to sound a lot like insubordination.” Exander purred with a half-smile, giving his subordinate a sidelong stare with cold eyes as he tightened his gloves. His yellow irises almost made the Interrogator shudder. Almost.

“I live to serve you, Inquisitor,” he snarled, biting back a slur. His tone dripped with loathing but Exander seemed to enjoy it. His mouth curved into a smile so slight Thracken couldn’t be sure it was really there, but felt sure it was. It was as close to pretentious as the near-emotionless Inquisitor ever got, but Thracken just knew behind that collected, dignified facade was a man bloated with self-importance.

“You think like a common soldier too much,” the Inquisitor sighed, now adjusting the mesh armour concealed beneath his fine grey-blue robes. “What’s that old Terran saying? You can take the soldier out of the war, but not the war out of the soldier. You’re not in the Guard now, Rufus. You don’t have to follow orders like a dog. You’re allowed to think for yourself, to think independently. This opportunity is too great to waste; I’m surprised even you can’t see that.”

Thracken breathed out his nostrils heavily, striking his knee with a clenched fist. He swallowed hard and calmed himself down. If there was one thing that made his blood boil it was Exander giving him a lecture. The bastard acted as if he was a veteran of the Ordo Xeno, when in truth he’d been an Interrogator alongside Thracken not fifteen months earlier, under Inquisitor Einroth. He wasn’t even a full Inquisitor; he was still subject to repeal until he proved his abilities.

And Exander had decided to prove them by hunting down the legendary Eldar renegade Taggarath, the Seer of Corrinto. It had taken the best part of two years, and Thracken had been ordered along too, by Einroth, to act as Exander’s second. The Interrogator made little effort to hide his distaste for the situation. It wasn’t just his sudden subordination to a man who had been his equal and rival for over a decade; it wasn’t that they were chasing an old witch when an Imperial Crusade was in full swing; it wasn’t even how different their methods and mentality were. What Thacken hated was that he couldn’t understand why Exander had been chosen for advancement over him. What did Exander have that he didn’t?

“I should be at the frontlines,” he growled darkly, thinking of the valiant men dying to protect the Imperium light-years away. “The entire Damocles Gulf is at war and here I am floating over this wretched mud-heap!”

“Ever the Guardsman I see,” Exander chuckled, now tightening his boot straps. It was as if the man never sat still. “We will return to the Crusade, Interrogator. But with a weapon that will insure a sweeping Imperial victory, saving countless human lives. The ability to see into the future, can you image the possibilities?”

“Spoken like a true radical, Exander. You dance with heresy,” Thracken hissed, his voice grave, eyes fixed on the new Inquisitor intently, hoping that even he could see reason. “The only thing we need is a bolt in the brain of every alien and every witch! Throne, by that count I’ll gladly give Taggarath two!”

“Spoken like a true Monodominant,” Exander retorted, brushing his long ash white hair. His face was deathly pale, made deathlier in the dim light of the cockpit, an unhealthy pallid texture with a slight light blue hue, not helped by corpse-blue lips and dark black tattoos around the eye sockets. Thracken studied Exander’s youthful, sculptured features, trying to identify why they repulsed him so inexplicably. He pondered the hypocrisy of Exander scorning him for looking like a common soldier when he himself looked like a death cultist who’d raided a hive-noble’s wardrobe.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the Interrogator spat.

Exander shrugged, his ceramite pauldrons chinking. “I wouldn’t.”

Thracken flexed his fingers. The passive-aggressive bastard could cruck an ork for all he cared, he was proud of his monodominance. He had been brought up a Guardsman and had the face and scars to prove it. He was a well-built man with a blunt, hard face, a militaristic dark haircut and a jaw that looked like it could bite the snout off a Tarellian. It had been his hatred of xenos and his faith in the dominance of Mankind that had set him apart from his comrades so long ago. Set him apart so much he’d been chosen for elite training at the Schola Progenium on Clore, ready to become an elite storm trooper. It had been there he’d proven his potential to Einroth and given the chance to become a member of the Ordo Xeno. His repugnance at all things alien and his faith in all things human were his greatest strengths. The idea of letting a single thing live that wasn’t to human perfection sickened him.

“It’s all academic anyway,” Thracken suddenly barked. “What makes you so sure the alien won’t just attack?”

“Curiosity? I can’t image he gets many visitors not trying to kill or capture him. How many rogue traders and slavers did we find trying to hunt him down themselves? It seems even the dregs of Imperial society know his worth better then you.” Thracken let that one slide. Exander waved a hand dismissively. “Besides even if he does prove hostile I doubt he’ll prove much of a threat. Even a Farseer’s abilities will be sorely tested against me.”

“And what if his not alone? What if his got an entire strike force with him? What if he has half of Corrinto or wherever down there in waiting?” The Interrogator pressured. “We should have brought an entire regiment with us. Laxity can not be forgiven.”

“A strike force of Guardians you mean? Equipped with grav-falcons and fire-prisms and the kind of advanced weaponry and technology our auspex can detect in a heartbeat?” Exander countered. “Armoured with the type of wraithbone our scanners have been designed to target down to a cubic inch?”

Thracken grimaced. His fears of an Eldar war host lying in wait were at least unfounded. Exander had equipped their orbiting ship with scanners that could locate even the smallest amount of wraithbone. It was a tiny amount that they were tracking to a village now. While he was just thinking that a rogue Farseer was bad enough, the pilot turned around and let them know they were close to their destination.

“Besides we’re dealing with a Farseer,” the Inquisitor said distractedly. “If he’s here it’s likely he has already seen us coming.” Exander fixed Thracken with an amused stare. “Already seen our entire conversation.”

The lander shuddered slightly with atmospheric friction as it began to decelerate and let its wings unfurl, the air striking against the outer hull. From his view out the cockpit viewport Thracken could see little details in the swamp below. Mostly ugly, shrunken, withered trees and dirty rocks surrounded in pools of slimy mud and obscured by a thick grey mist. Spotted here and there were vague suggestions of ruins, little fragments of architecture suggesting a forgotten civilisation. Ahead, occasionally visible through the haze of stained sulphuric coloured clouds, a single mountain rose above the landscape.

“What if the rumours of primitive Eldar are true? I don’t like the idea of landing among an entire tribe of savage Eldar,” Thracken suggested, smoothing his own storm coat out.

“I expect the rumours are true, but that’s why I brought Orgustos,” the Inquisitor explained fixing a wide-brimmed witch-hunter style cap over his ashen hair. “We’ll know soon enough.”

The Interrogator glanced behind him into the shuttle’s passenger compartment. The rest of their retinue sat in their restraints adjusting armour and checking weapons. There was a wide assortment of individuals all hired for their differing range of skills to act as the Inquisitor’s private war band of bodyguards, assassins, soldiers and servants. Thracken studied the largest of the retinue, a half-Ogryn named Orgustos. The massive, muscled half-twist wore a white tank-top and the lower half of a brown bodyglove and was busy prepping a heavy-bolter in his meaty hands.

“We’re close to the village?” He asked the pilot.

“Yes, my lord,” the other confirmed. “It should be visible soon.”

Thracken murmured an acknowledgment and checked the bolt-pistol holstered to his right thigh, adjusting its scope. Exander could be as confident in his abilities as he wanted. Thracken trusted nothing but a good bolter.

The ruins nestled against the southern base of the mountain were almost undetectable from over the forest canopy. Many of its squat, crumbled buildings extending deep under the cover of the surrounding trees. Exander had the pilot circle twice and then put down in the centre of what appeared to be a clearing in the middle of the village, facing a large, impressive-looking stone temple.

Thracken knew next to nothing about architecture, but knew enough to recognise none of these buildings were of Imperial origin. He was less interested in the buildings however then the life-forms the auspex said were hiding inside and behind them.

“Do you think these creatures will be the submissive type, or the hostile kind?” The Interrogator asked his abhorrent superior.

“Hostile I should think,” Exander said, stepping through the passenger compartment to the lander’s exit ramp where Orgustos and the rest of the dozen strong retinue formed around him. A female death maiden handed the Inquisitor his weapon, a two-metre long quarterstaff of obsidian called a null rod, crackling with anti-psychic energy. “Most aliens are. Shall we go?”

The ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulic steam. Gritting his teeth Thracken joined the retinue just behind the Inquisitor. With Orgustos in the lead, they headed down.

The stink hit them first. After the best part of fifteen months inside the sterile hull of a navy warship and the less-sterile but more perfumed rogue traders the stench of mud, lichen, damp trees, rotten roots, and wet stone almost made Thracken gag. After the initial overpowering of the olfactory system, the smells, although hideous, were exhilarating in their unpleasantness.

After the stench come the feel of the moist chilly air. So used to the contained climate inside the starship the novelty of his skin crawling and flesh bumping in the cold was not something Thracken expected to enjoy, but quietly he revealed in the sensation. After that came the sharp tug of gravity, obviously slightly heavier on Groden then the cruiser’s artificial gravity.

“What do you think about the Farseer, Orgustos?” Exander asked the bulky ex-tribesman casually.

Orgustos shrugged, busy scanning the swamp with his small, humble and rather gentle eyes. “If ya’ can see wa’ people a’ gunna’ do before they do it ya’ can stop em can’t ya?”

“Sound logic Orgustos, thank you,” Exander gave a condescending glance over his shoulder at Thracken. The Interrogator snarled.

“Cruck you and your mutant pet,” he spat through bared teeth.

“Strike two, Interrogator.”

Nothing shot at them as they reached the ground and took a few tentative steps through the mud. Nor did anything scream, call out, or make any appearance at all. “They fear the might of the Imperium.” Thracken murmured, keeping his hand on his pistol’s hilt as he looked around.

“They fear strangers with guns,” Exander said, pulling a vox-enabler from his equipment belt. “Understandably. Let’s see if they’ll be hospitable.”

Holding the device in his freehand, he raised it over his mouth. “I seek the Seer of Corrinto,” his aristocratic, cultured voice boomed across the square, echoing from the surrounding buildings. “Who will take me to him?”

The last echo died away into silence. Nothing but the sound of chirping forest birds and the chattering of swamp insects filled the void. Exander lowered his enabler and waited. His war band fidgeted as the seconds ticked by without response.

“Maybe they don’t speak Gothic?” Thracken suggested with a bitter smile.

“No, they understand,” Exander said coldly. “Let’s see how they deal with Inquisitorial style diplomacy.” He raised the enabler again. “I seek the Seer of Corrinto,” he repeated. “If no-one will take me to him, you will all suffer under the heel of the righteous!”

The words were barely out of his mouth when, without warning, an arrow flashed towards him from the right.

A metre away from the Inquisitor’s heart the arrow came to an abrupt halt in midair.

Thracken stared at the piece of wood and metal, his brain slowly catching up with what had happened. Exander had plucked the arrow from the air. He hadn’t used his hands; he used one of the four long spindly, flexible black mechadendrites that suddenly sprouted from under his robes. He held it before him between a pair of metallic claws before crushing the primitive weapon with the advanced bionic.

“Hold fire,” Exander ordered as Orgustos leapt forward, his heavy bolter ready. The rest of the retinue readied weapons. “You have the location?”

“Uh-huh,” the half-Ogryn nodded, nudging his heavy weapon at a squat two-storey building a quarter of the way down the clearing under a large bent tree.

“Excellent,” Exander readied his enabler again. “One of your kind just shot at us. Observe Imperial forgiveness,” lowering the enabler he nodded to Orgustos. “Fire.”

Nodding his big bald head Orgustos proceeded quickly, carefully, and expertly to destroy the building. Demonstrating tremendous talent for destruction he took out the windows and doors first, putting perhaps several hundred high-explosive rounds through them to discourage further attack. His sustained fire awoke the swamp, filling the already foggy air with coiling discharge smoke and a booming retort that battered against the eardrums, sending flocks of rat-birds and bat-hawks squealing into the air. He switched to the lower-floor walls. By the thousandth shot the building was visibly crumbling into pieces. A handful of shots into the upper walls, a few more into the lower-

With a thunderous crash, the building collapsed in a dust-cloud of grey rock and rumble.

