'Whose idea was it to put us in white?' Corgan cursed as he ducked into the long black limousine that would carry them the top-brass conclave. His crisp white dress uniform had gathered landing-pad dust thrown up by the Valkyrie's vectored engines. Wheln took out a static brush and did what he could to clean it off.

'I don't see that a little bit of dirt will make much difference, sir. They'll look down their noses at us however clean we are.'

'That doesn't mean we shouldn't at least make the effort,' Vaugh admonished him, brushing his leather greatcoat down with stiff, jerky motions caused by the binding of his own, extensive wounds.

The last three days had been tough on them all. There was no rest for the wicked. The cleanup duties had fallen to the Guard. Chimera troop carriers were used to cart truck-loads of corpses from the battle-field to the mass-graves south of town. Most of the bodies were unrecognisable and the Tyranid spores had acted as a necrotic catalyst. There was nothing quite as nauseating as liquefying flesh.

The final death-toll had been collated. Five hundred Orrax and eight-hundred-fifty Vandians had fallen. The Pardus had lost seventeen of their tin boxes, another twenty-five would need major repairs, leaving them at eighty-five per cent effective. The Catachans losses had not been declared, they were still in the field, keeping the Tyranids on their toes.

Vaughn had lost a lot of blood from his wounds. Trooper Rhys had found him lying in a heap, looking like he'd taken on the Tyranid horde all by himself. As it happened it was just one ravener, it had nearly done for him all the same. The medics had cleaned him up and got a few pints of blood into him, but he was still pale and drawn. He was lucky his wounds had avoided infection, there was no telling what nasty spores or bacteria the creature had been carrying.

Corgan had taken a fever even before their Astartes allies could greet him. The borer beetle was to blame. Luckily his crash suit had saved his arm by slowing the circulation of blood and administering antibiotics and sterilisers. Many more had not been so fortunate. A goodly part of the death toll was made up of men that had died of infected wounds, an inevitable risk when fighting the Tyranid.

But they'd won themselves a window of opportunity. It would take a few days for the Tyranids to regroup, thanks to the continued efforts of the Jungle Fighters. The Hive ship was damaged, but it was likely that it was still capable of replenishing the ranks. The question was what tactics they would employ in the light of their initial failure. It was too easy to fall into the trap of seeing them as a mindless eating machine. Corgan was unwilling to underestimate their level of cunning and intelligence.

'So, what's the itinerary,' Vaughn asked, the weariness heavy in his voice. Wheln took out the communiqué from his folio and read out the sequence of events.

'We're required to attend a social gathering to introduce ourselves to the reinforcing regiments, followed by a formal dinner. After the meal there's to be a tactical briefing to discuss a counter-attack.'

'Sounds like a regular party,' Corgan griped.

Wheln smiled mischievously and pulled a glossy nalwood case from his kitbag. Unclasping it he reached in and took out a shining gold coin attached to a red and white ribbon.

'What's this?' Corgan asked.

'Your medals, sir.'

'I've got my lanyards, what more do you want?'

'The men insisted, sir. We balloted. You lost.'

Corgan scowled. Vaughn failed to suppress a smirk. Wheln was dead-pan.

'Since when has this regiment been a democracy?'

But he allowed his adjutant to pin the medals onto his jacket. First came the Star of Valour, won for his heroics up on Pelloris Ridge when he'd held forth the Imperial spearhead. Next to this he attached the campaign medal for Fered Roathi IV, a silver pendant with a yellow ribbon. The Crux Imperialis came next, a cruciform Aquila in gold, inlaid with mother of pearl. This he'd earned after his leadership of the covert ops in Five Rivers and of the final assault on the Administratum Hub. Three command victories in succession during the same campaign had entitled him to the award and Draven had insisted on bestowing it.

After tonight, he would likely have a fourth and a fifth to pin beside the first three. The Crimson Heart because he'd been wounded and yet continued to fight, not as much of an honour as the Medallion Crimson, but an excuse for a shiny bauble nevertheless. The other was as yet undisclosed, apparently a celebration of his successful defence of Gurshun.

'I look like a bloody peacock,' he muttered.

'Then you won't look out of place, I'm sure,' Vaughn elaborated.

Corgan ran a finger round the inside of his snug collar. He could have done without the formal dinner, not least because he was required to wear the starchy dress-rags designed for the Orrax.

