Firebase Rakkassan, Cadia Secundus, 00:58 (Cadian Time)

"Apple!" a quivering voice called out.

"Cobbler," I groaned, flagging under Rinek's weight. "Put that bloody grenade pin back in," I added quickly, when I heard the smooth snick of the pin being removed.

"Who's that coming in?"

"Sarn't Larn, Ten Platoon. With Otto Rinek," I replied, staggering the last few paces up to the dark wall of sandbags.

"Otto who?" the voice hissed.

"Ye deaf? Otto Rinek," I growled at two black silhouettes that had their M-36s trained on me. "Well come up 'ere and take him. Look lively!"

Now close enough for them to get a good look at me, the two men on stag helped take Rinek off my shoulders. "Aw, he's heavy," one of them moaned.

"What 'appened out there?"

"Nah, fuck that. What was you doing beyond the wire?"

"'Aving a dekko, son," I panted, wiping my bloodstained hands on my trouserlegs. "Got contact."

"You got contact!" the man gasped, pulling his M-36 close. "Where? What?"

"Bloody sniper wasted Rinek. Nearly wasted me too," I slumped against the trench wall. Suddenly my muscles were all aching, and everywhere was numb. "What a lad Rinek was too. Never made a sound when the sniper zipped him first time. Second time he was proper wasted. Bloody sniper cunt," I spat; realising there was blood in my mouth. "You hear any o' that?"

"Nah, Sarn't. You must've been bloody miles away. How long was you out?"

"Dunno, Private." I rested my head briefly. Sleep beckoned.

"Is that who I think it is?" a sneering voice came from the darkness. 2nd Lieutenant Ehle, the moment he made his presence known, had the two privates scurrying away. "Sarn't Larn, is that your man defacing my trench?"

"Don't think he's anyone's man now, sir," I replied dozily.

"Come with me," Ehle beckoned. With no other option I got up and followed, dragging my feet as he led me to the CP. The dull numbness, the lack of feeling, the lack of realisation about what had happened in the last few hours had not yet begun to catch up, leaving me in a state of vague awareness, with all systems non-essential to the body's propulsion offline. I was on autopilot.

Captain Meller, once Ehle explained what he believed was the truth to him, quietly dismissed Ehle, then turned to me. "You'll be expecting me to lecture you on disobeying orders, Sarn't, as Lieutenant Ehle has just stated. In the event of you temporarily deserting your post to perform an unofficial recce of the AO I would not say that you did necessarily disobey your orders; which are to hold your ground. But. Normally I would look the other way, for such irregular actions can be of benefit to this unit. However, due to the manner in which you conducted the excursion, I am afraid I must take action. Losing a soldier whilst carrying out orders is – in some cases – unavoidable, but this was an authorised, unsanctioned foray which ended with your partner KIA and could have been easily prevented had you not gone beyond the wire. What do you say to this?"

With a trembling heart, I lied through my teeth. "Sir, Corporal Rinek saved my life. He took two rounds from a sniper for me. I did notice signs of psychological trauma in Corporal Rinek lately. He was a tankie on Nemtess. He lost all his crew, his family, sir. I think it's what he would've wanted."

"Corporal Rinek was in your care," Meller's expression hardened. "Deathwish or not, it was not down to Rinek to decide the time and manner of his death but fate; fate and the Imperial Guard."

"He's a hero, sir," I said the words, feeling rotten inside about it even when I knew I shouldn't. I was saving Rinek from disgrace, and his family.

"It certainly appears so. His body will be prepared for departure tomorrow. I will make certain to mention him to the major."

"Thank you, sir," I felt a great weight lift from my heart.

"Staff Sarn't Perandis will take over the running of Ten Platoon. After roll-call tomorrow you will report to CQMS."

"Sir?" I fought to control a muscle spasm in my jaw. "Sir, I don't understand…"

"Tomorrow. CQMS. You're working for him now," Meller said flatly. "Does that make sense."

"S-sir, we're gonna get contact with Zeke in the next day or two," I stammered. "I've gotta be there."

"Zeke does not concern you, Sarn't. You won't be able to make a difference by yourself if Zeke does show. You are just one man."

I dearly wanted to speak up, to explain how wrong he was. But he was my OC. And I was in enough trouble already. For Rinek, all for Rinek, I thought. However bad I felt over lying to an officer, it was the right thing to do; I was certain it was the right thing to do. Closing my mouth, I gritted my teeth and replied, "yes, sir."

"Is that blood?" Meller looked down at my hands. Blood was indeed running down my fingers. "Cut them on the barbed wire?"

"Yes, sir."

"See they're treated. That's all, Sarn't."

"And I'm led to believe the wire did that to your face?" Ral Bleak, tying the dressings around my hands, nodded up at my face. "You trip and fall out there?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah I did," I nodded quickly in return.

"Can you stow that body somewhere else?" Someone lying on the other side of the aid station complained. "It fucking stinks. Smells like he's been dead for days."

Ral glanced over at Otto Rinek's body then back at me, "Sniper was it?"

"Yeah," I said stonily. "Took two rounds, never made a sound. Right fucking lad he was."

"Strange how he got those marks on his neck," Ral said mildly. "Like he was garrotted or something…"

Fixing Ral with an intense stare, I whispered, "not a word."

Ral gave me a knowing look. "It's funny 'cause I hear tell we had a missing man a few days back."

"Ral, don't. Don't let out that he offed himself. He ain't no coward. I know. I was there on Nemtess."

"We all were."

"I'm doin' this for him," I jerked my head at Rinek's body. "Helping a mate out."

"Yeah. Yeah," Ral sat back and scratched his head. "It's fine. Some guys just can't take it anymore."

"Mmm," I swallowed. My throat was sore.

"So these bruises just appear?"

"You wouldn't believe me, mate. You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"A GSW case back on that stickie ship. A stickie woman, remember?"

"Comes back a bit fuzzy," Ral sucked in one cheek whilst trying to remember. "Truth be told I wanna forget all about that time after Nemtess. That was rough…"

"I don't wanna talk about Nemtess," I said. "I can't."