Exander waited until the sound of crunching alien masonry had died away before raising the enabler again, his mechadendrites snaking behind him threateningly. “These are the consequences of defying the God-Emperor of Mankind, and by extension me, as the vessel of his divine will!” He shouted. “I ask once more; who will take me to the Seer of Corrinto?”

Again there was no response. Exander prepared to destroy another building.

“Like the lightening bolt marks its arrival with scorched earth,” said a figure to their left. “The mon keigh mark their arrival with destruction.”

Thracken spun around. The creature standing in front of the stone temple was hunched but still ungainly tall and slender, clinging with both hands to a gnarled staff of local wood. Long silver hair descending from an elongated head that looked both too narrow and too taut to be natural. He was dressed in dark grey robes of a material the Interrogator couldn’t identify, with a glittering medallion of some sort hidden beneath his robe. His face was a pinkish pallor and was lined and regal to the point of arrogance, his wisdom and perhaps sorrow filled eyes holding an aeon old mixture of solemn gravity and haughty pride.

“I will take you to the Seer,” he glanced at the Aquila shaped lander and the =I= symbols etched into the retinue’s armour and clothing as if recognising them. “You are mon keigh. Imperials.”

“Indeed,” Exander acknowledged.

The old creature’s eyes flickered over to the smoking rubble Orgustos had just created. “You destroyed part of our village,” he said. “There was no need for that.”

“We were attacked, alien,” Exander told him coldly. He sheathed his mechadendrites back beneath his coat. “I am Imperial Inquisitor Lucien Exander, of the Ordo Xeno, Sub-Ordo Damocles. Where is the Seer?”

The creature might have smiled slightly at the question, at the distance Thracken couldn’t be sure. The creature bowed his head slightly. “I will take you to the tomb of the Seer.”

Turning, he started back towards the temple. “Stay with the shuttle,” Exander murmured to the others as he moved to follow. Only Thracken came with him. “Be alert for a trap.”

No more arrows came as they crossed the clearing and walked cautiously under the blocky stone archway framing the temple’s double doors. “Was this temple built for the Seer?” Exander asked their guide as he pulled open the doors. They came easily; the old creature, Thracken noted, was deceivingly strong.

“Yes and no,” the creature said over his shoulder. “This tomb was built for Corrinto.” He crossed to the centre of the foyer, were an assortment of offerings and trinkets were laid around the room, halfway to the other set of double doors he stopped. “Leave us,” he called.

For a split second Thracken thought the old creature was talking to him. He was just opening his mouth to refuse when two flanking sections of the wall swung open and a pair of slender, thin Eldar stepped out of hidden guard niches. Glaring eerily at the Imperials, they twirled their bows in elegant hands and left the building. The old creature waited until they were gone, then continued on the second set of double doors. “Come,” he said, gesturing to the doors, an odd glimmer in his long oval eyes. “The last of Corrinto awaits you.”

Silently, the doors swung open, revealing the ethereal glow of what looked to be several hundred tiny gems arranged in a neat five rowed semi-circle on a raised dais filling the room. Thracken glanced once more at the withered creature towering beside the doors, a sudden sense of premonition sending a shiver down his spine, as if this was all meant to be. Mouthing a silent prayer, he followed Exander inside.

Into a crypt.

There was no doubt as to what it was. Aside from the glowering multicoloured gems there was nothing else in the room but a rectangular block of dark stone at the back of the dais.

“I see,” Exander said expressionlessly, studying the black block. “This is the sarcophagus of Taggarath?”

“This is where the last of Corrinto rests,” the creature said with a mysterious tone. “But this tomb is not to honour him. It is to honour the few surviving souls of Craftworld Corrinto. Do you recognise these jewels Inquisitor Exander?”

“Spirit-stones,” Exander nodded. “The captured souls of dead Eldar in crystal form. Is the Seer among them?”

“Among them?” The ancient thing scoffed viciously. “No. The failed Seer does not deserve that honour. Not until he has succeeded in protecting their souls from the pirates, treasure hunters and grave robberies that are sure to come here, and join the graves of the ones before them. Like all Imperials who dare set foot on this world.”

Thracken twisted to face him, instinctively drawing his bolt-pistol as he did so. Exander studied the spirit-stones a second longer. Was there a slight smile on his face? Thracken couldn’t tell. Exander pulled himself around, his snake-bionics sprouting slowly from under the hem of his cloak. “How did they die?” He asked.

The elderly creature smiled with menace. “If you mean the children of Corrinto, they were consumed by the Great Devourer. If you mean the rogue traders and mon keigh thieves, I killed them.” He raised one ringed, spindly hand from his staff, palm downwards. “Just as I now kill you.”

Without warning, a storm of searing ethereal blue lightening flashed from his fingertips-

And vanished without a trace a metre from both of them.

It all happened so fast that Thracken had no chance to even flinch, let alone fire. Now, angered at his own sloth, he raised his pistol as the scalding hot air from the warp fire washing over his head, eager to paint the walls with the witch’s brain matter-

“Hold fire,” Exander said with surprising authority and calmness. It took a huge amount of effort not to pretend he’d misheard when every iota of his faith and hate told him to shoot, but he was a soldier first and foremost, and soldiers obeyed orders. “As you can see, great Farseer of Corrinto, we are not ordinary mon keigh.”

“Corrinto is dead!” The Seer snapped the last word almost drowned out by the crackle of more warp lightening. Again the psychic energy vanished into nothingness before the Inquisitor. “You think Corrinto is this slime-ridden moon? You think the Eldar outside are the children of Corrinto? Corrinto was my Craftworld and I watched it consumed!”

“But you still live, you still see!” Exander shouted over the flashing thunder. “You still protect the souls of your people! You still have your powers. Look into the future, see into the passing of time, answer just a handful of my questions and we will leave never to return, on the life of the God-Emperor I swear it!”

“Your Emperor means nothing to me!” the Seer retorted, unleashing a third useless salvo. “My far-sight is not for the mon keigh!”

As suddenly as it had started, the attack ceased. The Farseer stared at Exander, his hand still raised, both an unreadable yet obviously infuriated expressio on his face. “What technology is this? What pacts with dark gods have you made to escape my power?”

“No pacts. Aid me and I will tell you,” Exander suggested.

The other drew himself up to his full height, which towered over both Imperials. “I am the last Seer of my Craftworld. I protect the souls of my children and the exodites of this moon, as the last of their protectorate.”

“I see,” Exander nodded. “Then help me, answer my questions, and I will quarantine this world. What’s that old Terran saying? You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. No rogue trader or pirate will even bother you again. The Imperium will leave you alone on this moon for eternity. You need never see another human.”

“A peculiar metaphor, lacking in relevance or context, but that is what I should expect from mon keigh,” the Seer commented. For a long moment the xeno continued to stare at Exander, a dozen alien expressions flicking over his face. “Very well,” he whispered tersely. “We shall talk.”

As if nothing had happened Taggarath settled himself in the middle of the dais surrounded by spirit-stones while Exander crouched on the floor. The Inquisitor was perfectly comfortable, used to spending hours in a similar position while in meditation. Interrogator Thracken didn’t sit but stood to attention, his hand still clutching his now reholstered pistol, face twisted in disgust.

“You will now tell me,” Taggarath said, stroking the stones lovingly, “how it was you defeated my attack.”

“It’s simple really,” Exander said, watching the colour swirling stones intently. “I am an Untouchable. I have no psychic presence in the warp.”

“Ah, you are of the soulless,” the Seer nodded astutely. “Now I understand.”

Thracken didn’t. Was this Untouchability the reason why the Farseer’s attack had failed? Was this what made Exander special? Not talent, not skill, not dedication, but because he was an abomination? The Interrogator’s mind whirled with a mix of relief and injustice.

Exander shrugged. “The ability is sufficient to aid my agenda.”

Taggarath’s face darkened. “That agenda being to defeat me?”

Exander shrugged again. “The agenda being to live long enough to test your powers. It was prudent to come in person.”

The Seer leaned back with a cynical smile. “Ah, and so the stars ignite. This is, I take it, where you ask me to consult the future? To peer through the mists of time and space and draw out possible futures?”

Exander smiled back. “It is indeed.”

“And afterwards you will leave this planet? Never to return?”

“If you tell me enough.” The Inquisitor said, making the threat respectfully clear. Taggarath made a gesture for Exander to continue. “Tell me, Farseer Taggarath; are you familiar with the Damocles Gulf Crusade raging two sectors away?”

“I have seen whispers of war, tasted the dance of death.” The Farseer replied.

“A yes or no would do,” Thracken growled.

“One of the rogue traders made mention of it.” The ancient Seer’s eyes twinkled with casual threat. “Though only briefly.”

Thracken’s lip twitched, he didn’t like where this was going. Exander didn’t seem bothered but here was an alien boasting about killing Imperial citizens. Imperial criminals yes, but no alien had the right to take the life of a man.

“Then perhaps you know of whom the Crusade is being fought against. What do you know of the Tau Empire?”

“Ah, a young, upstart race. An infant race. Naïve and foolish, but with the possibility of a prosperous future, should they prove to possess the ability to adapt,” Taggarath murmured like a grandfather speaking fondly of his children’s children. “I feel a strange protectiveness for them. They show so much promise.”

“Not if the Imperium has anything to do about it, witch,” Thracken growled stiffly. The Farseer gave him a look as if only just registering his presence and not being too pleased about it.

“The Tau have proven to be fatally expansionist, Taggarath. Something the Administratum will not tolerate,” the Inquisitor continued. “Our armies will wipe them from the face of the galaxy, proving the glory of Mankind.”

“Do you wish to know who will win the Crusade, Inquisitor?” The Farseer enquired casually, returning to the study of his stones.

One of the Inquisitor’s tiny black eyebrows went up, just slightly. “Who will win? I know that already, Farseer. The Tau Empire, no matter how advanced their tech-sorcery is, will not prevail over the hammer of the Imperium.”

“Ah, humans,” Taggarath sighed as if a teacher tiring with a troublesome student. “If ever there was a race more arrogant and self-assured they have long since fallen into near extinction.”

“Watch your tongue witch!” Thracken snarled, finger pointing. “The might of the Imperium is invincible! The Tau Empire will fall like every other enemy of the Throne; under the heels and treads of the Imperial Guard!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, mon keigh brute,” the Seer sniggered knowingly.

“Riddles and half-speak! Lies and heresy! This is madness Exander!” Thracken raged, both at his superior and the alien fiend, who seemed to be enjoying the outburst. “Which race do you see unflinching, unopposed, unchallenged? Which race do you see crushed beneath the weight of inexhaustible armies? Which race do you see extinct, Farseer?!”

“Both!” The Seer was at his feet in an instant, suddenly howling with a volume that shocked the Interrogator back a step, making the whole tomb shake. “It is simply a matter of when not how!”

Once more, lightening flashing from his fingertips. Exander jumped to his feet as well, his null rod clasped tightly in both hands, bionics hovering over his shoulders. The Farseer started to bellow, his body glowing with eerie blue light and voice echoing with raw power. “I have plotted the course of raindrops in thunderstorms a thousand years away! I have seen the death of stars in galaxies not yet born! I have communicated with alien empires long since turned to dust! I have seen the hunger of the Cosmic Predator sated on my own people! Heed my warning! Do not underestimate the length of my far-sight or by the wrath of dead gods your race will perish like all those before you!”

And then the lightening stopped, and so did the shaking and the Farseer settled back down. The spirit-stones continued to glow an empathetic indigo. This time Exander remained standing.