The black felt collar was decorated with the two-star pins of his rank on either lapel. His epaulets were edged in silver braid with metallic blue threads shot through the weave and studded with silver buttons. The cuffs were black like the collar and striped with three circlets of thick silver braid. His left arm bore the badge of his unit, a grinning skull in silver, above yet another indication of rank. The right bore the silver skull incorporated with the traditional Imperial Aquila. The seams of his trousers were lined with the same black felt that appeared at collar and cuffs, but with silver piping instead of braid. The boots he wore had been polished to a high sheen, though not by him.

Last but not least, the white forage cap, complete with embellishments in silver braid and bearing the regimental icon. This perched on the top of his shaven scalp and was so white that it almost glowed. At least this part of his uniform was not too ostentatious. He could have worn a ridiculously heavy peaked cap, similar to that worn by Vaughn, but he'd refused point-blank and the designer of the uniform had been forced to find a different solution.

The boots pained him. They were tight and uncomfortable. He hadn't worn them in and hadn't had any intention of doing so. He was only wearing them now because Wheln had blockaded his rooms until he put them on. His adjutant could be particularly strong willed about certain things. He supposed this was a legacy from his life before Orrax, when he was PA to some Pardus politician.

'This is a waste of time,' he muttered, but neither of his companions was in the least bit bothered. In fact, Wheln seemed to be enjoying himself. Vaughn was obviously still fighting the after-effects of his injuries. He popped a couple of pills as the limo drew up outside the Explorator Conglomerate Guildhouse in Greater Harkon, where the dinner was to be hosted, and which the Guard was using as a base of operations.

Greater Harkon was located close enough to the three front-line battle-zones, and yet far enough away from the hive-ship to be the ideal HQ and reserve barracks. The nine regiments that had been deployed initially had not had time to set up a line of communication. But now that the reinforcements had arrived, the chain of command had been established at Greater Harkon. As such, Harkon was crawling with military personnel and the Guildhouse was filled to bursting with fancily dressed soldiery.

The donjon's staff opened the massive armaglass doors to Corgan and his companions, asking them to sign a docket and giving them a small transmitter circuit that would form a temporary ID and give them clearance to enter the secure areas of the building. Corgan was tempted to drop it in the nearest trash receptacle. He hated anything that would allow other people to get an edge on him, like the microchip implant in his skull that he hadn't yet had the opportunity to have removed.

Before long they were passing through a heavily guarded door and into the foyer of the luxurious hotel block that adjoined the Guildhouse's central hub. Wheln led the way to the reception desk and they were asked to present their ID chips.

'Will the Major be requiring a suite of rooms for the night?' asked the hotelier.

'No he will not,' Corgan growled. 'I'll be getting back to my war zone at the earliest opportunity.' He didn't intend to be a victim to decorum. Vaughn winced at the tone but the hotelier didn't even bat an eyelid.

'Very well, sir. Crivens here will direct you to the dining suite.'

They were led to a single-storey ballroom arrayed with approximately forty circular tables and a single long rectangular table at the far end. Men and women of all different shapes, sizes and colours thronged the floor, though very few were yet seated.

'I believe you will be seated at the long table, Major. The Commissariat officers are all seated on tables twenty-two through twenty-five. I don't believe your adjutant is down to be seated at all.'

'That's okay,' Wheln cut in before Corgan could express what he thought of that particular arrangement. 'If you could direct me to the kitchens I'll arrange myself some real food.'

The two men disappeared, leaving Corgan and Vaughn to themselves.

'Drink?' Corgan asked.

'Anything that'll help to numb the pain,' the Commissar replied.

They ambled over to the long bar. Here Vaughn was accosted by another young commissar, an acquaintance from his scholam days. Before he knew it, Corgan was standing alone amongst men he instinctively despised.

He wandered towards the high table, nursing his triple malt whisky and scowling at all and sundry.

Colonel Sidellus intercepted him half way there, accompanied by two other officers, one in the crisp white of a naval officer, the other wearing crimson with gold braid and wearing the rank insignia of a General.

'Good evening, Major, I hope I find you well?' said the Colonel.

Corgan nodded curtly.

'Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Commander Rhodes of the Imperial Navy and General Balian Torres of the Pardus PDF, High Command. Balian here will be taking overall command of the ground forces.'