"Nah, course not. It's uh, fine." Still thinking, Ral took a cigarette from behind his ear and offered it to me. "Oh, oh!" he snapped his fingers, recalling the time on the stickie ship. "Been a while yeah, but I think I remember that one. Dark hair, odd eyes. One of them was bigger than the other; dilated!"

"Yeah, yeah, that's the one," I muttered. "We got a bad history, I'm ashamed to say."

"Uh?" Ral frowned. "You alright, Larn?"

"Been, how many planets now…?" I counted in my head. "Platis, Grendel, Nemtess, and now here. Everywhere I go she pops up behind her sniper rifle. Bloody mad I tell ye."

"Hm, sounds like she can't get enough of you," Ral snorted, scratching his ear. "Dunno how I'd feel if I had the eye of a xeno."

"Nah trust me, she's a holy terror in hand-to-hand," I unbuttoned my jacket and shirt then lifted up my vest, showing Ral the shallow red mark the knife had left. "If it'd been anyone else, I'd be lying wasted out there 'cause I wasn't man enough to beat a bloody girl in a fight."

Seeing the dried blood around the wound, Ral slapped a dressing in my hand, "bang that on there now. And don't say that, I know plenty of hard women that'll knock you out in three. No shame in losing. Besides, I wouldn't want to go hand-to-hand with a stickie. It wasn't all one-sided was it?"

"Nah," I winced, rolling a shoulder. "Nah, I banged her up good. Least I hope I did."

Ral smiled.

"Not like that," I glared at his amusement.

"Any grass stains on your arse?" he tittered.

"Aw leave it alone, dirty twat," I groaned, resting my forehead in my hand. "That's Article 104 stuff that."

"Oh, that bad?"

"Yeah. Anyway I'm working for CQMS now," I said, hoping to sway Ral's mind away from the stickie. "Any gen on him? Is he a cunt or a really massive cunt?"

"I dunno, mate. I've never been over to stores."

"Bugger," I tutted, "'cause I got Rinek wasted officially I'm taking the fall for him. Dunno how I feel 'bout that."

"Takin' one for the team's noble," Ral grinned. "Big respect."

"Hate myself for doing it."

"Nah, you're a good bloke, just you think you're not."

"Rinek was a good bloke…"

"And you are too. You'll get platoon back. Just you gotta go through the mill a bit. Who knows? CQMS might not be such a dossbag."

"He's a supply wallah. What he gets, he keeps. There's no word for charity in his book," I said, buttoning up my jacket. "Just hope I won't be pushing too many pencils when Zeke turns up, 'cause I wanna be there getting trigger-time with you lot."

"All I can say is play nice. The more positive you are, the greater the likelihood of you getting your platoon back. Who's taking over anyway?"

"Perandis. Hey just make sure Meller or Corta or anyone sees Rinek. They might get suspicious."

"Hmph, I'll do my best. He's starting to smell though. Hopefully when the crow comes back tomorrow we can get him lifted out. All good now?"

"Yeah. Cheers for the plasters." I hopped down from the box I was sitting on and picked up my Castra.

"Are you making sleeping sounds at Ten Platoon?"

"Yup. Only 'til tomorrow, then it's over to CQMS."

Bidding Ral goodnight I went on a bimble. There was a definite chill in the air now which I hadn't noticed when beyond the wire. So exhausted after the scuffle with Izuru and hauling Rinek back on my shoulders, I found myself wide awake, so much so that I did not feel like falling asleep. My aversion to sleep made me wander around aimlessly in the dark, ending up in the mess, where I sat on one of the crude, foldout benches and stared away into space.

"Izuru," I muttered, the realisation hitting me only then. My combats were stained with something also. I could not see just what it was in the dark, but it felt crusty and coarse. In a muddle, I left the mess and strayed over to the tiny washing area. The walk-in hut, buried in sandbags on the outside, had two rows of eight sinks, both facing one another. Mounted above each were small mirrors used for shaving. Using what little light there was, I leant in close to a mirror and rubbed a hand down both cheeks. Sore, bruised skin underneath my fingers complained at the pressure. Grazes and cuts on my elbows and knees irritated incessantly. Purple rings stood out underneath dull, reddened eyes.

Sea salt.

Izuru's skin and hair had smelt of sea salt. The sharp, bitter taste was somehow clinging to my eyebrows and stinging my lips, revolting me so much I stuck my head underneath a rusty tap and held it under the icy water for several seconds, trying to wash the salt away.

Weariness dispensed, I was now fully awake. Gasping, I looked up at the mirror and wiped my dripping face on my sleeve, sniffing as water dripped from the tip of my nose. The slow pitter-patter of rain, quiet outside, had grown into a steady drumbeat as droplets began to plaster the dugout roof.

Holding a hand over my thudding heart, I inhaled slowly, wincing at the spike of pain in my lower chest. The rage, fear, and desperation I had felt when at the end of the knifepoint seemed like distant memories of another person; a person whom I could scarcely believe was in fact I. Shivering violently all of a sudden, I folded my arms across my chest and covered my eyes, fearful of what might have happened had Izuru not recognised me through that fit of alien bloodlust. Animal ferocity was in her eyes then, so bright and passionate. Wishing, wanting my death with every fibre of her being. God, she frightened me; murderous one minute and pleasant the next.

Casting about for unfriendly eyes spying on me, I allowed myself to become a frightened boy again, just for that moment. Alone I could shed the armoured layers of my shell and let loose what I kept locked up inside, what, and who I carried with me. Little Larn felt his throat contract, stifling the air, and bringing up small sobs. Only in the aftermath did I realise it. She could have killed me there. She was death.