“A trick like that again, Farseer,” Exander said calmly. “And I will have my Interrogator shoot you.”

“No you will not, human. I have seen past this day, and know I live past it. You will not kill me, for I would have for-seen it. Your people will win the Crusade, Inquisitor,” Taggarath said almost solemnly. “And will perish because of it.”

Exander studied the Farseer in silence.

“You will leave this moon now.” The Seer stated.

“You haven’t answered my questions.” Exander snarled, his bionic twitching angrily.

“I’ve done better, I’ve warned you of the end of your race,” the Seer countered. “Perhaps it is too late to stop. Perhaps the waters that gorge canyons must run their course, perhaps the momentum of destiny is to strong for one man to halt. But you can try. Perhaps one day you will see the last of your race reduced to living out of a swamp.”

Exander didn’t move. “I need your far-sight, Taggarath,” he repeated quietly. “I will have it.”

“You dare threaten me?” Taggarath sneered. “I have seen my death a thousand times human and it is not by your hand. Will you have your mutant try to break my neck? I’ll enjoy putting the animal down.” He looked at Thracken. “Perhaps your righteous Interrogator will threaten me with his pistol? His itching to kill me. He is a volatile brute, little better then an orkoid. Easily goaded. Why does that rotten corpse you call an Emperor attract such fools to do his bidding?”

Thracken had drawn his pistol before even he knew he had. He clicked back the hammer and pointed it at the cackling alien. “No abomination lives that insults his purity!”

“Interrogator!” Exander snarled.

“No!” Thracken shouted back, positioning himself between the Inquisitor and the witch. He turned the pistol on Exander. “No more! It ends here. No more of this treachery. Heretics die before aliens.”

The Farseer cackled. “I saw this in my dreams!”

Exander smiled. “Strike three, Rufus.”

Thracken blinked.

Strike one.

Strike two.

Strike three.

Blink.

The words rung inside his head and stayed there. In an instant all his hate, dedication, faith, repugnance everything that made Rufus Thracken proud to be Rufus Thracken dissolved inside his head. His mind was purged of all shreds of personality but for the bare skeleton that made a man sane and functional, like a dataslate wiped clean of everything but its core programming. As the melting sensation swirled around his head some vague part of his subconscious tried to cling to the fleeting scraps of identity, but it was successful as trying to grope at a storm.

He blinked again. Then lowered his pistol.

“My lord,” said the infil-traitor without expression.

Exander sneered. “Subdue the alien.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Taggarath snarled, confusion obvious even in a face as alien as his.

Thracken swept round, his pistol raised and shot the alien in the chest. The pistol made a deafening crack in the confided space of the crypt thundering back behind them. Taggarath made a pained screech as he was flung against the sarcophagus, crashing into a heap on the floor. There was little blood. He’d been shot by a tranq-bolt rather then a hi-ex round.

Taggarath’s expression had turned into that of a cornered animal. “But I saw-”

“You saw what I wanted you to,” Exander explained matter-of-factly, his eyes narrow with victory, twirling his null rod in his hands like a showman. “You saw what a renegade alien seer would expect to see; a trigger-happy Imperial agent coming to put a bolt in your brain. But you saw something else too. You saw me not coming to kill you, and that got you curious.”

The Inquisitor stopped twirling his staff for a moment and pulled out a case from under his robes. He handed it to Thracken who opened it and pulled out a syringe loaded with anti-psychic suppressants, pulling off the stopper and cleaning out the needle with a few modest squirts.

“I consulted with the Inquisitor’s best mind-scholars on the nature of prescience before I started my hunt for you; in order to understand its limitations. Its blind-spots if you like. I knew I was hunting a prey that could see me coming, Taggarath,” Exander continued. “I knew I had to take extraordinary, eccentric precautions. So I right from the start I had my infil-traitor conditioned with exactly the sort of personality you would be expecting. For the fifteen months I have hunted you all you would see was me trying to convince my oh-so pure Interrogator that we shouldn’t kill you. That got you interested didn’t it?”

As he talked Thracken gave the Seer a savage kick and pressed a boot against his back, stabbing the needle into the creature’s neck. The Seer’s strength seemed to have disappeared. Meanwhile the Inquisitor crouched down and picked up one of the spirit-stone. The gems were raging wildly now, colours flaring between them as if enraged. Exander played with it in his gloved fingers; the stone seemed to flicker, like a glow-bulb struggling to stay active. Taggarath made a pathetic mewing noise. Exander tossed the stone aside. “When you saw those rogue traders and treasure hunters hunting you down it was easy to see what they wanted. To ransack, to kidnap, to plunder. When they arrived I doubt you even bothered to deal with them yourself, but had your exodites pick them off with arrows and ambushes. I couldn’t have that, I made you curious so you would meet me yourself, safe in the knowledge I did not come to kill you. And when you got bored you’d fry me with lightening, only that didn’t work out so well did it?”

Exander rose and carefully stepped over the spirit-stones. He stopped before the Farseer and raised his null rod.

“I’m not going to kill you Taggarath. I need you far-sight. The Damocles Gulf Crusade needs your far-sight,” he said with conviction. “And I will have it.”

The null rod hit the bewildered Farseer directly in the face. A pulse of anti-psychic energy discharged throughout the alien’s body causing him to spasm hideously and froth at the mouth. The rod nullified the witch’s psychic abilities for a while, knocking the beast unconscious.

Exander carried the Seer of Corrinto out of the tomb himself. His bionic snake-limbs cradled the alien’s slender form as they walked through the scene of a massacre. Thracken trailed just behind, sweeping his pistol from left to right as they walked towards the lander. The clearing was full of arrows and Eldar bodies. Some of the local buildings were burning or in a state of near destruction. The air was full of dust, weapon smoke and heat.

Exander’s retinue had created a box around the clearing with four teams of three firing at any Eldar that dared show themselves. The swamp was littered with the bloody remains of the natives. The death maiden crossed the clearing with a pistol in one hand and a chainsword in the other. The chainsword dripped with blood.

“Casualties, Meraluca?” Exander asked her as she fell in step with him.

“Tibberman got an arrow to the gut; Rax got some sort of toxin dart in the back. They’re on the shuttle now, the Doc’s looking at them,” Meraluca reported crisply. “Other then that just scratches. We don’t have enough men to purge the entire village but between Orgustos’s bolter and Ho’s plasma-gun we have the xenos under control.”

“Excellent, pure excellence,” Exander smiled. “Have two men gather the spirit-stones in the tomb. They might prove useful in keeping the Farseer compliant.”

The death maiden bowed and broke off, beginning to chatter into her vox-link. An arrow sailed past the Inquisitor’s face and was answered by a trio of deafening barks from Thracken’s pistol. Those shots weren’t tranq-darts. The situation was going just as Exander had planned sixteen long months ago. He boarded the shuttle, a smile on his corpse-like lips.

***

The hatch-door to the Inquisitor’s private observation gallery on the portside decks of the rogue Dauntless class scout Cruiser The Spiffy Gusto swung up; adjusting his cuffs Thracken stepped inside. “You wanted to see me, Inquisitor?”

Exander stood with his back to the infil-traitor, dressed now in a long black tunic, sipping fine wine from a crystal glass and staring through the wall-sized view ports at the moon of Groden below. From orbit the moon didn’t look so disgusting, in fact, it looked quite beautiful. Perhaps when the exodites first settled it the moon had been a paradise.

“Yes come in, Rufus,” Exander said from his position. Rufus Thracken wasn’t actually his name but it was tradition for him to adopt the name of his last personality, and it wasn’t as if he had his own name to return to anyway. “How does it feel to be you again?”

“Odd, my lord.” Thracken commented as he stood beside his master and joined him in staring out at the eternal void. He didn’t stand too close as the nearer he got to the Inquisitor the more Exander’s soullessness repulsed him. “Fine, but odd.”

Odd didn’t quite sum it up. Thracken didn’t know how to explain what it felt like to have a lifetime’s worth of memories, to be an entire someone for over a year and then no-one in an instant. How could he explain what it felt like to have power, dignity, pride and identity and then have it stolen away by a few triggered phrases? How could he explain what it felt like to be you when being you was being other people? How could he explain that to a man who didn’t even have a soul?

“I suppose it must be,” Exander said lightly. “I just wanted to check you hadn’t suffered any mental damage. Fifteen months with an implanted personality must have caused considerable strain. I just wanted to thank you personally. It would have been much more difficult to deceive the Farseer without you, but now we have him your services might not be needed for some time. You’ll have an ample recovery period.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thracken braced himself. “My lord… I have to say I’m not convinced dealing with the alien is a good idea. I know it’s not my place, but from what I can remember in the tomb he didn’t appear all that sane.”

Exander cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed? You’re sounding like Interrogator Thracken, Rufus, are you sure none of his charming personality has left its mark?”

Thracken wished it had. “No, my lord, I hope it hasn’t,” he lied. Any identity was better then being no-one.

Exander took a sip of his purple wine. “To be honest I doubt his sanity as well, but then again, he is an alien. The minds of creatures not human will never be understood by sane men, infil-traitor. He did seem slightly less together then the other Eldar I have encountered, but then he also seems a great deal older as well.”

“But if he is insane,” Thracken pressed. “Can anything he predicts be trusted?”

“I’ve been to see him several times since we left the surface. His still evasive, but a lot more docile and obedient now with the psychic-dampeners and the drug-inhibitors. The psykologists ran some probability and guessing tests with him, which he aced accordingly. His abilities are in little doubt, his obedience is assured as long as we keep him pliable, as for whether his insanity will taint anything he perceives… only time will tell.”

“What do you think made him insane?” Thracken inquired.

“He claims to have seen his Craftworld consumed by something called the Astral Behemoth, or the Great Devourer, or the Cosmic Predator. I know not of what he speaks, but perhaps it was enough to send him mad.” Exander took another ponderous sip of wine. “He also claims that the Imperium will win the Crusade, annihilate the Tau Empire, and suffer greatly for it at the hand of something much darker. I don’t know if he is being evasive, if his distorting the truth, or if he is simply lying. What I do know is that I will not let the Imperium suffer,” Exander vowed.

“So we return to the Crusade?”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor replied idly. “I’ll make my report to the Sub-Ordo, detailing my execution of the infamous Seer of Corrinto, present his, or rather a, Eldar body to the Inquisitor lords and enjoy the full power of an Inquisitor’s rosette. We’ll be close to the frontlines if not on them, Rufus. Despite a centuries preparation we know next to nothing about the tau. We will set up a research facility and see what we can learn about our new foe, and while we’re there pass off any important future events as enemy intelligence. The Crusade will be saved from any nasty surprises and I will enjoy the respect and favour of my peers. Praise be the God-Emperor!” Exander grinned and took a generous gulp of his liquor.

“Praise be indeed,” Thracken nodded. “If you’ll excuse me Inquisitor.”

Exander nodded and Thracken turned to leave. Before he reached the hatch however he stopped and turned. “Inquisitor, forgive me but… if the Seer is right, if winning the Crusade will doom the Imperium… what then?”

Inquisitor Lucien Exander turned and stared at the infil-traitor for a long silent moment, his eyes unreadable, pale face lit by the starlight across the void, before turning his back on Thracken. For a moment the infil-traitor thought the Inquisitor wasn’t going to answer, but then heard a whispered reply.

“Well, then I’ll have a Crusade to stop, won’t I?”

In the innermost sanctuary of the NorthKern fortress, a lone sound still could be heard. A ragged sound, the heavy breathing of a man. In the darkness, near the shattered glowglobe on the desk, a body still tried to cling to life. Starving, old, tired, it was slowly losing its battle, but it could resist a few more minutes. The mouth was trying to form words, a last prayer maybe, but only a croaking sound emerged. The left hand tightened on an autopistol.

Is a man already a man when he is, and always will be, alone?