Corgan shook hands with each man in turn, saying nothing. He'd not met Rhodes, even though he had been the one co-opted to facilitate the Guard landings and co-ordinate the initial defence of Gunga IV. It seemed he had stepped aside for the new man, who spoke in a low, unthreatening tone, completely at odds with his martial guise.

'I am glad to meet you, Major. My cousin the Colonel has informed me of how you saved his life at Gurshun. We are in your debt.'

'Just doing my job, general. It was a daring tactic and risky, but it bought us the time we needed.'

'This is just as you stated in your commendation report. The Colonel is most pleased to have been put forward for recognition.'

'I'm not overly familiar with military politics, General, but I know how to recognise a man's bravery, no matter what his motivations may be.'

Sidellus's complexion darkened a little at this comment. Corgan ignored him and continued.

'I wouldn't be here, wearing this uniform, if I hadn't wanted it for myself as much as for my men.' Sidellus was mollified somewhat.

'You are candid to the point of near-suicidal,' Rhodes put in, smiling a superior, aristocratic smile. 'I must admit, Major, that I was never going to put you in command of the Gurshun theatre. It was Sidellus here that insisted you were the man for the job. It seems he was correct.'

'I can't help but wonder how he came to that conclusion,' Corgan replied.

The men conversation turned to idle pleasantries. Torres seemed distant and distracted, nervous perhaps. Corgan was hardly surprised. The man wasn't even Guard. They'd really dredged the bottom of the barrel to drum up troops for the ground campaign. Four more regiments had been deployed, three of which were Pardus PDF, soft-bellied boys who'd never done anything other than drill and dress up. They'd die in droves, but at least they'd look good doing it. Torres was one of theirs.

The other unit was an under-strength formation of the Death Korps of Krieg. They'd seen some pretty spit out in the Demeter Sub-Sector fighting ork pirates. Hardened Fighters they may be, but there weren't enough of them to make any kind of dent in the Tyranid forces.

While the others engaged in small talk, Corgan surveyed the room, trying to spot Vaughn among the black-tops and feeling seriously over-exposed amidst the top-brass officers of the Imperial Guard and Navy.

After half an hour of tense boredom, a bell rang and they took their seats. Corgan was seated between two of the Pardus PDF officers, a Colonel and a Sergeant-Major. Opposite him were Sidellus and Rhodes, with several Navy toffs. Torres sat at the head of the table, less than three feet to Corgan's left.

Sidellus took the limelight over the starter courses, regaling the newcomers with the tale of his heroics at Gurshun. Corgan melted into the background quite happily, picking over the strange fruit and liqueur concoction that was put in front of him. He envied Wheln.

It transpired that his comfortable anonymity was short-lived, however. Sidellus rounded off his story with blustery praise for Corgan's 'daring rescue'. The limelight was well and truly handed off as the fresh-faced Pardus turned their awe-filled faces towards him.

As infantrymen themselves, they were less interested in Sidellus' armoured cavalryman's tales. They held Corgan in some sort of special regard. Corgan was determined to teach them to do otherwise.

'Tell us, Major, what was it like on the ground?' asked the Sergeant-Major, there were equal parts excitement and nervousness in his voice. 'Are they truly mindless automatons?'

Corgan resigned himself to his fate.

'Don't be fooled by what it says in your primers, gentlemen. It's true that most of these creatures would not be able to function independently and when their leaders are killed, they fall apart. But it is not true that the Tyranid machine as a whole is mindless… they're just single-minded. We were barely prepared to stave off an all-out assault. If not for the sudden arrival of the Astartes we would have been done for. Maybe the battle would still be raging now, but we'd be lost nevertheless. What's more, they knew that we couldn't stand up to it. They had inside information.'

There was a round of exclamations at this revelation. Corgan waited for it to subside before pre-empting the inevitable questions.

'There's an insidious genestealer cult in operation at Gurshun. I don't know how widespread it is, but I have no doubt that they leaked dispositional intel to the Tyranids before embarking on a guerrilla war behind our lines.'

'I'm sorry, Major,' Rhodes cut in, disbelief plain on his thick, drawling tones. 'But it's common knowledge that humans and Tyranids are completely incompatible. How would they translate such intelligence into a format that could be understood?'

'As far as I understand it, that's the whole point of the genestealer. They have a highly developed persona-matrix that falls somewhere between those of humans and Tyranids. Didn't anyone read the intelligence briefing pack? It provides detailed biological and behavioural information from studies conducted during and after the Ichar IV campaign. Was I the only one that received it?'