Southern banks of the River Luten, 01:36

Tiny ripples swept across the river as the pebble broke the surface, scattering the mirror-like image, distorting Izuru Numerial's features. Barefoot and in only her skin-tight under-armour, Izuru knelt on the grassy riverbank, gazing despondently down at her dirty, scratched, bruised face. The words would-be murderer, unrepentant, unforgiving rang like gongs in her mind, filling her heart with a sickening fear. The warmask she had felt slipping back into place had exerted a fierce control over her like none she had ever felt before. Outright murder, with the victim visibly pleading for his life, had gone over her head completely. To her it was right, and needed no justification. It was war. And it was him or her.

I could have killed him. And I would not have given him a second thought.

Pulling her hair loose, Izuru ran her hands through the salted-encrusted, greasy strands over and over, hissing and growling in self-loathing, leaving it hanging over her eyes and ears messily. Plunging her head downwards into the water, Izuru opened her eyes wide and screamed. FREAK!

Hauling herself out and shaking off the water, Izuru's shoulders sagged. The ache in her belly and groin had grown, much more with former as the glue sealing the wound grew old. Closing her eyes she began meditating, gradually shutting her senses down one by one until all that remained was the mind. Isha, I have forsaken my vows, both as a ranger and as an Eldar. I crave a light. Shine your guidance upon my path, for it is dark and filled with fear and uncertainty. But The Mother offered no guidance, nor even a reply. Izuru was alone.

Kasr Luten burned bright, brighter even than the distant fires raging across the river on Cadia Primus. Scarring the Luten were slicks of flaming promethium leaking from ruptured fuel pipelines on Primus. Bodies face down in the black water bobbed amidst the flames, their burnt clothing fused to their skin. The smell was carried across the Luten by the wind, whirling around Izuru, enshrouding her in a haze of grey ash that stunk of cinders and dead flesh. To her left, the fires in the Kasr had spread over the walls where stockpiles of ammunition had burst their magazines, hurling showers of pink sparks into the night sky. The heat had arisen too. Even over three hundred yards from the outer buttresses, the warmth was uncomfortable on Izuru's skin.

Half-naked, emaciated cultists writhed about before the flames, dancing and shrieking. Some running around in the open, leaping through fires they had constructed for fun. Brawls were in progress. The belligerents, laying into one another in groups or even one-on-one, clamoured wildly, punching, kicking, falling over one another, beating each other senseless with crude, handmade weaponry. Indiscreet orgies were happening with both men and women mounting one another and squealing with pleasure, with not a care for the intense heat that licked at their skin.

Izuru paid not a single thought to the human filth as she approached the Ranger bivouac, keeping to the shadows, out of the cultists' view. No words would be spared for those subhuman degenerates as long as they lived. Only when the last was eradicated would Izuru regard their demise with satisfaction. That was all they warranted.

Poring over the fresh set of maps that had just been delivered to the Rangers by courier, Lysell Talvera held his unlit cigarette over a black speck twelve klicks to the east of the block that was Kasr Luten then gestured at a road that branched off the main east-west route. "Now the enemy has abandoned this Kasr we are free to exploit further. We have two routes: Highway Six running south past Luten to the Korg mountains, or further east to this screen of firebases along the riverbank. Our heavy support will be with us within forty-eight hours minimum. In the meantime we will recce the nearest firebase and the mountain pass, get a feel for the enemy's strength. Remind them the Cyrric Rangers are reconnoitring their positions in force."

The nine other officers and NCOs, either sitting at the foldout table the maps were laid on, or standing behind, listened intently. A few smoked. Talvera's 2IC, Lieutenant Marcos Hassid, nodded firmly in agreement.

"Now that we have reached our objective, the enemy will expect us to hold our position and adopt defensive posture." Talvera swiped a hand through the air, "no! We are an aggressive reconnaissance unit, and we will recce aggressively. The Cyrric Rangers will not sit idle whilst the enemy shores up his defences. At zero five-thirty I want engines running. Hassid, you will take our motorcycle scouts down Highway Six and follow on with a platoon. Take the lascannon with you. Those not in Hassid's platoon will punch east along the river with me, and get eyes on the closest firebase. Honour and fidelity."

"Honour and fidelity," the others muttered.

Chairs were pushed back as the mercenaries rose and quietly filed out of the tent, returning to their respective guntrucks to prepare for the step-off. Talvera exchanged a few words with Hassid before the latter left too.

Leaning back in his chair at the back of the tent, Talvera took his lighter from the breast pocket of his smock and lit up. "I supposed you heard all that now?" he said aloud.

Izuru had waited patiently for the other mercenaries to depart, and now, with Talvera alone, she stepped through the narrow slit. The mercenary commander was slouched in a chair smoking. At Izuru's arrival he smiled wryly. "Not social creatures are you?"

Saying nothing, Izuru placed a hand on one of the maps and twisted it around. Alongside it were black and white photos taken by reconnaissance aircraft. One in particular caught her eye. It was a human starship half-buried in the ground. Amidships and the aft section were jutting upwards at a shallow angle. Even from the grainy photographs she recognised the structure. It was Space Marine pattern, there was no mistaking it.

"No Sacra tonight, Sniper. Not before an operation." Talvera pressed a finger to his temple and squinted. "You've fired that rifle. I trust it was with good reason."

"An enemy firebase is not far away," Izuru murmured.

"We know that."

"Did you know that a unit of Space Marines are garrisoned there?"

"I did not," Talvera rose and studied the photos on the opposite side of the table. "There was initial concern about Marines in the area of operations. This ship here is Marine-pattern," Talvera reached up to steady a lamp hanging from a hook then aimed a finger at the photo Izuru had studied. "A cruiser or heavy frigate perhaps. Difficult to tell from these images. Did you see with your own eyes?"

"From afar," Izuru, thinking quickly, began to lie. "Marine infantry garrison this firebase here," she indicated a blown-up image of a roughly circular set of dugouts bordered by black fields of barbed-wire. "The imperials gave ground to reinforce the ruse that they are retreating. They are stronger than you believe. Why did they give up one of their precious Kasrs?"

"The Cyrric Rangers will recon the enemy's positions nonetheless. We shall recon in force, for the the violence of action shall be to our advantage," Talvera brought a hand down on the table. "Do what the enemy least expects us to do. Attack."