Shakingly, the arm rose, to rest the barrel of the gun on the temple of the officer. With feeble strength, the right hand gripped the aquila sitting on the desk. A flare, and the gun thumped, smoking, on the carpet. Silence.

Is a man already a man, if his world lie within a little tribe, a few hundred fellows, without a true society?

In the corridors and rooms, in the bunkers and artillery platforms, others lay, all dead, their purple uniforms showing the dark stains of their blood. Tens, hundreds of bodies, an entire garrison, their death showing their fight. First outside on the walls then in the redoubts, a group in the internal bunkers, a few in the armory, some, the slower ones, haphazardly spread in the corridors… On the heavily scarred adamantine door the blood of a last group spoke of a final resistance to protect the retreat of the remaining officers. And in the sanctuary, five bodies. Two dead of hunger and thirst, two others having bled to death, and the last, slowly chilling.

The battle was weeks old, yet the five had not exited. As tough as they were, and even if they had resisted, the doors had still been too damaged to open again.

Is a man still a man when every single one of his kind has been slaughtered? Is he still a man if he is the last one alive?

As the last man on Henn Tertius died, the skies rumbled, heavy with black and purple clouds, heavy with alien taint. The fortress’ tale had been everyone’s tale. A bountiful world, rich in farms and prosperous, Henn had been in the Emperor’s light for centuries. There were orks to contend with, teeming in the southern continent’s forest, but they were held in check, never able to gain enough strength to be a real threat. NorthKern, EastKern, Seven Hills, Lerh’s rock and another half dozen fortresses had been the dam the green flow had never been able to break. Until…

Military denomination would have called it a splinter fleet. For Henn Tertius, it was only death. Though feeble in comparison with Tartarus or Behemoth, the hive fleet was too much for a lone world with no reinforcements. Upon hearing of the threat, the bulk of the army was gathered around the main cities, trying to buy time for an improbable rescue. The fortresses had been stripped of most of their soldiers, and in the third week of the conflict they started breaking under the renewed pressure of the greenskins. Even when the skies grew heavy with spore and alien microorganisms, the Orks didn’t care about Tyranids. Orks don’t care about anything, period. They live to fight everything and everyone, howling in glee until their foe lies dead on the ground.

Eastkern fell first under a frenzied assault of the green beasts. In the span of a few days the other golden runes disappeared from the central Officio Tactica, but no one paid them attention. At the same time around the cities all military units were frantically fighting to survive a chitinous horde, without hope. Five days later the last defense broke, and two more sunsets were enough to see every man but one, entombed in his fortress, wiped out from the surface of the planet.

Having eliminated the human threat, the Hive Mind tightened its hold on the planet. The conflict had lasted weeks, but it had yet to send a true army against the orks, for past experiences had taught it that humans would be the true dangerous foe. That was the Tyranids’ first mistake. In the already conquered territories chitinous towers were slowly growing, always higher, trying to reach the sky and deliver the planet’s resources to their masters. All the while chimney on their flanks kept belching spores and clouds of viruses, the same clouds that drifted down from the flanks of the Hive ships. That was the second and most tremendous mistake of the Hive.

The tyranids are on the apex of animals’ evolutionary tree. They have mastered the genome of countless races, including some older than themselves, as they encountered and slew eldars and humans alike. They have fabricated viruses that hasten the growth of plants so much that a planet’s resources will be consumed in a matter of months. Tyranids had encountered orks before, a few specimens on human-controlled worlds. A few… the fleet had used their genomes, yet its all-powerful mind had discarded something. A little information, a few genes that weren’t of interest for it.

As the hordes of the tyranids turned and converged south, the Hive concentrated on quickening the death of the planet, forgetting that orks are mainly plants. They are sexless, and grow from the ground, then spread their spores all throughout their lives. This is why the Imperium, for all its might, cannot entirely eradicate them from its worlds, for they grow again from the very ground they were killed on. That is why the same viruses that can make a tree grow two meters in a day will make an ork spore ripen in a few dozen hours.

What makes an ork truly an ork?

The ork territory had been only slowly expanding during the imperial’s demise. Apart from the fortresses there had been no human presence nearby, so the orks fought among themselves, growing ever more ferocious as their numbers soared. Conquest over an empty land means nothing to them ; only the fight itself does.

The first tyranid horde to reach the ork territory penetrated deep in it, going even past the fortresses’ line and dispatching every warring tribe it encountered. Then the orks realized they still had a powerful enemy and converged toward it. The tyranid army was shattered. From the decaying jungles thousands upon thousands of orks rushed toward the fight, toward the north and its war.

The second tyranid horde was destroyed in a matter of days, swept away by the tidal wave of green beasts and death. Then, the greenskins separated in two hordes : most went north toward the ex-imperial territories while the rest marched east in the direction of the great plains.

Is an ork already an ork when it is growing in mother earth’s womb, fed by its roots? Is an ork nature, rather than nurture?

Ragkar’s eyes opened, and it took its first breath. Instinct made him push and hit upwards with all its strength, and after a few moments there was a shower of dirt and light fell on its face. Its last withering roots snapping from its skins like twigs the ork grabbed the earth and pulled, emerging from its buried cocoon in time to see other clawed hands break the ground’s crust. Breathing heavily, Ragkar blinked until its eyes focused. Other, smaller holes spoke of the earlier birth of squigs and gretchins. Two squigs were still visible, fighting to the death over the corpse of some chitinous worm. The bigger squig had the smaller’s belly in its jaw, and dark blood bubbled around its gnashing teeth.

Ragkar looked around. Of the two dozens or so orks coming out of the ground, only one seemed bigger than it. Roaring, Ragkar scrambled and ran toward it, throwing itself on its foe before it could completely get out of the hole. Still dizzy, the other one stumbled and fell under the impact, falling halfway back in its earthy cocoon. The dazed ork managed to catch Ragkar’s neck in one of its paw, though, and despite the fact that Ragkar hammered its fist on its foe’s face the other kept its hold and started squeezing. Letting out a strangled roar, Ragkar hit it again, shattering a tusk, to no avail. Then Ragkar’s left hand clenched on a rock, and the fight was over. Its enemy’s head pulped beyond recognition, Ragkar howled in triumph. It looked around again in time to see another ork ready to strike, and ducked then sent it tumbling back with a swing on the maw. Ragkar howled again and glared at the assembling orks. Raising its gore-drenched fist, it roared : “Me ! Boss Ragkar ! Boss Ragkar !”.

Cowed, the other orks joined.

Is an ork already an ork when he follows a warband, a pack intent on blood and death?

Ragkar didn’t know why or how he knew it but he knew that it had to go north. Something smelled, felt like blood in the north. Thus they marched north. Sometimes trotting sometimes walking they advanced, crossing other warbands, fighting the weaker tribes until the enemy boss was killed and the other accepted Ragkar’s authority. Day after day they ran, killing and feeding upon squigs and gretchins alike, arming themselves with clubs and whatever they could find. Ragkar knew it had to go to the huge tower it could see far in the north. It smelled like war.

By that time, the Hive mind had realized and analyzed its mistake. Yet, if manipulating one beast’s genome to alter its capacities is easy, inversing a mechanism evolved and perfected over thousand of years is a huge task. Modifying an entire ecosystem is infinitely complex, and reversing its changes is even more so. The resources were simply lacking. Had it concentrated on the reversal, the Hive mind would have been unable to bring enough forces to defend its territories. The easier way, hard though it was, was to crush the orks themselves. Spores started raining again on the planet, bearing warriors and monsters in incalculable numbers.

Is an ork already an ork when he joins the bloodthirsty behemot that is a Waaagh?

Ragkar heaved and tore apart the claw-ended arm of one of its last victims. It tossed it to Geruk who caught it nimbly. Geruk had a knack for weapons. From the corpses of the last two encounters against the scaly-killa’ it had extracted and fashioned weapons for Ragkar’s band. Thanks to it Ragkar was now wearing bits of carapaces for armor and holding a great claw-studded maul.

Every encounter was the same. A great fiery stone would come and crash, and Ragkar’s band would run toward it looking for the fight. Fast and deadly scaly-killa would have been born from the stone and Ragkar’s band would destroy them. The foes were strong and fast and would kill more than a few orks, but it meant that those orks were weak. Ragkar’s band did not need weaklings.

Ragkar breathed deeply. It could smell the fury in the north, the great call. It did not know why, but there was something in the air that made him feel strong. Every ork was growing far faster than it should. The more orks fight the more they will gain strength and weight for such is their nature ; they revel in the fury of battle. Ragkar’s boyz fought often and fiercely but they still were growing too fast.
Ragkar did not truly know that. Instinctively it felt it. Yet it did not care. Ragkar was still the strongest and meanest. Only that mattered.

Two days later Ragkar’s mob crested a steep hill. The sounds of battle and number of bands they crossed had been rapidly increasing, but they no longer fought against the other orks. They all could feel the fury, the Waaagh that was the great battle not far in the north. Only this fight would satisfy them now. They saw the battle and ran howling to join the dance of Death.

Is an ork only an ork when it is plunged deep in the fires of battle, fighting and killing with its brethren as if it was merely an extension of the Waaagh?

The battle was one of those that created legends. No human had ever seen the like or would ever see it. Had one seen it, he would have fallen to his knees in despair, understanding the powerlessness of his race.

The front was tens of kilometers wide, and growing. And it was not the thing human called a front. It was a true one, a melee raging as far as the eye could see. No trenches, no redoubts, no bunkers. Blades against claws, eyes into eyes, one arm’s length away from death or victory. Streams, rivers of green brutes flowed toward it from the south, mirrored by the torrents of purple beasts crashing from the north. In the middle a sea of fighter howled and fought, bled and died. Waves and currents stormed and met, clashing in fury and oblivion. Nowhere was the ground in sight. Corpses covered it from end to end and rivers of blood serpented between them.

It never ceased. Born from the blood and fury a word appeared and permeated the orks’ minds. This was the true fight. This was the Everwar. There was no respite, there was no sleep, they were fueled by the rage and hatred and needed no rest. Living orks fed from the dead, pausing for a second to tear a few mouthful of meat from the nearest corpses. Some died burned by the poisons in the foes’ bodies. Some lived and fought on, and kept shedding their spores. From the rich blood-soaked soil some of these were even maturing. Trampled and trampled again they sometimes still ripened and bore new warriors directly into the fight.

The prize was the tower. Rising higher than the skies, it was the dreamed trophy of every ork. The one who would bring it down would be the boss, forever. It was not the first tower to fall for the east had been poorly defended at first and the orks there had been free to roam and destroy. Yet it was one of the few that had grown to mature size, and overhead the malevolent form of a Hive ship hovered raining warriors and death upon the fight.

Huge six limbed beasts fought and killed, carving a bloody path until they were swarmed and brought down. Here and there a more ferocious ork bigger than the others would lead a push and progress for a while, until it met a stronger enemy than itself.

And over the cries of pain and howls of rage, over the sound of limbs cracking and bodies breaking, over the detonations of living mines and crude firearms, drowning everything and reaching the skies to defy the Hive fleet, the unending roar of hundred of thousand, millions of throats merged into a single cry : WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!

Brute force against deadly intelligence, white-hot rage against cold calculation, opposing forces met and clashed. Deadlier and deadlier beasts rained from the skies as the Hive mind tried and adapted its warriors. Orks merely fought on, growing stronger and stronger until they were brought down. Only at the foot of this tower had the Hive slowed the orks to a standstill. Barely.

Is an ork still only an ork when it reigns over countless members of its kind?

Ragkar had been fighting for days now. It knew nothing of it, barely remembered anything at all other than the red haze of battle fury. Only the present mattered, the hack and slash, the barbed limb thrusting at him right now, the sound of its maul splintering chitin and bones… A brief lull in the fight and it looked farther than the few meters before it that were now its world. As in every moment it could spare it looked at the Boss. The only warboss there could be here. Skarzgrim.