'It was transmitted to the war-zone commanders only, Major,' Rhodes elaborated. 'I myself didn't see the point of wasting my time on it. I take it that these creatures die just as any other biological organism…'

'Some harder than others,' Corgan countered.

'Perhaps, Major, it would be better for morale if we did not extol the strengths of our foes, but concentrated on how best to kill them…' Torres intervened.

'That's easier said than done, General. Cutting off the head will theoretically cause the body to die, if slowly. But imagine how difficult it would be to kill a man if he had a spare brain in his chest and another between his arse-cheeks. The Tyranid war-machine makes wide use of the redundancy theory. Cutting off the head is not enough. In an army the like of which we came up against you have to kill the Tyrants, then the Warriors, then the Zoanthropes. And all that succeeds in doing is to make the little critters run away. The Carnifexes, Genestealers and some of the other larger variants will keep on coming at you. By the time you deal with them, the smaller critters have rallied around reserve Tyrants and you're back to square one.'

'I hardly see how this is improving morale, Major,' Rhodes sneered.

'I'm not the kind of man that wraps his fist in silk before punching someone, Lieutenant-Commander. I'll tell it like it is and maybe that'll take some of the sting out of the enemy's shock-factor. It's a meat-grinder out there, but then you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?'

Rhodes smirked.

'You think to insult me, Major. It will not work. The Navy is the purview of the gentleman-soldier. Not for us the brutal simplicity of the bloody infantry.'

'It's precisely because I'm in the infantry that I say what I say. These men will have to fight as I have fought while you sip tisane up in your floating fortress, safely beyond arm's reach of the enemy.'

Rhodes nodded, acceding the point. The mood at table was significantly more subdued as they served the main course of roasted fowl in a sweet compote. The excitement of the Pardus men had diminished and each of them took to introspection as they contemplated what lay in store. Corgan devoured the dish with all the gusto of the dog-soldier who doesn't know when his next meal will be. It still wasn't enough to satisfy his appetite.

'Tell me, Major, those marking on the back of your head,' asked Rhodes, not even attempting to be discreet. 'What do they mean?'

The glint in the man's eye told Corgan that the man already knew the answer to his question. He was playing games, baiting a snare in the hopes of getting one over on the ex-penitent upstart. Corgan wasn't a man to brook insults lightly, but neither was he incautious.

'They're a warning to the over-inquisitive,' he replied, giving the man an opportunity to drop his line of conversation. He didn't take the hint, though he clearly recognised it for what it was.

'A warning of what, exactly?'

'That I'm generally uninhibited about hurting people.'

Rhodes sat back slightly, wiping his mouth with his napkin as he considered his next words.

'If you'll forgive my impertinence, Major, I believe your case-file states that you were on Orrax for a spell. For anyone who is unfamiliar with the name, Orrax is the second largest penitentiary in the sector. If I may, I would like to ask why were you on Orrax in the first place, Major?'

'In the first place? Well, perhaps that would be because I was born there, sir.'

Rhodes started to display the first signs of true irritation at Corgan's evasion. His attempt to humiliate the ex-penitent was requiring considerably more effort than he was prepared for and would have to be achieved by blunt and rather unsubtle means, at this rate.

'I assume that they did not tattoo your skull at birth, my good man…' he drawled, feigning a camaraderie that must have made his skin crawl.

'Good man? I'm surprised at your choice of words. Surely that is exactly the opposite of what you are trying to imply?' Corgan didn't allow the man to get a retort in. He continued on, bull-headed, taking the verbal exchange onto the battlefield. 'I was born on Orrax, sir, and then raised on Necromunda. I came back because a lot of people got on the wrong side of me and, as previously stated, I'm generally uninhibited about hurting people.'

The company at the table had recoiled during the exchange, unwilling to get in the way of either man's ire. Rhodes had evidently finished playing games.

'I put it to you, sir, that you and your men are nothing but a gang of thieving, murderous curs that should have been executed long before Orrax was even mentioned. Those medals you flaunt are an insult to the very foundations of the Imperium of Man.'

This was too much for Torres. He felt that Rhodes had gone too far and steeled himself to intervene.