"Then attack with the cultists first," Izuru leant forwards, wearing a mask of urgency, trying to sway Talvera to her. "They are expendable, so expend them. One of your Rangers' lives is worth ten – twenty of theirs."

Talvera glanced up from the maps, his eyes twinkling. "You have a compelling voice, Sniper. Many men in the past will have no doubt been swayed by your words. But at the end of the day you are still just a xeno; and I am human. A proud officer of the Cyrric Rangers is what I am. And I do not take orders from your kind. Not now. Not ever. If your eyes and rifle are all I can rely on, then what was it that you were engaging?"

"When idle, I find something to kill."

"What business does a sniper have in hand-to-hand combat? Or did you think I would not notice what is under your hood?" Talvera eyed her steadily.

"He is dead," Izuru pulled back the slack in her hood, drawing it up her forehead, showing Talvera her face. "It was not clean."

"You should have taken him prisoner. The information he might have had would have been useful," Talvera shook his head in disappointment. "Get out of here. Go and find your friends, the Tabors. I have no more use for you, Sniper."

Loathing the mercenary commander more and more, Izuru swept out of the tent, flinging both flaps outwards as she went. Come the morrow and you may find the Cyrric Rangers no longer answer to you, human, Izuru thought, a scheme beginning to form in her mind.

Woulter Leurbach sat against the wheel of a guntruck, Peter beside him. The two were now unofficial highlanders, having been accepted by the other Gellens, if only partly so. Callum Lorne, Donal Tsak, Ben Borens, and the rest were still in their company. Not a single one wished to mingle with the cultists, and the mercenaries were all strangers to them.

"Dad," Peter nudged Woulter. "Dad, it's the stickie."

On the verge of dozing off, Woulter started when a tall shadow fell across him.

"Do not trust these soldiers of fortune," the stickie hissed vehemently.

The Highlanders, Lorne and Tsak especially, paled at the xeno's sudden appearance. She was different, angry, distraught, Woulter realised. Something had changed in her.

"You look like you been in the wars," Woulter struggled to his feet, shocked when the stickie drew her hood back, showing the swelling bruises on her cheeks and brow.

"It bleeds," Lorne remarked when the stickie wiped away a trail of blood dripping from her nose.

"Aw no, no more o' this," Borens, a Vintok Carbine in his hands, rose and advanced upon the stickie angrily.

"Borens, sit down!" Lorne snapped.

Woulter saw the spike bayonet, unfolded beneath the barrel, glinting in the light from the distant fires. Borens held his carbine at port arms, thrusting it out before him towards the stickie. "Enough with this xeno! She's a fucking stickie," he spat, in a hysterical fury. "She ain't said one fucking word too. Not one word till now! Why?"

"This one's not enemy." Woulter, standing up, spread his arms wide and stepped between Borens and the stickie. "We're short of allies here. And we can't trust these mercs, like she said."

"Nah, this one's a lying, manipulative bitch." Borens was sweating. "And we've had enough of her."

"Yeah."

"Too right."

"Only good xeno's a dead one."

The other Gellens, minus Lorne and Tsak, assembled in a group around Borens, who hefted his bayonet menacingly.

"Oi, lay off," Tsak, dismayed at his brothers' sudden animosity towards the stickie, also placed himself in front of her. "We're here to kill imperials, aren't we? I couldn't care less 'bout this stickie, sure."

"Stand down, you mad lot," Lorne sauntered into the Gellens' midst, keeping a light tone. "Borens, raise your rifle. You're gonna have someone's eye out with it."

"Wha' 'bout the stickie bitch, uh?" Borens tried to shove Tsak aside, earning a shove from him back.

"Yeah, come on, let's string her up!"

"Nah, no-one's stringing anyone up!" Lorne shouted. "You'll make up one stickie life with many many imperials. They deserve it more than she does."

"She's gone," Woulter, glancing at where the stickie had stood, realised she had slipped away, unnoticed with all the arguing going on.

"Fuck me…" someone said.

"She's…," Borens gaped.

Where the stickie had been there remained only the footmarks left in the grass. How does she do it? Woulter wondered.

"There. Gone for good" Lorne clapped his hands together. "Back in your fucking dossbags now, no more chat about it."

"I saw her," Peter said quietly when Woulter slumped next to him. "I saw her leave."

"I don't think it'll be the last we've seen of her," Woulter rested his head in one hand.

"Hope to Terra you're wrong," Lorne squatting beside them, wore a dark expression. "If she shows up again there'll be a lynching. My lads have had enough of xenos."

"She won't harm us—"

"You can't know that, you just can't. Them xenos don't think how we do. They just ain't civilised like us either."

"She – the stickie – she won't hurt us, Dad?" Peter asked after Lorne had gone.

"No, Peter."

"Why not?"

"Because she is a parent herself."

"They look like us. So does that mean they have babies like us? You said when a man and a woman love one another…"

"That you'll find out for yourself when you're older, Peter," Woulter ruffled his son's shoulder. "Sleep now. Be ready for an early start."

Kasr Kraf, Cadia Secundus, 06:49

Fuelled by increasing concentrations of coffee and stimulants, General Ursarker Edgar Creed was beginning to feel the days-old fatigue catch up to him, hampering his judgment and making him twitchy and irritable.

It was before dawn on the fortieth day. Creed lay on a cot in a small side-chamber just off the operations room, his reading glasses in one hand, and a fragment of tapestry in the other. Burned by fire and tattered with age, the coloured cloth nonetheless meant the galaxy to Creed; even more than Cadia did.

Love is a smoke raised with the fumes of sighs. Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes. Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness, most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserved sweet. For Ursarker and Elyzabeth. Life partners.

The fire had taken away most of the text but Creed knew it off by heart. Where it had originated – who had said it – Elyzabeth had told him many years ago. Time however had faded the name in Creed's mind, as had the memory of her face. Now Cadia was all that remained in his life.

A soft buzzing from the doorway intercom ripped Creed away from past memories. He became the lord castellan again; to his displeasure. "My Lord Castellan. Admiral Quarren is awaiting your presence, sir."

