1145 hours, Day 61 – Great Eastern Terminus

Centurion Grampion had won the race to be the first man to set foot upon the Progressus Imperius. Or so he had thought. When he reached Great Eastern Terminus that marked the entrance to the vast concourse, overlooked by the baroque and pitted surface of the Grand Portico, it was to find a familiar face among the burnt out ruins of the Terminus.

He had not been formally introduced to Centurion Corgan, but he had been there on day fifty-seven then the Commissar had moved in to reinforce the last bastion of the Fifth up on Pelloris Ridge. He had seen a man whom the tides themselves could not wear down. The vista that opened out before him as his vehicle ground to a halt just inside the Great Eastern Terminus was very different.

The silence was deafening.

The enemy had, of course, been holding this place in force, waiting for Grampion and what remained of his battered and weary companies to come within striking distance. They had set up their heavy weapons on the high gantries. Their infantry had hidden within the burnt out wrecks of the grav-trains that had ended their lives here during the initial occupation. But they had not been prepared for an assault from behind.

Corgan had less than a score of his Century with him, but the partisans had turned out in force. Together this ragtag scratch company had pulled off the seemingly impossible once again. The cultists had been slaughtered where they waited. Many of them had not even known about the attack until crude molatov cocktails had turned their hiding places into flaming incinerators, cremating them alive. The heavy weapons had proved too heavy to be turned around before the partisans butchered the operators.

Grampion's final approach to what he had expected to be the hardest fight of his life, was in fact the easiest. He couldn't help but be relieved after the losses he had taken thus far.

Corgan's men were lounging around, taking their ease after what looked like a brutal close-quarters fight. The Centurion himself sauntered over as Grampio's Cohort rolled in and began their deployment into the Terminus.

'Well met, Centurion. I'm glad, though unsurprised, to find you alive.' Grampion jumped down from his steed and held out his hand. Corgan shook it without reply. He didn't speak much, this ex-penitent hero.

'We'll take over from here, my friend.' Grampion smiled. 'I reckon you've done enough for a well-earned rest.'

'If it's all the same to you, Centurion, we'd rather resupply and carry on.'

'I'm afraid they aren't my orders, old chap. Commissar-General said all infiltrators we found were to be retired from the front. The only exception to the ruling are the partisans, they may be given the choice to carry on as it is their home we fight to liberate. Don't worry, you can leave some glory for the rest of us.' Grampion grinned, relief still surging within him.

Corgan had been in the field for nearly forty-five hours. He'd managed to get some shut-eye after rescuing Lita, but he was still beyond any level of exhaustion he'd ever felt before.

Arines, Darron and the others sauntered over from where they'd been resting.

'Pack it up, boys, it's well past your bedtime!'

xxx

1800 hours, Day 61 – Pigsty Bar, Pelloris Ridge

Arines, Darron, Lita and Corgan had decided to drink away the rest of the day. After their return they'd all caught a few hours of much-needed sleep. Even the rumble of the nearby artillery emplacements hadn't been enough to keep them from their slumber. Now they were gathered in the womb-like interior of a booth in the sanctioned drinking house.

They were the only ones there apart from the Munitorum servitor behind the bar. The rest of the unit was tucked up asleep and everyone else was still fighting down in the valley. Corgan hadn't even bothered to check up on the progress of the assault, but it still sounded pretty hairy down there.

'So what the hell happened?' asked Arines. Corgan knew immediately what he was referring to. He remained unrepentant about his dereliction of duty during the previous day. No one appeared to have held it against him – at least no one that had survived.

'It was a trap,' he replied. 'Lita was the bait.'

'So Poalan and Roarke had their heads together?' asked Darron.

'Sure, why not. They were in the same unit before the transfer, although I doubt they were friends, what with Roarke being a pen and all. That's why I think there's more to it. It's too much coincidence, otherwise...'

'Like...' Arines cut in, 'how did Roarke know that his unit was going to be in the right place at the right time?'

'Exactly. There had to be someone in the top brass pulling strings for him.'

'So who else do we know with connections to the Sixth? Apart from Lita that it...' asked Darron.

'Gregorin was Joars' commanding officer before he got transferred to the Fifth,' Lita's conjecture filled in another piece of the puzzle. 'Wolfe and his cronies were already starting to throw their weight around before the ridge. I dread to think how much influence they have by now.'

'So Gregorin has a word with his former Primus Pilus to make sure that Roarke's unit is sent in on day sixty. How does Poalan come into the equation?'

'These ex-arbites are all thick as thieves,' she said. 'Maybe one of Grantham's crew knew him of old?'

Arines snatched at the possibility, offering another tid-bit for mental consumption.

'Most of the wardens come from Cardinal Voldt. I think that's where their military arm is based. They're all related through some long-lost cousin or another so Lita's probably right.'

Corgan was starting to piece it all together in his head. He'd had suspicions, but now they were getting somewhere.