It had been there nearly from the start. It had been the one to lead the original thrust north. It had lived and fought, never been killed, never slowed. Every ork saw him upon entering the battle, every ork felt and accepted its unearthly strength, accepted it as their boss. They all believed in it and all respected it. Skarzgrim had kept growing stronger and faster, strengthened by their belief, and towered over them like an ork over gretchins. It was the incarnation of fury.

Every ork is instinctively a psyker. Everyone of them has that bit of psychic energy that focuses on their belief This is what those that are born with more understanding of the warp, the Weirdboys, tap into. This is what strengthens everything they believe in.

Millions and more orks directly saw and believed in Skarzgrim. An ordinary Waaagh is spread over continents, planets, but here the same number of orks were crammed in a single plain. There were no intermediate bosses that would divert part of the psychic power in themselves, there was only the Warboss. Every ork added its bit to their leader’s strength. Topping five meters the Warboss moved faster than any of its foes and fought with two gigantic axes that a nob would barely be able to budge. Skarzgrim killed everything that dared oppose it with merciless ferocity, be they mere gaunts of even carnifexs. Psychic frost, the excess of power it couldn’t absorb, congealed in green ice on its arms and body, cracked and fell evaporating again as it moved, covering it with a mantle of green smoke.

Weirdboys were drawn to it like moths to a candle flame and were drowned in the power exuding from the boss. Their sanity in shreds, drooling and bleeding from inside they hurled crackling bolts of green energy deep in the enemy’s mass faster than the eye could see, bringing destruction in an epic scale. Then, burned by the power they died in a matter of hours but it mattered not ; they were replaced by new ones. The countless bioartilleries behind tyranid lines barely matched them in firepower.

Is there a limit to power? When you add on it ceaselessly, does it change into something else?

Every hour brought more fighters in the Everwar, faster than they could die. The front extended again and again swallowing hills and plains in a wave of death and fighting. The power going into the Warboss was unmatched on the planet. Or was it?

In the east the situation mirrored the north. Another bloodbath, another standstill, countless beasts from both sides intent on annihilating their enemies, another Waaagh hardly less extensive than the northern one. Another boss, Kurgarm, huge and mighty and followed by the same crowd of maddened psykers using the power it couldn’t. Another tower over which the fight had concentrated, another rain of clawed monstrosities. In a strange symmetry, as a gigantic carnifex reached Kargrum, in the north a tyranid prince nine meters high carved its way to Skarzgrim.

Two epic fights started simultaneously, two duel against giants amongst their own kind. This was an effort from the Hive Mind to break the orks’ spirit. Those two tyranid beasts were exceptional, of such complexity that even the Hive mind had to rely on luck to complete them. They were the only viable ones of hundreds of tries, the perfect ordering of genes, the one-in-a-million chances. Completing those two had been part randomness, and had succeeded at a huge cost in resources. But they were perfect.

Two fight exploded, two duels in which blows of tremendous force were traded in a split second. Four limbs cracked and whipped, armed with razor-edged blades streaming deadly poison, parried time and again by axes steaming from the acidic touch in the north, and adamantine hammer and three-meters monomolecular claws danced the dance of death in the east. For half an hour the fights continued with no victors, roars against hisses, fury against hatred, matching speed, strength and cunning, looking for a chink in the armor or a default in the parries.

Skarzgrim’s axes glowed. They were cracked and shattered yet held in one piece by sheer willpower, the cracks filled with a burning green energy. The Warboss evaded a burning gout of plasma that incinerated two dozen orks behind and slashed again and again, axes crashing against claws and armored, barbed fists.

Kargrum’s hammer shook the ground each time a missed blow fell, its foe forced to merely deflect its swings for fear it would destroy its claws. Another volley of poisoned needles shot from the tyranid’s torso and were mostly evaded, the few striking one having no more effect on the ork than bee stings.

It couldn’t last forever. One mistake, one stroke of luck would signify instant death. That luck was for the carnifex to exploit. A corpse unexpectedly gave way under the weight of Kargrum’s body and for a split second the ork was destabilized. The tyranid monster instantly attacked with renewed fury, frantically thrusting and slashing until the heavy hammer deviated from the perfect parry it had always presented. Kurgarm’s left hand shot in the air in a spray of blood, then in a few seconds both its arms were sliced to ribbons in a shower of gore. Its last defying roar died when a mighty claw split its head and half its body in two and in the next instant its entire body was turned to shreds.

The Waaagh faltered. For a second the orks hesitated. The boss was dead, the boss was not the strongest. The killa’ had been stronger. Their fury dimmed, and doubt started spreading as the scaly-killas intensified their attack. Yet they dimly knew something. Ideas travel amongst the orks in mysterious ways, and somehow they knew there was a Waaagh in the north too. They felt it, and they knew there was a boss there. A strong boss, stronger than Kargrum because Kargrum had died and the other had not. They didn’t know there was another duel, or even the name of the boss, but they knew that boss was strong. The killa’ hadn’t been able to beat it, so they could beat the killa’. Ork warcries rose again and melted in the burning voice of the Waaagh.

They fought with renewed vigor their beliefs now turned north. Suddenly a gale, a storm of psychic power, born from their minds, rushed north.

There is a joke circulating amid the human kind. How many orks does it take to screw a lightbulb?

Fast like the wind the power ran over the hills and dead forests, over the mountains. Invisible and intangible, yet more powerful than a thunderstorm it swept over the dead cities of humankind and the corpses of their warriors.

Humans laugh at that joke. How many orks… How many humans does it take to screw a light bulb?

The power howled around the broken towers the Hive had been unable to defend and over the countless corpses spread around them. It flew over newborn orks who suddenly looked at the sky with blood thumping at their ears and fury burning their veins.

How many humans does it take to make an Emperor? A god?

The power crested the last hill, the same one Ragkar had been on when it first saw the Everwar. Ragkar was dead now but the Everwar was not, the Warboss was not, and the power rushed toward it.

How many orks does it take to make a god?

With a clap of thunder the power crashed into the Warboss and filled its body and mind to bursting. Then it erupted around it, sending the tyranid monster flying into the air to crash limply on the tower, blasting a huge crater. Every Weirdboy around the boss died on the spot, brain fried under the surge of energy. Orks and tyranids alike were knocked back and thrown a hundred meters away, and when the Warboss let go an ear-splitting howl a pillar of light shot from its mouth and the sky rumbled in answer. Green lightning crackled from the ork’s body and the earth quaked under its mere presence, throwing everyone to the ground, and from the piles of corpses the mingled bloods burned and evaporated in red-black smoke.

The Warboss looked up.

The Hive mind knew fear.

Twice in history had such an event taken place, deep in the orks’ empires. Twice, in times long past, long forgotten, yet none had forgotten the names.

The first ork had been called Garuk. The second Makhull.

Gork, Mork… Sork ?

*

It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth, waiting for Gran Turismo 5 to come out. He is the master of mankind by the will of the Prophets, and master of a million worlds by the might of Andy Chambers (sob, come back Andy) and Jervis Johnson. I mean, JERVIS, for feth’s sake? That’s not even a real name, it sounds like something from Dungeons and Dragons, no offence.

The Emperor is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from technology invented during NoPoet’s forthcoming 20K series. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium (the Emperor, not NoPoet) for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die. We’re sure he is really happy about that.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance, if only to distract himself from the itching pang of his piles. Sitting in that throne all day long for 10,000 years has not done his buttocks any good.

Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by www.astronomican.com, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will*. Though how a 40K fansite aids space travel is a mystery to me – maybe there’s a hidden forum I haven’t found.

* At least, that’s how Brannick would describe it.

Vast armies give battle in his name (the Emperor, not Brannick) on uncounted worlds. Greatest among his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors, especially the Ultramarines. The Ultramarines have got some comrades and whatever, but they’re not as good.

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, including the Doomworld forum. These are the tales of those times. (40K, not Doomworld.)

Forget the power of technology and science, for those are explored in the upcoming 20K which I am not at all embarrassed to plug like this. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for the Gods of Chaos have properly buggered that up.

There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Unless it’s Christmas.

*

Imagine a beautiful house, decorated for Christmas in the devastatingly nostalgic Victorian style. A log fire crackles beneath an ornate mantelpiece, casting its warmth onto a scene of beauty. The Christmas tree looks like it was stolen from a Disney cartoon. Beneath it are presents piled higher than a nice version of Khalan-Gol.

There is restrained immaturity among people everywhere, an excitement in adults who for a brief period of time are allowed to become children once again. There is joy, optimism, a sense of hope and friendship, merriment and a shared love for all mankind.

And then there is what the Ultramarines are doing.

*

Brino Milo of the Tanith First-and-Only was singing as he helped Dick Bannerman decorate the Ultramarine mess hall. Banners and tassels hung depicting such glories as The Battle of the 2008 Pub Crawl, in which Marneus Calgar heroically drank two yards of ale and burped some of it up into a girl’s mouth, and the 8 Years of Calgar’s Barmy Army, during which Calgar himself had been slapped in the face by no less than four women and pointedly ignored by a Canoness.

“Christmas time, mistletoe and wine, pilgrims wasting the Emperor’s time, with logs down the toilet and piss on the seat, it’s -”

“Milo!” Bannerman snapped, crushing a wrestling ball in his rage. “Your singing voice reminds me of a Battle Sister having a clitorectomy. Can’t you stick to playing the pipes?”

“Not after what Flat-Head did with them,” the young Tanith replied, rubbing the seat of his trousers to soothe his tattered ring.

“I told you not to wake him up by blowing it in his ear!”

“He shouldn’t keep falling asleep during The Bill! Anyway, what really enraged him was the following morning, when I threw that glass of water in his face to clear his head.”

“Milo, that was his own urine! He’d woken up in the night needing to go, but he was too drunk to reach the toilet!”

“Still,” Milo mused, “the worst part was when he found out that we put dogger in his slippers.”

Bannerman retrieved another decoration from its box. “He always laughed about that before.”

“Yeah, but we normally use crap from a papillon. Where on Earth did you get that sackload of poo? It looked like it came from a Squiggoth.”

“In retrospect, it was a bit excessive to buy two kilograms of fertiliser from the Ogryn pen. I was drunk, what can I say?”

“I say stick the radio on. I still haven’t heard Slade yet. It’s not Christmas until Noddy Holder says so.”

The two men continued to decorate while all Cliff Richard’s five hundred Christmas songs played on every radio channel.

Milo trimmed the many photos of Calgar which hung on the walls. One of them had a pair of specs and a tash drawn in black felt-tip. Another was an obvious photoshop of Calgar beaming with pride as he shook the Primarch’s hand during the Seige of Terra. A last picture showed different types of Imperial ships through the ages. It had been hastily retconned to show an Endeavour class cruiser from 20K.

“I love this time of year,” Bannerman said with a sudden smile. “Christmas has always been a special occasion for the Ultramarines. Every year the devout Brothers would receive a smack round the ear and a Christmas dinner cooked by Calgar himself.”

“Still, the smack round the ear was nice,” Milo agreed.

“I hope he isn’t doing the dinner again this year.”

“He is, I feel it in my straight silver. I can already smell burning sprouts.”

“I know, and that turkey was a bloody disgrace!”

“I thought it was a chicken.”

“It was. That’s why it was a disgrace. We eat chicken every Saturday. He claimed the Ultramarine army budget didn’t stretch to a Christmas turkey, but really he’s saving up to get Gavriel’s squad another assault cannon. So there we were, eight hundred starving and pissed-up warriors, sitting round a small Morrisons chicken.”

“Not even that,” said Milo. “The worst part was how he used a melta-gun on wide beam to cook it. There were eight hundred starving and pissed-up warriors sitting around a burnt piece of carbon.”

“Indeed. Speaking of The Mighty Forehead, We’re nearly finished here, and he was supposed to be helping us decorate this year. Where has he got to?”