Awakening fully and somehow feeling wearier than when he had fallen asleep, Creed sat up in his cot, lifting his arms above his head and stretching, smarting at being referred to as lord castellan instead of his real military rank. At fifty-four, Creed was as fit as the nineteen and twenty year olds' in the shock battalions of 8th Infantry Brigade, his former appointment. At least, that was what he liked to think. Command was, more often than not, standing around issuing orders to units many miles away, and without ever even seeing the enemy. As a colonel, and the OC of 8th Brigade, Creed had been able to command closer to the frontline, being a lot more mobile in the field than back at General Headquarters. Such a physically inactive lifestyle was what generals had to reside to, for they had no business commanding troops on the frontline; it was simply not allowed.

"Yes," Creed growled, fumbling with the corners of his double-breasted khaki jacket he had loosened. "Tell the admiral I shall see him presently."

"Right away, My Lord Castellan."

Creed made to issue a harsh rebuttal but found his throat too sore to properly raise his voice. And besides, the aide, a staff officer, young too by his voice, was only following his orders. The fault was with the admiral. Why pay a visit at such a peculiar hour and without prior notification? Confound it.

The glass of water on the chest beside Creed's cot was two-thirds empty and filled with little bubbles. Brushing it with a numb hand, Creed downed it and felt the lukewarm water soothe his throat, settling the headache he had after rising too quickly.

Cadia stands, he said inwardly, rolling his neck and buttoning up his tunic.

"Admiral," Creed greeted Quarren with a curt nod when he entered the command centre. Quarren was around fifty, and just as grey as Creed was. That was another thing command did: it aged people, the stress of it making them appear well beyond their years.

"General," Quarren replied with equal curtness. Disparaging of small talk, Quarren asked, "what is the situation on the ground currently?"

Pulling a cigar from his trouser pocket, Creed lit it and waved a hand across the map in the centre of the room showing Cadia Secundus. "Primus fell last week. Secundus is holding; for now. The battlelines are solidifying outside Kasr Stark. IV Corps is awaiting the enemy offensive. I Corps in the north are manning bastions in the Korg Mountains. II Corps are dug in on the Kolarak Plains. III Corps are being assailed in the south around Martyr's Rampart. The Templars there are holding ground."

"Very well. Are no plans for an evacuation, General? You requested that my battlegroup form a corridor for transports to leave the systems, which I approved. So far we have seen very few ships departing Cadia. The Chaos fleets' integrity, their will to fight, remains strong. We are hard-pressed to maintain this corridor for you."

Irritated a having to explain himself to the admiral, Creed said, "all non-essential personnel, non-Cadians, are being evacuated. This is a low-key operation, Admiral. Were word to spread that an evacuation is underway, morale would suffer greatly, and desertions would rise. At best we can get two to three ships out from Kraf airbase and up to the transports in orbit every six hours. What with disruptions from the bombing and the shuttle time, we are managing to lift very few men per day."

Quarren looked pensive. "Not having trouble from the civilians, are you?"

"No, Admiral. All evacuees are military personnel."

"Wounded?"

"As many as we can. But the enemy will specifically target our hospital ships so the wounded are being ferried out with the able-bodied."

"A wounded man takes the space of seven standing. Forgo evacuating the wounded. Focus on fit men. Men who can fight another day."

Creed balked at the thought of abandoning the wounded, any wounded to the enemy. "Admiral, this is a Guard operation—"

"—No longer," Quarren cut in. "This will be a joint operation. Your guardsmen and my sailors will work hand-in-hand to ensure the evacuation proceeds smoothly. Commander Cudden!"

"Yes, sir?" A younger naval officer in his forties, part of Quarren's three-man attaché, stepped forwards. Like with the other officers present, his gold-braided cap was clasped firmly underneath his arm, and he appeared to be sweating in his thick grey uniform.

"Jack, you will be on the ground at Kraf supervising. Think you'll be able to manage it?"

"Absolutely, sir," Cudden said.

From Cudden's confident demeanour he was apparently grateful that he was being given some meaningful authority, Creed noted, well aware that those that had never seen combat usually acted in that manner.

"Admiral, I already have a man overseeing the evacuation. He is Imperial Logistics Corps," Creed, not wanting to have his operation handed over to the Navy, put quickly.

"Has this officer of logistics experience in naval matters?" Quarren said coldly. "No. Far better an officer of the Navy commands alongside your man. It will be so."

"Can we count on your destroyers acting as terminus for the shuttles, Admiral? Many more men can be taken off if vessels larger than the transports lend their free space."

Thinking for a moment, Quarren said, "I will divert the destroyers Icarus and Basilisk from their squadron. They are all I can give you."

"Two destroyers shall pay dividends, Admiral. I might add that, as a further request, that you employ your Astropaths to keep broadcasting pleas for aid."

"Are yours being somewhat uncooperative?" Quarren asked icily.

"Were they uncooperative in life, it was seldom. The choir beacon our Astros need to broadcast communiques was in Kasr Luten. I sent an officer to retrieve it before the Kasr was abandoned. She is several days overdue. Without that beacon, our psykers are useless."

"I should mention, General, there is a lot of psychic turbulence in the system. Even our Astros are having difficulty in breaking through. The messages we are sending are being met with no reply. We do not know whether the turbulence is hampering our Astros or if they are simply unable to receive the messages in return."

"We need those reinforcements."

Coughing from the smoke in his lungs, Creed thumped his chest. "Very well. As long as the Navy keeps out from under our feet, there will be no problems. Sir, I have a battle to attend to."

"See that you win it," Quarren glowered. "My son's ship went down with all hands the day before yesterday. Make sure it was not in vain. Good morning."

"Good morning, Admiral." Creed watched as Quarren swept away. However much friction Creed felt there was between the Imperial Guard and Navy, it could only worsen with the two branches coordinating directly with one another.

Confound it, Creed glared down at the little shifting icons on the map, representing units from brigade upwards. Now he had to contend with the problem of both Zeke and the Navy. He needed a drink.