'Please, Lieutenant-Commander, reserve yourself. Such behaviour is unbecoming of an officer of the Navy.' It wasn't generally deemed as decorous to raise one's voice, let alone openly insult a fellow officer.

'That's okay, General,' Corgan interjected. 'The Lieutenant Commander is only speaking the truth. Most of my boys should have been done away with. The only reason they weren't is because there's a sector-wide amnesty, requiring leniency in judicial sentencing. And if you were to accuse me of being the most deserving of such a fate, I'd agree with you right up to the hilt. But none of that changes the fact that here I am, pardoned of my infractions and a decorated war hero to boot, with a full regiment of similarly pardoned criminals behind me. We've all earned the right to fight as free men with all the rights and privileges of an Imperial Citizen. You can look down your aristocratic nose at me all you like, Rhodes. You can even sound off to your hearts content about my low moral fibre. It's not worth a fart to me. But if you really want to see why I was sent back to Orrax, all you have to do is make your move and I'll oblige.'

'Gentlemen, I must insist that you settle your differences!' Torres stated, firmly.

'But that's what this whole thing is about, isn't it, Rhodes? Differences…'

'Please, you're spoiling my dinner,' said another officer. A murmur of agreement rippled around the table.

'I'm done anyway, gentlemen. I'll see you at the briefing, no doubt…'

He pushed his chair back and left the table, prowling from the room with his tiger-like grace, loaded with silent menace.

xxx

The briefing had been underway for half an hour when Wheln decided to walk the grounds. He'd been taking a drink in the hotel bar with Corgan when he noticed a couple of mid-ranking Navy ratings looking over at him. They'd looked away just a little too hastily. Corgan had told him about the exchange with Rhodes before going into the secure annex. The men's behaviour immediately made Wheln suspicious. He hadn't survived the rigours of Orrax without developing a keen instinct for danger.

Just as he suspected, as he slipped out the front doors and turned, he caught sight of the two men leaving the bar at a deceptively brusque pace. He limbered his combat knife as he moved through the dimly lit tunnel that gave out onto the lush gardens of the hotel. Here he picked a likely ambush point and moved towards it, picking up speed.

A shadow lunged from the very bush he'd been intending to occupy, catching him a cracking blow to the jaw. His knife flew from his nerveless fingers. Another man, unseen, battered a meaty fist into his right kidney, sending him to his knees. The two men from the bar crunched towards him along the gravel-path.

'How do you like it, penitent scum? A taste of your own medicine, eh?' grunted one of his assailants. The others laughed, low and menacing, then all four of them laid into him with gusto.

Wheln curled into a ball as he'd learned to do on Orrax when the bully-boys came visiting his bunk-room. He'd had cracked ribs and broken limbs from those encounters and this beating didn't even come close to that bad. These men had no real taste for what they were doing, but they still messed him up some.

After what seemed like an eternity and still without evincing so much as a whimper from their victim, the four men back off and a fifth came into view. Wheln caught a glimpse of the man's face between his puffy eye-lids and knew that this man had a true mean-streak.

'Put him on his back,' the man said, quietly in a voice as slippery as silk. They men took a limb each, stretching Wheln into a spread-eagled pose. With considerable aplomb the man dealt him five cruelly placed kicks to his arm-pits, ribs and kidneys, forcing Wheln to cry out.

'You should have been killed a long time ago, so I'm going to make your death a lingering one,' the man hissed.

He lifted his booted foot and placed it on Wheln's throat, pressing ever so gently as first but applying more pressure as the moments of terror drew out. Wheln could no long scream out loud. He gurgled in fright and pain as the pressure became unbearable and then, with a sickening crack and a blast of white-hot pain, his trachea gave way and his air way closed up.

'Enjoy it, my penitent friend. These are you last moments this side of the warp!'

The man left, gesturing for the other, pale-faced men to follow as Wheln put his hands to his throat, his mind numb with explicit terror. His lungs began to burn, his chest felt like it was ready to explode. Spots danced before his eyes and the world started to go darker than the night that surrounded him.

Survival instincts surged to the fore. They'd brought him through the hell of Orrax and the firestorms of Fered Roathi. He even survived the Tyranids. He was damned if he was going to let some sadistic Naval officer snuff him out like a candle-flame.

He forced his hand to the knife at his belt. It was his only hope for release from the lingering torment of asphyxiation. With trembling hands he put the blade to his throat…