“You tell me,” said Milo. “You’re supposed to be his bodyguard.”

“Wait!” said Bannerman. “What was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

Bannerman looked across at the fireplace, which was dormant. There wasn’t any wood in Calgar’s Temple of Awesome, which doubled as the Ultramarine HQ; the only logs to be found were clogging the U-bend of Calgar’s personal bogatry.

“I’ve got advanced hearing, remember? I heard something coming from the chimney.”

Milo was about to say ‘Advanced hearing, or big ears?’, but then he remembered it was Christmas Eve (they had come back late from a mission which is why they were decorating so close to the big day) and the two men froze, staring at the fireplace.

“Is – is there someone up there?”

A trickle of soot fell down to cloud in the fireplace. Milo put his hands on Dick and the two men clutched one another fearfully.

“If you see a pair of black boots and red trouser legs, pretend to be asleep,” said Milo. “Otherwise he won’t leave our stuff.”

Dick looked at his watch. “It’s only half past five in the evening. What’s Santa doing here at this time?”

“Shh! Don’t call him that – you remember how Calgar went off last time.”

“Sorry. What’s Father Christmas doing here at this time? I thought he only came out at midnight or something.”

Another trickle of dust spilled down. The pair backed away, still hanging onto each others’ arms.

“He’s got the whole galaxy to do, remember?” Milo whispered. “He probably had to start early.”

Suddenly there was a loud banging, followed by a scraping sound that grew louder every moment. A male voice roared, getting louder as whoever it was came down the chimney.

“It’s him!” Milo yelled. “It’s Father Christmas, and he’s falling to his death down our chimney!”

“God-Emperor! Our presents! Quick, Milo, if Father Chrimbo bites the big one, we’ll never get any presents again. Sacrifice your life to break his fall!”

Dick grabbed Milo and flung him into the fireplace, where the highly valuable Imperial Guard pipe-player with intermittent psychic powers cringed beneath his doom. A cascade of soot avalanched onto him, followed by the bloated form of a fat man in a big suit, painted black with grime. The man must have weighed four hundred kilograms what with all the spare tyres flapping around his manly area, yet Milo was saved as the great weight simply creased his forehead like one of the many near-misses survived by Tanith main characters.

“SACRED FETH, IT’S FATHER CHRISTMAS!” Dick cried.

Then the fat figure sneezed and soot cascaded from him, revealing a powerfully meaty and somewhat shocked face that was depressingly familiar.

“Where?” said Marneus Calgar. “And how did he get past me?”

*

While Calgar dried himself off after a hot shower, Milo said to Bannerman, “How come he’s taking this Christmas stuff so seriously? Setting up a watch for Father Christmas. Building radar stations tuned to detect reindeer. We’d be better off using those resources to fight the enemies of Mankind. Calgar once told me Christmas was a humbug.”

“That’s before he realised we got presents, young Tanith.”

Calgar stomped into the room with a towel wrapped round his head like a turban.

“Sir,” said Bannerman, “why do you always do that? Your hair is thinner than the edge of a Tanith blade.”

“Stop confusing me with all these questions!” Calgar snapped. “I feel like I’m on Mastermind.”

“I take it you’re in a bad mood today, sir,” Milo said.

“You’re right, little skinny wretch-person. I’ve been up that chimney for three hours and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Father Christmas. I’m sure he’s forgotten me… I mean us.”

“You’re being paranoid, sir,” said Dick. “You’ve been a good boy all year. Apart from the incident with the goose, of course, but anyone can make a… er… mistake.”

This cheered Calgar up immensely. “Wow, look at all these decorations! You two did a right job. I will give you both an extra 5 points to spend on wargear from now on.”

The other two exchanged glances.

Cheers, Milo sent telepathically. Don’t buy us a tank or anything.

“I heard that, you sarcastic twat. Go and clean the toilets out again. I want to see my face reflected from the bottom of the bowls. Oh, and Brother Dolum left extra skids.”

Brinny-boy looked sick. Dolum was the Ultramarines’ answer to Space Marine Cliche #44: Tactical Brother Who Is So Muscular He Needs To Wear Modified Terminator Armour. He could push out a turd and a half.

As Milo left, snivelling, Calgar said to Dick:

“Come on then, let’s see your nuts!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Dick said, recoiling. “I know living together as warrior-monks causes certain… strains, but this is blasphemy!”

“Your chestnuts. You said you were roasting chestnuts.”

“Oh, those nuts. Thank our Primarch and his unspellable, unpronounceable name! I’ll go and get my flamer.”

The banner bearer scurried off. Calgar went to a wall speaker and switched it on. His authoritative voice boomed throughout the Ultramarine base.

“Anyone who wants to try Dick’s hot, salty nuts should queue up outside the mess hall, near the men’s toilets. I’ve gobbled Dick’s nuts before and believe me, when you roll them around on your tongue they seem to explode in your mouth. Calgar out.”

In the Reclusiam, Chaplain Derrik looked at the wall mounted speaker and began to sweat.

“Primarch, show me the way and allow me to resist the temptations of the daemon banner-bearer!”

“And what in the name of fethery is Cliff doing on the radio? Get him off immediately before he ruins my entire life! Not day, not week, not Christmas — my life! Have Slade been on yet?”

*

Calgar, Dick and Milo were relaxing in front of the telly with a bowl of chestnuts each. It was Christmas, and they were watching a British channel, which inevitably meant that “The Spy Who Loved Me”, which was just starting, would be followed by something like “Star Trek 6: The Undiscovered Country”. Dick had advised his Chapter Master against watching these films, given how many nightmares he’d had after seeing the angry Lion king in Bedknobs and Broomsticks, but the Ultramarine leader was having none of it.

“Dick, sometimes you really live up to your name.”

“My name’s Dick Bannerman, sir. I live up to my name every day. I carry the flag.”

“Sod the flag. This is James Bond. Anyone remotely English has to watch a Bond film at Christmas, no matter how crap most of them are. Stop putting me off, he’s about to sock it to the bloody Russkies.”

“Are the Space Wolves in it then?” Milo asked, confused.

“He means the Russians,” Dick explained.

“Oh. Who were they?”

“Well, the only records from that time tend to either be purely American efforts, or films made by the British who had to rely on American funding because the British Government was wasting all the country’s money buying secret second homes. The Russians, according to this propaganda, were evildoers who liked to die in droves. A bit like a less scary version of the Blood Pact.”

“Ah. Like the Scriven?”

“The who?” said Calgar.

“This is going to go on all night,” Dick grumbled. “Let’s just watch the film. It’s crap but it’s better than listening to you two all night.”

The Spy Who Inspected My Gadgets rolled on, following the normal formula of dead Russians and women who only got into the film industry because they were good-looking and/or had shagged the director.

“You know what?” Calgar said. “Listening to Cliff Richard has permanently destroyed my sex drive. I’ve got this urge to become a born-again virgin. Have we got any white altar boy outfits for me to wear from now on?”

“Oh to be in the trenches again,” Milo muttered, as Dick coughed politely to cover his embarrassment.

While James Bond was ordering vodka-martini number 25 and getting ready to shag yet another random woman in a bikini, Marneus Calgar scooped a handful of chestnuts into his mouth. Unfortunately, as he chewed them, Calgar realised that he didn’t actually like chestnuts.  Another man might have politely spat them into a napkin but Calgar, true to form, opened his mouth in a retch and let the chewed-up food fall out.

Milo and Bannerman both leapt up, tipping their own bowls all over the floor. Chestnuts rolled under the settee.

“What have you done to these, you idiot?” Calgar reprimanded his standard bearer. “They’re bloody horrible.”

“That’s because you forgot to take them out of their shells, sir.”

“Oh. Er… yeah, whatever. You could have peeled them for the Leader of the Ultramarines.”

Within half an hour – during which Calgar said “How long is it until we open our presents” no less than eight times – all three of our main characters were dozing in front of the telly while James Bond had his four hundredth car chase. If driving dangerously is so bad, how come Bond has so many car chases without killing a single ordinary person?

Meanwhile, Calgar woke everyone with a fart that can only be described as elephantine.

“Sorry lads,” said Calgar, wafting the air with one of his oversized hands.

“Another unwanted gift from the Chapter Master,” Milo muttered.

“That’s a point,” Calgar said. “I can’t wait to see your faces when you see what I’ve got you.”

“Presumably, sir, they won’t be the same faces we made last year, when you didn’t get us anything at all.”

“I did! I bought you a chocolate orange. It’s not my fault that it smashed into a million pieces when I tried playing cricket with it.”

“Well what did you do it for, sir?”

“Some theories must be tested, Number Two. Some theories must be tested.”

Milo and Bannerman exchanged startled glances.

“Well, anyway, Lord Calgar,” said Milo, “the point is that we’ve been together for eight years now and in that time you’ve bought us one chocolate orange – which you promptly batted through the ancient Reclusiam window – and a copy of Penthouse magazine with some of the pages mysteriously stuck together.”

“You ungrateful sods!” Calgar gasped. “What about the time I promoted Dick to flag-carrier after my first fifteen choices all developed sudden allergies to wood? I bought him a beautiful flying Space-Mercedes!”

“The one you immediately borrowed to go on a date in, sir?”

“I brought it back.”

“Correction, sir, you brought the steering wheel back. The rest of my car is still wrapped around that tree.”

“Yes,” Calgar admitted. “And we never did find my lady-friend’s head. I’m sure I saw it fly into those bushes.”

At this point Milo went for a poo, leaving the Ultramarines alone on the settee.

“Chestnuts always put his system into reboot,” Bannerman observed.

“How long is it til Christmas Day?” Calgar said.

“God-Emperor on a Battle Sister’s lap,” Dick complained, forgetting himself. “The time isn’t going to magically go faster if you keep asking every five minutes, sir!”

“Well, can’t you just tell me how many hours until we open our prezzies?”

“Nine hours! Same as before Milo went for a shit! We get up no earlier than oh seven hundred! It’s what we’ve been doing for the last seven Christmases, sir!”

Calgar folded his arms and crossed his legs. “I knew I should have appointed Brother Sestian to be the banner bearer. I don’t care how much of a hernia he gets from carrying flags. He always gives good news to his superiors.”

“That’s as maybe sir, but as far as I know, Brother Sestian can’t manipulate the flow of time. I also think he died fighting Waagh Norgrund. Either way, you’re bollocksed. You’ll just have to wait like the rest of us.”

“I bet Tigurius could do something.”

“I don’t see how snooping on the Tyranid collective would make Christmas morning arrive sooner, sir. Besides, the Orks got Tigurius as well. Don’t you ever read White Dwarf battle reports?”

The toilet flushed and Milo came into the room, wafting the air behind him.

“I wouldn’t go in there without a set of flugs,” the young soldier grinned.

“Is it time for bed yet?” Calgar asked Dick, ignoring Milo altogether.

“Feth’s sake, Lord!” snapped Dick. “If it’ll shut you up, yes, let’s go to bed. You won’t keep waking me up every half an hour like you normally do, will you?”

Calgar began to sulk. “Not if it offends you so badly, Number Two, no I won’t wake you up. I’ll let you sleep all through bloody Christmas and I’ll have to open your presents.”

*

Hours later, Milo, Calgar and Bannerman were all lying in the same bed like men used to do in old British sitcoms before it suddenly became “wrong” for men to do this.

The lights were out and all three men had their eyes shut. In fact, Milo and Bannerman were snoring gently.

Calgar, however, couldn’t sleep. Excitement boiled in both his stomachs, giving him double-heartburn. Fortunately his enhanced metabolism was able to deal with this by increasing the rate and potency of Calgar’s flatulence.

That’s right, there are still plenty of fart jokes to give vent to.

There was a roiling bubble sound from Calgar’s guts, then the Hero of Macragge pulsed out a burping, eye-watering fart of beefy content. It shook the mattress. Calgar grunted with satisfaction.