NW of Firebase Rakkassan, 06:43

With scouts confirming the location of the enemy firebase three klicks to the south-east, Captain Talvera halted his vanguard of three guntrucks in a clearing and dismounted. Beside his Krupnok-mounted guntruck Talvera knelt with his other officers, spreading a map across the ground, indicating the firebase with a pencil. "This road swings around the dead zone and borders the firebase on the east flank; it's what we'll use to assault closer to the enemy. Meanwhile we send the cultists across the dead zone. They will trip the flares and set off the mines. And hopefully their bodies will fill some of the holes up so we won't have such a struggle crossing it later. Before all this can occur, we send the sappers in to clear lanes through the wire. Does that make sense?"

The officers replied in hushed tones. All knew what they were supposed to do, and all looked forwards to it.

"My Captain!" A voice whispered. One of the last of the scouts sent out had returned.

"Hey, what is it?" Talvera hissed at the breathless scout, who dropped to his knees beside him. "Catch your breath, Irne. Now tell me."

"No Marine presence at the firebase, My Captain."

"None?"

"Just regular infantry, My Captain. And I don't think they're Cadians either."

"No Marines, no Cadians…" Talvera muttered, rubbing his thumb across his fingers.

"And another thing, My Captain, there is someone else out here."

"…Was it a sniper?" Talvera asked slowly.

"It had a long rifle and was wearing some baggy suit. It wasn't her, was it…?" Irne's bright white eyes stood out from his blackened face. They were blinking nervously.

"If anyone sees the stickie again, shoot her," Talvera declared. "Don't bother taking her alive."

He had no use for liars, especially if they were imperial sympathisers.

Dismissing the officers, who went to brief the NCOs, Talvera folded up the map and placed it in the glove compartment. His driver, Ben Elsh, had left the drivers' seat and was guarding the truck with his Wex machine pistol. Propping his own folded Wex in the gap between the seat and gearstick, Talvera put a boot up on the bonnet and reached for a metal can of rats in the bag stuffed behind his seat. Very clever of you, Stickie, but not clever enough, Talvera mused, twisting the metal strip off with his fingers. There has yet to be someone who can outsmart Lysell Talvera. It could have been you, Stickie.

Talvera paused mid-mouthful when his ears detected the sound of an engine, louder and less purring than the light guntrucks he was used to. "Elsh?" Talvera put down his half-eaten can and picked up his Wex.

"Not one of ours," Elsh slung his Wex and climbed up onto the truckbed, taking ahold of the Krupnok and traversing it 180 degrees to aim at the unfamiliar noise.

"Hey, stand to!" Talvera called softly to the others. Not a man was sitting idle though. All had heard the engine and were poised, ready to engage. Good, each man was acting on initiative and had not needed to be ordered.

"My Captain, I can see him," Elsh's thumbs gently squeezed the slack from the Krupnok's dual triggers.

"Hold your fire," Talvera commanded. "Wait till he's close. Wait till we all can see him."

"No. Think he's friendly," Elsh let go of the spade grips and pointed across at another Ranger who was waving at them. "Danz is signalling."

Talvera did not cease aiming his Wex and kept it trained on the vehicle when it appeared from between the trees. It was six-wheeled, tall, with a boxy cab and what looked like an address system with six loudspeakers bolted on top of the flat roof.

"Elsh, cover me," Talvera ordered, striding out from behind the cover of the truck and holding up a hand, signalling the truck to halt. To his right, the other mercs were converging on the – now stationary – vehicle.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" Talvera made a chopping motion across his neck.

The driver complied, killing the engine and raising his hands.

"Hands on the windshield!" Talvera threw the passenger door open and thrust his Wex inside.

"Blessed Vulcanum! What are you?" A sallow-faced man with jutting features and a lazy eye cried.

"You tell us who you are, and maybe we don't waste you," Talvera said.

"I am Maeren Tiron."

Talvera shook his head, "don't know a Tiron. What do you do?"

"Propaganda."

"Why are you here?"

"To convince the enemy that their struggle is folly, that it would be more in their interest to renounce the Imperium and the False Emperor and join our cause."

Talvera gestured to Danz, who yanked open the driver's door and pulled Tiron out roughly.

"Ah! Unhand me, you cur!" Tiron struggled plaintively before being sat down by Danz. "My father is Princeps Malas Tiron of the Legio Vulcanum—"

"Yeah, everyone's father is someone," Talvera sniffed and slung his Wex, coming around the bonnet of the truck and squatting beside Tiron. "What propaganda do you make?"

"I-I don't make it, I just broadcast it to enemy positions," Tiron gulped. "They drop leaflets every now and again too."

"And has it ever worked?"

"Uh, well, no actually."

A ripple of laughter spread through the Rangers. Talvera chuckled too. "Strip him."

"Um, that will not be necessary," Tiron stammered as hands began to tug at his robes.

Very soon Maeren Tiron was sitting there, naked apart from a pair of grey long johns, and shivering.

"Find anything?" Talvera kicked at the man's robe.

"Nothing but a book on the Legio Vulcanum, a medallion, and a wodge of dirty picts," Danz handed them over. "Seems he has quite unique tastes."

The sight of even one of the pictures, the details of which revolted Talvera, caused him to tear the rest up and stamp them into the ground. "Here," he tossed the book and medallion back at Tiron. "You be careful now."

"Am I – am I free?" Tiron rose slowly to his feet, knobbly knees trembling.

"You do your psy-ops shit then get the hell out of my AO," Talvera said.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you," Tiron snatched up his robes and hastened back to his truck.

Expecting a droning recital, Talvera was caught off-guard when an ear-splitting blast of feedback tore through the woods. Slapping his hands over his ears, Talvera gritted his teeth and looked back at Tiron's truck. Every other Ranger too had his hands over his ears.

"BROTHERS…" A deafeningly-loud, canned voice sounded from the speakers, blasting right over Talvera's head.