'Okay. So Grantham and his cronies disapproved my promotion, right? But Draven wouldn't let them revert me to the rank and file so it stands to reason that they want me as dead as Wolfe and his boys. Only Roarke failed to give me more than a few bruises when he tried the first time, so they had to get smart about things.'

'So when Draven consults with the Primus Pilus about his battle-plan...' Arines continued, 'Grantham puts your name forward and whispers in his buddy's ear to make sure Joars is in the same boat... But wait a second, how did they know you'd go alone?'

Corgan smiled.

'That's easy. They made it personal. Roarke knows I do my best work alone.'

'So,' Arines concluded, 'If this goes all the way to the top like we think, we have a serious problem...'

'I can fix it,' Corgan asserted.

'Forget it, mate, you don't want to get your hands dirty with this shit. Let us sort it out for you. Just tell us what to do and we'll get it done.'

'No. I'd rather get shit on my own hands than drop you in it head-first. Besides, no offence, but when it comes to this kind of subtlety, I know what I'm doing.'

xxx

1200 hours, Day 62 – Officers Mess, Pelloris Ridge

The officers' mess was a civilised affair in comparison to the slop tents where the rankers got fed. Long rows of wooden tables filled the room. Meals were served from a counter at the far end, on clean crockery and with stainless steel cutlery. The food itself was good solid stodge, high in carbs and protein to keep the officer cadre strong and energetic.

Corgan hadn't taken to eating there. He wasn't one of them – an outsider through and through. They didn't like him and the feeling was mutual. Prejudice was bred into the Adeptus. On the other side of the bars the penitents learned to mirror it well.

Grampion tapped him on the shoulder as he joined the queue behind him.

'We meet again, Centurion,' Grampion smiled, proffering his hand. Corgan shook it, again without reply. Grampion was starting to turn up everywhere he went like a bad penny.

'I don't mind admitting that it's a relief to be back behind the lines,' he sighed. He was still filthy from the previous day and night's fighting and was probably looking for a bite to eat before retiring to his quarters.

The battle for the city was going well. The Word Bearers had been driven back to the Administratum Complex. The rest of the city was crawling with cultists, but they were more a nuisance than a menace. The Complex itself was going to be a hard nut to crack, but they had time on their side, now.

Corgan grunted.

Grampion was the only ex-Arbite that had even tried to get to know Corgan. He supposed that made him okay, but Corgan was going to have trouble overcoming the ingrained opinion that all wardens were essentially pigs.

'I trust you are rested?'

'Frak rest, I've had work to do.'

'Haven't you assigned yourself an adjutant to run your errands?'

Corgan shot him a look of disdain.

'When I need a runner, I've twenty men that can do the job. The rest of the time I use my own bloody legs!'

Grampion was taken aback, but it seemed he was not the easiest of men to offend.

'Admirable. I imagine it's difficult adjusting to your new authority. I myself had some trouble with the transition from law-man to soldier, but I suppose the two roles are not so very different in the broad view.'

Corgan held the law in as much contempt as he did authority, so he reasoned it was best not to reply. Grampion continued, unperturbed by Corgan's unresponsiveness. Corgan just zoned him out and picked up his tray, carrying the steaming food to a nearby table. Grampion followed, still waffling, not seeming to notice that Corgan's attention was fixed on the entrance.

It wasn't long before Gregorin entered the room, flanked by two of his men, a sergeant and a corporal by their stripes. All three were of the typical Praefectorum stock, swarthy and pale skinned. Gregorin sported a well-groomed beard and held a pomander to his nose. He walked with the self-confidence born of years in a position of authority. Corgan waited for them to be served before making his move.

Excusing himself from Grampion's company he sauntered over.

'Centurion,' he called. Gregorin looked up but before he could reply the sergeant had leapt to his feet to intercept Corgan. The corporal was a second or two slower.

'A moment, Sergeant Dunst, Corporal Helo. Step aside, please.' Dunst backed down reluctantly, while Helo looked relieved.

Corgan hadn't seemed to notice either of them, his attention fixed on Third Cohort's new CO.

'Might I speak with you privately, sir?'

Gregorin hesitated, weighing something behind the bland, inscrutable eyes.

'Of course. A moment, please, gentlemen.'

Dunst looked like he was about to object and Helo appeared hurt. Corgan had heard the rumours about Gregorin's sexual preferences and what he saw went some way towards convincing him of their accuracy. It was useful to know.

Gregorin gestured for him to sit down on the bench opposite.

'How are you settling in, sir?' asked Corgan. The question seemed to take Gregorin by surprise and he seemed to relax, shedding a certain tension in his shoulders.

'Centurion Halwin has given me a good solid unit. The Third Cohort runs very well. It has not been a trial to take up the reins.'

Corgan smiled, adopting the most obsequious expression he could manage. He dreaded to think what he looked like, but it would be worth it in the long run.

'What about the other Priors, how are you fitting in with them?'

The tension returned. Corgan's suspicions confirmed without the need for Gregorin to reply. The man was ambitious. He'd been take out of familiar territory and thrust into command of a unit he didn't know, forced to start networking again from scratch. His hopes for promotion had been stymied by his impromptu reassignment.