“That one’s a rippler,” he chuckled to himself. “Ooh, steak and onion!”

“Emperor’s hairy trouser-hammock!” cried Bannerman as he snapped to wakefulness. “We’re being bombarded from orbit!”

Milo was deeply asleep. His hand began to absently scratch at his nostrils. “Jareth… I only shagged her once, I don’t want to be Prince of the Land of Stench,” he murmured.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Calgar observed. “How many hours is it til we open presents?”

“Oh sir, for feth’s sake! It’s two in the morning, we aren’t opening presents for five hours! What did you wake me up for?”

“I can’t sleep, Number Two. I’m too excited. How do you think Father Christmas manages it?”

“Manages what, sir? There aren’t too many details about his sex life.”

“Not that! God-Emperor, I saw Santa Cl- er, I mean Father Christmas The Movie. His wife’s a trout and no mistake. He’s a cert for the old knuckle tussle.”

“Sir, you farted me to consciousness for this? We’ve been campaigning against the Tau for eight years, I’m bloody knackered, please allow me more than twenty minutes’ kip.”

“I was just wondering how he delivers presents across the entire galaxy in the space of one night.”

“He has fast reindeer who know the Webway. Can we go to sleep now sir?”

“Listen, Number Two, I’m worried he missed Macragge out of his whistlestop tour of the Imperium. I want to have a look downstairs.”

“Sir, you can’t do that. I’m as flatulent as anyone to get down there and open my prezzies, but if we time it wrong and Big Red Flying Hood catches us, we’re sure to be branded naughty boys.”

“Bugger it!” Calgar complained, thumping the covers and managing to hit Milo in the gentleman’s region. The ‘Tanith hussy’ sat up with a falsetto cry.

“Milo,” Calgar ordered, “go downstairs and see if Father Christmas has been. Report back on everything you learn.”

“What, now?” Milo said miserably. “It’s the middle of the night, it’s freezing down there!”

“Just get down there!”

Milo glanced at Dick, who remained rigid. No support there.

“Feth it!” Milo swung his skinny legs out of bed. The Ultramarines with their enhanced eyesight made sport of Milo’s boxers as the moonlight fell on them.

“Wahey!” grinned Calgar. “Like the love hearts! Oh fething hell, you haven’t written SABBAT in every single one, have you? That’s just sad.”

“Where is the Saint, anyway?” Dick asked. “She is a major element in 40K and she disappeared without trace.”

“It’s a long story,” said Milo. “I’m sure Mr Abnett will pull it out of his bum in a few books’ time.”

*

Milo sneaked down the darkened stairway to the mess hall where everyone’s presents should be waiting. He was on tenterhooks – whatever they are. Less than twenty feet away, behind a single door, was a sight that everyone had been waiting 365 days to see. Should he even be doing this? It felt wrong to be sneaking a look before the proper time.

He reached the door and gently pushed it open. It creaked like an old woman’s love flaps. Milo glanced into the room beyond.

The Christmas tree was a silhouette rising in the dark. Shadowy forms were piled across the floor and on the tables.

“Wow,” Milo breathed. “Computer, activate lights.”

The ancient cogitator mis-heard him and activated the tree lights rather than the primary lights. Milo witnessed a little piece of magic. Wrapping paper shone in the gentle light. It felt like the Tanith warrior was a little boy again, having just left his mother’s nourishing teat. How old would he have been – nine or ten maybe?

The Ultramarine Christmas tree was a proper one. Multicoloured lights, not the boring plain yellow you see on most trees. (Apologies if your tree is decked with boring plain yellow lights – just get a coloured set, you’ll be much happier.)

Milo spent a few minutes searching and found his pile of gifts. His hands were trembling – he’d been on about a PS3 all year despite Calgar’s grumblings that it was an “inferior and overpriced Xbox wannabe that needs longer to load its games than a Commodore 64″. Suddenly he found himself doing something that would get him on next year’s Naughty List – he tore his main present open in a frenzy. Milo hated people who unwrapped things slowly and neatly.

“What the feth is THIS??” he exclaimed.

*

Christmas morning, and the Ultramarines had torn the wrapping from their presents in a flurry of overpriced non-reusable paper. Everyone was happy apart from Calgar, Milo and Bannerman.

“A bloody Commodore 16!” Milo yelled. “This was obsolete when Logan Grimnar was a pup!
What happened to my PS3?”

“What PS3?” Calgar defended himself. “You don’t expect me to spend all that money on a Blue-Ray player with game support? Old school, my boy, old school. Remember your roots. I learned to play the Commodore when I was three. It’s a classic piece of hardware.”

“But you didn’t get me any games! Or a joystick! Or even an aerial!”

“That’s what Ebay is for, you tight sod. You can’t expect me to buy you everything. Shall I get you a retirement home as well?”

Milo stormed off.

“Get that little bitch,” Calgar said in a huff. “Well, Number Two, how do you like your present?”

“Er… hmm,” Dick said, looking at the signed photo of Marneus Calgar balancing upside down on one finger atop a Rhino. “Your experience with photoshop is definitely improving.”

“That’s not a photoshop. It’s real!”

“Then why is there a squad of Heresy-era Titans lumbering behind you? And isn’t that the Imperial Palace in the background?”

“Nonsense, Number Two. Now where’s my present, you ungrateful so-and-so?”

“You’ll see, sir,” Dick smirked. “You’ll see.”

*

That night, Dick and Milo were looking gloomily at one another from their prison cells.

“You actually saw him shit his pants?” said Milo.

“My uber-eyesight detected a spreading brown stain.”

“Marneus Calgar actually crapped his pants in front of the entire Ultramarine Chapter.”

“Indeed.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have got Geri Halliwell to burst out of the Christmas Pudding wearing insultingly tacky Union Jack underwear and singing her bloody awful songs.”

The prison door opened with a creak. Calgar’s heavy footfalls came closer, then the leader was there. Flies trailed him, trying to land on his backside.

“I’ve just been informed that the Tau are probing our defences along the Cattrian border. We need volunteers for a forlorn hope mission to kick their heads in. So you see, I did find you a way to escape the death sentence for making me shit my kegs. Oh, and lads… MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW MILLENNIUM!”

It was already past midnight when Interrogator Malik Joon arrived at the House called Evermont. The bright beams of the limousine’s headlights swept across the tall hive mansion.

The Evermont lurked behind leafless trees, implanted long ago to add colour to the oppressive High Gothic architecture of the large, rambling buildings. Joon thought it looked typical of the sort of hab-houses you might find nestled into the mid-hives, full of the character the middle classes exude into their homes. He didn’t need to be a psyker to sense the mix of snobbery imbedded in the very rockcrete, as if the buildings wedged between the upper and the lower hives found themselves disdainful of one class and resentful of the other.

A faint light gleamed from the walk-level lamps as the private car swung into the drive past two deactivated servitor-sentries guarding the Evermont’s approach, their flesh slowly decaying with disuse.

Joon waited for the driver to open his door before stepping into the cold, filter-recycled air of the hive-street and looking with his own eyes upon the face of the mansion.

The driver informed him his equipment had already been delivered, so the Interrogator thanked him and told him to wait. It had been a long drive from the space-port, and he was keen to stretch his legs.

He used his rosette at the House doors to announce his arrival. The door-scanner whined as it read his identity, and the Interrogator wondered whether the machine-spirit was having a hard-time remembering when last someone with so much authority had visited. He fancied decades.

With a groan of unlocking servos the blast-doors opened and Joon stepped inside. He walked upon an endless sea of chessboard tiles, the black and white marble stretching across the grand foyer. A crystal chandelier dangled from the domed ceiling, casting dim candlelight across the hall, like starlight across a void. Joon watched it sparkle with demure delight as he wandering inside, the doors shutting behind him with a hydraulic hiss.

Footsteps echoed from above and he looked up to the see the figure of Madam Swanson, the Evermont’s ancient Chamberlain marching down the stairs towards him. One hand sliding down the banister, the other holding the hem of her black and white uniform dress, with a high-collared blouse and simple pearl earrings. She was an old women, her face wizen and her short hair grey. Even though she smiled slightly as she came before him in greeting he noticed the fear and worry in her aging eyes.

“Madam Swanson, I presume,” the Interrogator bowed warmly. “Interrogator Malik Joon, acting for Inquisitor Morrfax. Sorry I’m so late; the shuttle took longer then was expected.”

“Oh Interrogator, I’m so relieved Lord Morrfax sent you. Though it feels like an age since Morrfax and Lord Evermund parted ways, I was dubious as to whether your master would respond to his last wish.”

“I understand it was in Lord Evermund’s last will and testament that my master should tend to the matters forsaking this fine house, but he felt it was better I attended instead,” Joon commented solemnly as they stood in the foyer, his arms clasped behind his back. “My master was saddened to hear of Lord Evermund’s passing. From what I can gather they did not part on the best of terms, something he deeply regrets. But with such terrible memories under its threshold, Morrfax feels he cannot set foot inside this house. Which is why he chose to send me rather then attend himself.”

“Oh, I’m sure your more then adequate to deal with the… with the issue at hand. And indeed, lord Evermund’s passing was a great shame. I fear it was his own grief that shortened his life in the end,” Madam Swanson sighed, studying the Interrogator. Storm-grey eyes looked with curiosity at the Interrogator’s well-built frame, his aristocratic poise and handsome, bald headed and dark skinned face. In a long black greatcoat and buttoned tunic he looked just like his master, the great and venerable Inquisitor Morrfax, long-standing friend of the Evermund family. “I’m afraid I must leave almost immediately. With the last of the Evermunds dead I must oversee the distribution of their estate. You’ll be alright by yourself?”

Joon chuckled and began to stroll past the chamberlain into the centre of the foyer. “I wouldn’t be a very good Interrogator if I was scared of an old house now, would I? Even a house with such nefarious secrets…”

“No I suppose not… especially being one of the few who know its secrets. I’d thought of exorcism, but you know the Ecclesiarchy, we don’t want that sort of stain on the family history.”

“Of course, my master stressed every respect was to be paid to the House of the Evermund family…” Joon’s voice drifted away with every step deeper into the house. He hadn’t noticed when he’d first arrived but the house almost seemed to hum with emotion.

It was cold in the foyer; the generators had been deactivated months ago. Stacks of furniture and family trinkets stood wrapped, boxed and packaged in the corners, ready to be taken away and split between whatever families still bared some distant relation to the Evermunds.

“This place is a bit of a maze,” Madam Swanson said, stepping past him to lead the way. “I’ve just time to show you around.”

A passage branched off to the right, turned left into a large bare room, stacked with unhung paintings, boxes of old books and continuing again as a corridor. Swanson picked up an old lantern-skull as they went.

“Your equipments all set up. I had the servitors place the candles as per your instructions before they left.”

Swanson retraced her steps to the entrance foyer. “All servants and servitors are gone, all doors and shutters are locked. There’s a vault downstairs, though no ones been in there for decades.”

They went up the wide, sweeping staircase. At the top was an open door leading to other rooms, and a passageway branching off to the right.

“You can walk right round on this floor,” the chamberlain said. “All the rooms are connected.”

Joon mentally memorised the layout of the house, building a map in his head. Even in its dereliction Evermont was a handsome house, oozing personality, but there was also the ever present sense of madness and grief that stained the place, sapping its splendid spirit.

He followed the chamberlain along a passage that went up a short flight of steps and down again, through an L-shaped room that ended in another corridor.

Finally they arrived at the end of a branch passage and the bottom of a steep flight of steps that angled off to the right.

Swanson paused. “I’m not sure what to believe myself, but Lord Evermont spent most his time up here. He used to lock himself inside. Sometimes… sometimes you could hear him screaming. Once the Warden of the Guard had to break down the door to get to him. They say he was a wreck of a man, they saw he saw things.”