"You want to do that shit, do it elsewhere!" Talvera shouted, sticking his head inside the empty cab. "Where are you?"

"What, sorry?" Tiron's voice came from in the back.

"Move somewhere else. I didn't say you could mouth off in our bivouac," Talvera said angrily. "You could draw fire, get me or my men killed. Then you'd be in a real world of shit."

"Um, I'm sorry, honoured sir," Tiron, fully-clothed again, climbed through a hatch and back into the driver's seat. "I shall be on my way."

"Yeah, you be on your way, fast."

When Talvera heard the Tiron's faraway voice, it was at a much more acceptable volume.

"Brothers, you are fighting on the wrong side. Turn your guns around. This planet is not yours. We do not wish to harm your homes. Our quarrel is with the Cadian Shock Troopers. They are fanatics bred solely for war, killers without a scrap of remorse. The commissars too for they are sadistic despots with a complete and utter disregard for human life, butchers itching to murder their own men, seeing them only through the sights of a bolt pistol. The Space Marines, the greatest enemy. When have they ever lifted a finger to help you, these so-called saviours of humanity? They care nothing for the sufferings of the ordinary soldier; you. And your so-called God Emperor. What is he to you? A false deity kept alive through oppression and terror your own government, the Ecclesiarchy, the Imperial Cult, the Inquisition. All rule you through fear. Join the liberators now. Join us and be treated as individuals, not as numbers or letters. Join us and free the galaxy from the bloated pox-ridden carcass that is the Imperium of Man…"

Firebase Rakkassan, 07:07

The big drums of propaganda continued to do a head trip on the occupants of Rakka, I included. Half-kneeling, half-lying in a narrow slit trench, the brim of my cover resting on the lip, I listened to the same lines being recited over and over again from the unseen speakers. Sleeping in such an awkward position had kept the nightmares from pouring through the gaps in my mental perimeter. It was a small, albeit uncomfortable price to pay for a mostly undisturbed night. The sole exception was a rifleman firing a shot into the distant treeline the moment the canned voice had come on. Somewhere down the line, Draino barked at the shooter to cease fire, for he was out of range. The sharp crack, sparking a brief moment of madness inside, made me jump up, clutching my M-36 in one hand and entrenching tool in the other. Wide-eyed and alert, I climbed up onto the parapet, out of cover, and stood there, unsure of where I was or what I was supposed to be doing.

"That you up there, Larn?" Kat growled, reaching up to tug at my trouserleg. "Get down."

Flopping back down like an automaton, I let my head fall forwards until it hit the earth wall with a soft thunk, and I was asleep again.

"Kat, I've lost the platoon," I murmured when someone tripped over me.

"What? Sorry, Sarn't, didn't see ya down there," a new voice said apologetically. "You been outside all night?" he asked, moving away without waiting for an answer.

CQMS, I remembered my new appointment with frustration, then the reason why. I needed to find Kat.

Draino, Kat, and the other section leader were inside the sandbag tower. Staff Sergeant Perandis was there with them. "Sarn't Larn, I think you have somewhere you need to be."

"Yeah, Staff Sarn't," I nodded quickly. "Kat, I've been—"

"The section leaders have been made aware of Ten Platoon's change in hands, Sarn't," Perandis waved a hand at me to leave. "This is not your home anymore. On your way now."

Kat shrugged at me and shook his head, what can you do?

Casting my eyes to the ground, I backed out of the sandbag tower, losing the platoon without ever having seen action dug into me deeply. Smarting with shame I trudged, with little haste, over to the east side of Rakka, where CQMS' small bunker was located just behind 12 Platoon's sector. Along the way I heard the distant whine of jet turbine engines. Probably Waldo returning to pick up the colonel; good riddance I say.

"Sir, Crow Five-Seven's incoming!" Len Wharton sat upright in his chair when he recognised WO2 Waldo's voice in his ears. "They're bringing in a load of ammo too."

"Colonel!" Captain Meller called to Lieutenant Colonel Lapraik. "One slick inbound for you. What's the ETA, Wharton?"

"Two – two minutes," Wharton held up two fingers.

"Well, Captain I could say it was a pleasure…" The colonel smiled icily, not quite reaching her eyes. "But to lie to a fellow officer would amount to conduct unbecoming." Nevertheless she shook Meller's hand.

"I don't know, Colonel. Your presence has seen an acute increase in morale," Meller smiled in return.

"For some. Good day, Captain. Oh, and smarten yourself up. There's a good chap." With that Lapraik strode out of the bunker, Captain Ruth and their signaller in tow.

"Phew," Meller automatically loosened the collar of his combats now that the stiff officer had departed. "There's a relief."

His slick wobbling ungainly from the netting of supply crates dangling underneath, Hugh Waldo banked gently, careful not to get the load into an uncontrollable swing. If that happened he would be all over the sky, and maybe even be forced to drop his cargo. "Cannon-Three, this is Crow Five-Seven. We are on final approach to your callsign's location, ETA two minutes. Over."

"Cannon-Three, understood. Good to hear your voice again, Crow."

A tiny flash to starboard caught Waldo's eye. "Muzzle flash to your north, Cannon-Three," he said right before green tracers began to zip past his cockpit. Dammit, they've seen my cargo. I'll need to drop it if I have any hope of avoiding that ground fire.

Hauling his control yoke to port, Waldo tried banking further to avoid the gunfire, it having found the range immediately and was now spattering against the fuselage and wings. "Cannon-Three, this is Crow Five-Seven, we're taking heavy automatic weapon fire from a ground battery to your north."

"Roger that Five-Seven."

This thing's handling like a brick, Waldo grimaced behind his mask, rolling his ship this way and that to try and shake off the barrage. Switching to crew comms, Waldo spoke to Hensen, who was manning the starboard bolter. "Hensen, can't you do something about that gun?"

"I can't see where the fire's coming from," Hensen had stuck his head out of the open door to try and pinpoint the invisible gun's position. "It's somewhere in those trees beyond the dead zone."

Waldo felt a judder then a powerful vibration through his yoke. "We've been hit. We've been hit." His pedals too felt suddenly light.