'I only ask because I know how difficult it can be to fit in with one's peers...' he would have to thank Grampion for the inspiration behind that. He saw a sudden flare of anger behind Gregorin's eyes. He didn't like being set alongside an ex-pen. Another barb set in the man's skin.

'Why don't we cut to the chase, Centurion. I have the feeling you have something of greater import to speak to me about.' That barb had done its work. Gregorin had thought himself clear of suspicion when Corgan started making small talk, but the junior officer hadn't merely come sniffing after the scraps from Gregorin's table. He was intelligent enough to know when he was being goaded.

'The general opinion of me isn't high among your circles of influence, is it Centurion?'

Gregorin favoured him with a laconic smile.

'I'll be blunt. Few of us rejoiced to hear that a penitent trooper had been elevated to the rank of officer. You have to understand that there are prejudices involved...'

'The prejudice works both ways, sir, I can assure you of that. And here I am, stuck in the middle...'

'You seem to be getting along just fine to me, Centurion.' That last word was uttered with barely concealed contempt. 'How else would you have won such renown?'

'It comes at a price.'

'We are getting nowhere with this foreplay...'

Corgan smiled. It was time to cut to the long-awaited chase after all.

'I know you conspired with Grantham and his cronies, probably to ingratiate yourself with them.' Gregorin's studiously blank expression confirmed it. Corgan pressed home. 'I'm also pretty certain that you never even batted an eyelid when they told you their plan. Well, as you've probably figured out by now, I'm not the kind of man that takes it lying down!' He hoped Gregorin appreciated the pun, his blank expression didn't budge.

'I'll be coming to collect. You can tell them that from me!'

xxx

2100 hours – Officers Billets, Pelloris Ridge

Grantham was fuming.

'That upstart has the temerity to threaten me!' His face had gone a very amusing shade of purple so Falcion and Jurdisch made their excuses and left. It wouldn't have been difficult to get into trouble if they stuck around. Halwin was too obtuse, and too incensed, to follow suit. Gregorin didn't have any option.

'I'll arrange an accident for him, sir...'

Gregorin sighed a long-suffering sigh.

'We tried that, remember? This man is very good at staying alive. He's also very good at getting to the bottom of our best laid plans. If he goes to the Commissar-General with this...'

'He won't. Five Rivers proved that,' Grantham put in. He'd regained some measure of calm and was busily straightening his well-pressed uniform. 'This fellow obviously enjoys taking care of his own business.'

'I'm telling you my boys can handle this kind of thing, they've had experience...' Halwin insisted.

'If you think any of us are ignorant of the occasional necessities involved in our line of work then you are even more stupid than I thought,' Gregorin blurted. 'I've had my men dispatch trouble-makers in precisely the way you suggest, Centurion, do not take me for a sop...'

'Funny that, you must have been reading my thoughts...'

Gregorin was struggling to contain himself. Halwin was his senior officer. It wouldn't do to strike him no matter how infuriating the man was.

'Gentlemen,' Grantham interjected. 'Please do not bicker, it belittles us all. This Roarke fellow obviously suffered from the Catachan's greatest vice; arrogance! The Corgan situation must be dealt with. Make the arrangements, if you please, Halwin. You are both dismissed.'

Gregorin spun on his heel and left the block. Dunst and Helo fell in beside him.

'That man tests me to the very limits,' he growled, meeting Dunst's eyes most earnestly. 'One of these day's he'll get his just desserts, you mark my words.'

Dunst nodded curtly.

'Permission to be relieved, sir?'

Gregorin nodded his assent, noting the lingering look with which the sergeant favoured Helo as he left their company.

Dunst had always been most loyal, but alas he was getting old. The last thing Gregorin wanted these days was the constant reminder of the passage of time. Lifting the pomander to his nose he drew Helo after him, heading for his quarters.

xxx

Centurion Halwin was found the next morning with his throat slit. He was lying face down in a lake of his own blood. His adjutant reported that he hadn't returned from his conference with Grantham. The murder scene was certainly along the most direct route from Grantham's quarters to his own.

Commissar-cadet Vaughn had been trained in investigative techniques as part of his education at the Scholam Progenium and so was put in charge of the case.

Unfortunately there was a distinct lack of evidence. The murder weapon, which the coroner told him was a small, extremely sharp blade, was nowhere to be found. The cadaver bore no evidence of the killer. Halwin had the blood of at least seven penitents on his clothing, all of them dead or severely wounded. He also had plenty of blood and skin samples taken from under his fingernails. None of this matched the blood on his clothing, or any other sample held in the Medicae database, and so probably originated from some cultist or another that Halwin had killed.

A thorough forensic search turned up nothing that could be attributed to Halwin's murderer.

Vaughn interviewed Grantham and the other officers of his inner-circle, as well as Halwin's own junior officers, but all he could turn up was the petty bickering between Halwin and Gregorin. It was nowhere near enough to convict, so the case-file was listed as pending and filed away until further evidence came to light.

He wasn't forced to wait for long.