Joon peered up the wooden staircase as Swanson brandished her lantern before her. “What’s up there?”

“The observatory. Master Evermund spent months up here by himself. He was quite the recluse by the end. Half mad with grief, the poor man. Much of his most treasured possessions are stored up there. He and his daughter used to watch the stars come out in happier times, before the death of her mother, and her, well her…” Swanson’s tone of voice was grave, and her eyes wet. “That’s the most affected place. Servants said they see things up there. Hear things. It’s where I had your equipment set up.”

“Thank you Madam Swanson, that was most wise of you. My abilities will be more efficient in the most affected locations. I’m sure my mind will get to the bottom of the matter,” the Interrogator said earnestly.

The Chamberlain gasped. “So you yourself are a psyker, interrogator?”

“Indeed, I thought I made that clear in my earlier communiqué,” Joon shrugged. “One of the reasons the Inquisitor sent me was because of my empathetic abilities. Morrfax is not a psyker himself you see.”

His voice dropped to a murmur, as if he were speaking more to himself then to the chamberlain. “I do feel a presence here though, something dark and brooding. Something not alive or truly dead.”

Swanson looked nervous. “I’ve got to run. Do be careful, young Interrogator.”

“I’m curious,” Joon said quickly. “Morrfax never told me. The last time he and Evermund met here, what happened?”

Swanson signed heavily. “That’s where it all happened, master Joon. After the death of her mother, Evermund’s daughter Marietta became a somewhat deranged child. Lord Evermund couldn’t control her; she was cursed with wild mood swings, hallucinations, personality disorders and long death-like trances. She started cavorting with undesirables and associating with less then well-to-do people. When she was sane she cared only for the next thrill and the sating of her latest whim. Evermund thought she was possessed. Possessed, master Joon, possessed by the warp!”

“Go on,” Joon ushered eagerly.

“Well he couldn’t go to the Ecclesiarchy, because you know what they’re like, so he sent for dear Inquisitor Morrfax, his old friend. When Morrfax arrived he told Evermund his daughter was a witch, and that only death would save her soul. Well the thought of losing his daughter after his wife was too much for him to take, so instead he locked Lady Marietta in the observatory. They say while she was locked up she went even more insane, they say she screamed her very soul into the walls, and that something in that room is still haunted by the strength of her own vanity.

“Eventually of course Morrfax realised Evermund could never kill his own child, so the Inquisitor tried to exorcise the girl himself. Ultimately he was forced to banish her very soul from her body, and to all accounts she died. After that Lord Evermund was a shell of a man, and he and Morrfax never spoke again.”

Joon thanked her for the information and she passed him the key to the observatory and went to wait by the limousine. Alone in the house, the Interrogator unlocked the observatory and swept inside, checking the shutters were locked.

The observatory was a dusty old attic half full with boxes of ancient old junk, including a range of old telescopes suspended on tripods, once used to study the stars, an ancient piano and a half-wrapped, man-sized, cracked mirror.

His equipment was already arranged. A line of psychoactive candles bordered the room, which he went around lighting with a golden igniter. A stack of much larger candles were set up as rough points in a hexagon in the middle of the attic, and Joon spent a few minutes sprinkling a tube of holy water and dabbing an aquilia across the floorboards with marrow chalk. He took a bag from his belt and scattered the finger bones of Saint Julius across the hexagon, then positioned careful the skulls of Saint Judeus and Saint Yokenco.

Soon the attic was full of the heady sent of frankincense and rosethorn, and Joon felt his mind open up like the petals of a flower.

He then powered up the vox-recorders and psychic-amplifiers, checking the machine-spirits weren’t idle before opening the most important part of his tools. Unlocking the null-field cylinder, he deactivated the archaic device and took out the spherical, organic object inside.

Alien to most planets, it was an edible fruit called an apple, and was the key ingredient to many a psychic ritual.

Pulling up a dusty old chair Joon took a large bit of the exotic fruit and let his mind soar. Relaxed in his chair he chewed and listened to the sounds of the house; the creaking of the flakboard and the crack of rusted pipes, and the rattle of the shutters.

Suddenly he sat up straight in his chair, sniffing the air. He put down the apple and stepped down the stairs into the passage. No, he hadn’t imagined it; he could smell a woman’s perfume above the aroma of the incense. In the passage it appeared stronger. There was something subtle about the scent, something coy and playful.

Malik Joon moved along the creaking corridor, opening doors to make sure each room was empty. He ended up back in the main hallway. Here the perfume was almost overwhelming, saturating the recycled-air.

He stared down the wide, curving staircase; in the bend he thought he detected something silver, some slight suggestion of a shape. But he couldn’t be sure.

As he placed a foot on the step, the perfume vanished. His ears caught a soft laugh, so soft he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t imagined it.

Then there was nothing; no perfume, no hint of movement or form, nor laughter. He reached out with his mind for a moment, touching the walls with his consciousness, then darted quickly down the stairs and into the foyer. He found no one.

Malik intoned a prayer of thanks to the God-Emperor. He was sure he had a duty to complete now.

He stepped out of the house and into the driveway, where the Chamberlain sat in the limousine.

“Did you sense a presence?” She asked as she unwound the window.

“Oh yes, there’s something there.”

Swanson swallowed. “Then you’ll be able to do something?”

“Perhaps,” Malik commented cautiously. “It all depends whether the spirit wants my help. I’ll be staying overnight at any rate, this is just too intriguing. Anyway, you should go. The driver will take you anywhere you wish.”

“Thank you, Interrogator. I’ll return in the early hours to see how you’ve progressed.”

After the car left, Malik rearranged his vox-recorders at the top and bottom of the main staircase. He picked up his apple and placed his chair in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs.

The hours placed slowly before the laugh was repeated. Malik was alert immediately. He rose from his seat and wandered cautiously to the foot of the stairs. The soft laughter came from again from somewhere above, and he heard the tapping of high-heeled shoes going up.

And still he neither saw nor felt no one. The flesh of his bald scalp tightened as the tapping receded.

Malik found he had to intone another prayer before he had the strength to go up, but finally he forced himself to the top of the stairs.

He looked down the branch passage to his right and, at the far end, glimpsed a wraithlike figure. It was the translucent form of a girl of a about seventeen or eighteen, the wall clearly visible behind her. He hurried forward, and the image vanished as if she had been little more then a swirl of obscura-smoke.

Malik studied the walls carefully. The traces of psychoactive ice coated the flaking wallpaper. He went back to the stairway and re-ran his tapes; the laughter and the sound of high-heels were there, faint but recorded.

The Interrogator patrolled the building in its entirety before taking up his post on the first floor, near the point where the ghost had first vanished. Nothing happened for another few long hours. Evermont groaned and creaked as he slouched in his chair.

He came too, startled, as a feminine voice whispered in his ear. “Soon…soon, now…”

His psychic defences were up in heartbeat and the voice vanished. Joon was completely alert now. The leftover psychic imprint of an emotionally deranged girl was one thing, but a cognitive, self-aware entity was something else entirely. The Interrogator began to entertain the idea he might be dealing with something more dangerous then he had expected.

He felt cold and stiff, but adrenaline seared down his veins. He glimpsed the wraith girl, distant, along the passage to the left. He rose and moved towards her. The image lingered as if waiting for him, then retreated with the familiar tapping behind it, to the foot of the staircase leading to the observatory. She seemed more real then before.

Her lips moved as if she was talking to him, but his mental defences were up now, and he wouldn’t let her in.

She went up the steep narrow stairs, reached the top and paused to look down at him. As Joon stared up at her, she disappeared.

He went up, holding the banister tight as he rose. He re-entered the observatory. He pondered whether the girl had led him back up here, and wondered why. He’d been up here in the first place, why lure him away and then lure him back? Was she playing games? Was she trying to show him something? Something he had missed the first time?

She didn’t reveal herself even when he sent out cautious empathetic messages with his mind, so he began searching the room for anything of value. He found nothing, just old books on astronomy and poetry, old dolls and ordainments and a few musical instruments. The largest things in the room were the cracked mirror, the dusty piano and the telescopes, neither of which were of much interest.

Malik decided to wait for the ghost’s revelation.

In the meantime he wrote a report to his master on a dataslate, detailing all the strange occurrences of the entire night, before having a light meal of Munitorum issue dry-rations.

After he had finished he returned his vox-recorders back to the observatory and sat back in his chair to restart his vigil. This time he didn’t have to wait long, perhaps she too, was eager for the final confrontation.

Her sensual perfume came first, alerting him, and his mental barriers went up, not too much to shut her out completely, but perhaps enough to protect his soul from anything capricious. Then the house grew silent; the quiet having an eerie deadness to it, as if it sucked up all living sound.

As he stared into the faint candlelight she appeared, smiling at him. It was a smile of demure satisfaction, as if she was winning a game. She seemed as real as anyone Malik had ever seen, and his heart beat faster.

As he approached her the Interrogator told himself she wasn’t real. He remembered what his master always said, that an open mind was a fortress, with its gates unbarred and unguarded, and struggled to close his own mind. She waited for him, in the middle of the room, untroubled by the aroma of incense and the meticulously written wards, allowing him to approach.

She was young, and by the throne was she beautiful, thin and slender, but with an air of glamour that acted like a drug.

When he’d almost reached her, she backed away, far across the room. Though the candlelight was heavy she cast no shadow across the floorboards, yet he could see her plainly.

She backed away through the boxes of old junk, past the tripods, telescopes and piano, and Joon followed. He followed until she could back away no further and she disappeared into the cracked, half-wrapped mirror.

In desperation Joon tore off the paper wrappings, staring into the broken glass.

The mirror showed only his reflection. His breath of relief made no sound. In a second he realised he’d lowered his defences.

Her eyes materialize before him, dark glaring pits in the oval of her face, and her gaze was fixed on him, almost hypnotic, compelling and passionate. He felt strangely reluctant to move as she left the mirror and glided towards him.

She came closer, closer, closer till it seemed he sensed freezing breath on his face. She wrapped her arms about him, and he felt the pressure of her embrace. Her hands pressed against his back, and he was engulfed in the scent of rich perfume.

Her mouth fastened eagerly over his. It was cold, white-hot cold. Her kiss turned into a dreadful noiseless sucking and, too late, he realised his mental defences has long since collapsed. The illusion of living flesh ended. Only the mouth was real, frighteningly real, sucking…

Light exploded like a flash-bulb. Sounds rushed in at him, the creak of ancient flakboard, the rattle of the shutters.

Sight returned slowly. By candlelight, the observatory appeared gloomy and insubstantial.

The ghost-girl had gone, and he saw another Joon walk towards the main door. This other Joon paused at the threshold to look back, and its lips curled in a smile of triumph. The laugh which followed was damningly familiar.

Interrogator Malik Joon looked down at himself and discovered he no longer had a body. The spirit of Marietta Evermund had stolen it. He cried out but had no voice. Terror seized him as he heard door-hydraulics whine.

Now he knew what it felt like to be a ghost. He moved and made no footsteps. He drifted through a wall. Nothing was real; he had lost all sense of touch. He sank through the floor.

Tears welled in his eyes that were not there, by they still blinded him. He heard the main doors lock and watched the new Joon wander away down the street. Silence came to Evermont.

***

When the chamberlain visited the house the next morning, there was no sign of Interrogator Joon. His candles had burnt themselves out and the limousine driver informed her he hadn’t called for a ride.

Swanson was somewhat disgruntled; if the Interrogator had found it all to be a waste of time he could have just said.

She stayed long enough to make sure everything was locked up, and for the last time, looked around the old house.

Was the Evermont haunted?

Something in the corner of her eye seemed to follow her, and a noise echoed in her head.

“Help me… help me!”

Swanson left in hurry, darting away from the mansion, suddenly nervous. That voice… why did she imagine the voice inside her head sounded so much like young master Joon?