"Cannon-Three. Can you make it into land, Crow?"

"Negative, can't manoeuvre. We've dropping your supplies. Russ, drop the net!"

"Got it, Skipper," Russ Reath shouted. "We're clear."

"Pulling out. Good luck down there, Cannon-Three." Waldo then added, "Sorry we couldn't reach you today. We'll try again tomorrow."

"…No," Colonel Lapraik watched in dismay as the banking slick was clipped by tracers. Whichever way the pilot turned, the gun followed, always finding its mark and refusing to have its aim disrupted. "Land here, damn you," she muttered. The choir beacon which the lord castellan had placed so much hope on was on the ground at her feet ready to be delivered to Kasr Kraf. The pilot only need brave the lone gun that was firing at him and drop his supplies, then land and pick her up.

"Colonel, he's turning back," Captain Ruth pointed at the slick as the netting holding the supply crates was released, dropping well outside the perimeter.

"Oh, you coward," Lapraik, incensed, whirled about and made for the CP, wishing fury on the pilot for his apparent cowardice.

"Bring him back! Bring him back now!" she raged, bursting in on Captain Meller.

"The pilot was taking accurate and continuous fire, Colonel. He had no choice but to pull out," Meller, glancing up from the map, said flatly.

"You!" Lapraik jabbed a finger at the private wearing a headset. "Give me that."

"He won't come back, Colonel," Meller shrugged. "He wasn't going to risk his ship."

Plucking the Rascal headset from the signaller, Lapraik took off her beret and replaced it with the thick earpieces. "Pilot, this is Lieutenant Colonel Lapraik, Imperial Intelligence Corps. I order you to turn your Valkyrie around and land at my location at once."

"Crow Five-Seven. Negative, negative, Niner. My ship took damage from a heavy automatic weapon. Unsure of the extent at this time. Any attempt to land would have made us an even better target. Once we've returned to base, assessed the damage, and performed the necessary repairs, we will return to your location on a different vector. Over."

"It was one gun, only one!" Lapraik struggled to refrain from sounding irate. "I am on an important mission. I am holding you responsible now, do you understand?"

"Five-Seven. Roger that, Niner."

"Turn back!"

"Negative. Negative. Unable to comply with your orders at this time. Over."

"I shall see that your commanding officer disciplines you harshly."

No reply came. The pilot had cut the link!

"He…" Lapraik was about to turn her wrath upon the occupants of the CP but restrained herself. Pulling the headset off, she passed it back to the signaller and carefully seated her beret upon her head. "Captain Meller. You will provide me with motor transport."

Meller, still calm as ever, had lit up and was shaking the flaming match out. "What's so important then, huh, Colonel? This thing you're carrying. What's so special about it? Why does the lord castellan need it so badly?"

"That is classified, Captain. It is not for an officer of infantry to know about."

"Colonel, if it would help our mission…" Captain Ruth spoke up.

"We would be disobeying orders, Captain, the lord castellan's orders that I received from his mouth in person."

"It's a choir beacon," Ruth rushed over his words. "We need it for our Astros to break through the psychic storms around—"

"Captain!" Lapraik, enraged, bore down on him.

"Please, Colonel. I'm only an intelligence officer. I don't want to be here when the enemy isolates this firebase, which looks like it'll be very soon," Ruth cringed. "I'm sorry. Write me up for it."

"I shall," Lapraik said grimly.

"Take my Wolf," Meller said. "Get yourself back down Highway One, fast. Just be aware of the refugees. You might find it slow going."

"My gratitude, Captain," Lapraik raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Meller met her eyes briefly then returned his attention to his maps. Long as it gets you out of my hair, sister.

Buried underneath layers of sandbags, corrugated iron, and earth shored up by wooden planks, CQMS dwelt, and now so did his apprentice. Though I still had my three stripes I could not help but feel that I was standing in a dead-end corridor, one without any windows. What niggled me were the copious quantities of unusual weaponry CQMS had stashed away. A pair of fuel tanks connected to a Type-13X flamethrower in one corner. A Scoba 83-millimetre recoilless rifle balanced against a shelf stacked with rectangular blocks of Composition C, all fresh with the detonator wire buried within them, taken their foil-lined boxes. All this should surely have been available in number to the three platoons, but it was all still in CQMS's hands, and the man did not appear to be willing to start handing them out at any time.

"Colour Sarn't, all this stuff 'ere should be with the platoons," I said as we were going through stocks of black boot-polish.

"What stuff? I don't see any stuff," CQMS said. "Keep counting."

"That bloody flamethrower back there, or those blocks of RDX. They're all just sittin' there."

CQMS put down his tablet and stylus on his knee and patiently regarded me. "Sergeant, would you care to demonstrate the correct operating procedure for the Type-13X?"

"Wha – I don't know how, Colour Sarn't."

"Or the correct implementation of Composition C?"

"I don't know, Colour Sarn't." I was starting to feel like a fool.

"Precisely. You've answered your own question there, Sergeant. You don't know. I would certainly struggle to find a man with the qualifications enough to operate – safely – the Type-13X or Composition C without burning fatally or blowing himself or his colleagues up."

"Yes, Colour Sarn't," I replied mechanically.

"Now, what count do you have?" CQMS returned to counting the number of boot polish tins we had like I had never asked the question.

"Eigh—" I paused. Gazing off into space, I heard the telltale pop of mortars. There weren't ours. "Incoming mail, Colour Sarn't," I said.

"Ignore it. Mortars cannot penetrate bunker roofs. Now what count do you have?"

Kill me dead, I gave CQMS the tally of boot polishing tins as mortars began to explode outside. This was it. Zeke was getting ready for the assault; I knew it. But now I was stripped of my authority and stuck inside a bunker with an infernally boring task. With little else to do, I laboured through the stacks of shaving cream, bootlaces, beret flashes, gas masks, sewing kits, every tiny piece of blasted kit a grunt would ever own whilst wishing thoroughly I was back in the trenches with the platoon.