(III) - Where The Stars Of Terra Grow

by PhantomStag458

Nemesis Tessera has fallen, the Imperials are in retreat, Larn lies in a coma. Rescued by the Craftworld Eldar, the shattered forces of the Imperial Guard and Navy are pursued by the Chaos hordes to Cadia. With their backs to the wall the defenders of the Cadian Gate prepare to face the enemy in a confrontation that will decide the fate of the Imperium. Sequel to The Willing Flesh.

38. Chapter 37

The Citadel, 05:34

The harsh crack Izuru had thought was her had come from the imposter she had flung before her and used to cushion her fall. Landing with a thump upon the sloping rooftop beneath the stained glass window, Izuru kept the body underneath her as she slid downwards to the second, longer drop. In freefall for all of half a second, Izuru took the time to ensure the body was planted underneath her once more before the loud crunch of breaking bones and sudden impact threw her off. Rolling hard upon her shoulder, Izuru was on her feet in a heartbeat and falling upon the body. Taking the head, Izuru sunk her fist at where the nose was, hearing a satisfying crack. Then, dragging the hood off, Izuru let the imposter's head drop back onto the surface of the landing pad. Opting to spare the inquisitor's man from her wrath – if only for a moment – Izuru coldly drew back her boot and stamped on the man's neck, ending him. Further spitting upon his corpse and coming forth with a ream of dire expletives, Izuru glanced up at the broken window, seeing the tall figure of the inquisitor silhouetted. Save yourself for me, snake, for I will return with fire in my blood, and a blade in my hand.

Bright spotlights warmed Izuru's back as she crossed the wide, circular landing pad at a sprint. Unable to tell if any of the parked vessels were locked down, Izuru ignored the temptation to try to board, conscious of sirens in the distance beginning to wail, and the sharp glare of the lamps that were trained on her. Blocking out her body's angry protests to stop and take stock of the latest damage she had done to it, Izuru channelled everything into a cool, collected fury at the inquisitor and all humans in general. Let the Great Serpent consume your souls instead of mine, beasts.

Sliding down a ladder at the far edge of the pad, Izuru dropped out of sight of the searchlights, landing within a warren of piping, narrow crawlspaces, and vents that continually hissed. West. Head west. Izuru had caught a glimpse of the river over on her left, allowing her to acquire her bearings. As she scrambled underneath a pipeline, a hot blast of air engulfed her from above. Wind from an inquisition gunship, a Valkyrie, stalled her progress. Narrow, probing beams, emitting from the lowered ramp, worked up and down the area, passing over the pipes Izuru was hiding under. Lying still, Izuru waited for the gunship to complete its sweep before crawling ahead. Kaela Mensha Khaine, Izuru said to herself, further swearing when the pipes turned sharply downwards, blocking her path and forcing her to squeeze around them. The purple bruises in her side given to her by the grenades dropped from the bridge complained incessantly, reminding her of the punishment her body had endured over the past week.

Cutting short her inner turmoil, Izuru's ears detected an odd noise she had never heard before. A deep shout that could not have come from any human mouth, sounding over and over. It was barking. Wolves? Izuru shivered, more out of fear than any chilliness in the short blasts of wind that circulated the areas around the underside of the landing pad. Dogs? The four-legged canines were unfamiliar to her. The growling beasts sparking a strange, unexplainable anxiety within her that only grew as the barking drew closer. From a grate only a few feet above Izuru's head, a pitter-patter of paws, and an excited sniffing was followed by a shout from the beast's handler. "There is someone down here."

At the human's exclamation there came running feet and the glare of torches. Already having passed the grate, Izuru heard further shouting when it became clear to her pursuers that they had discovered her whereabouts.

"Where does that passage come out?" a muffled voice barked.

"It drops down to the riverbank," came the reply.

The river! There was still a chance of escape if that route had not already been cut off. Khaine deliver me from the barbarians, Izuru prayed over the hammering resonating from grates ahead.

"He's there!" someone hooted when Izuru crawled underneath the light of a torchbeam.

"I have a clear shot." Another cried, trying to force the muzzle of his weapon through the narrow bars.

"Do not shoot. Do not shoot. We must not deprive the inquisitor of his captive." An officer likely, shouted. "Non-lethal shots only. Bring the dogs over here."

"Grenade!" A pin was dropped as somebody readied a bomb to drop though the grate.

"Do as you were told!" the officer yelled, trying to curb his men's over-eagerness. "I require the dogs here now!"

Swearing, this time in Gothic, Izuru felt the walls closing in on her. The anxiety gave way to panic as the hunters drew in. Her aversion of enclosed spaces resurfaced.

"Artificer, here. Open these gates."

A buzz of a power tool further galvanised Izuru. With the enemy cutting their way through from the surface, it would not be long before the dogs would be let off their leashes and sent in after her. The thought of the panting maw filled with sharp teeth and slobber only served to drive her further on, determined – desperate – to be free. Keladi, James, Woulter, Peter, Aimo. What would happen if she was not there to protect them?

With the sounds of pursuit receding, Izuru gripped a pair of pipes overhead and used them to pull herself out into a tunnel that ran perpendicular to the passage she had just left. Set in the curving wall, at intervals, were gates, all of which were sealed and bearing vertical slits in the same manner as the grates in the passage behind. Putting her eye to the narrow opening, Izuru saw the orange glow and the shape of the buildings across the 200-metre-wide swell. So close, yet unreachable. The same shut and bolted gates along the tunnel stared back at her as she roved up and down, looking for a way out. Come on. Izuru pounded a fist upon the cold steel in frustration.

From outside, the moan of falling bombs drew Izuru to a gate. Far-off flashes were followed by the rumble of explosions, occurring out of sync with one another. The drone of bombers flying at high-altitude resided over the city, an unseen cloud of winged beasts bearing packages of death in their bosoms. Mesmerised, if only for a moment, at the strangely artistic extent of destruction, Izuru turned her eyes upwards when the bombs began thumping on the void shield which still held. If only you broke now. I beg you, break now and drown this hateful place in fire. Answer me, Asuryan.

Leaning against the gate, Izuru waited for the bark of the beasts as they bore down on her. Continuing without relent, the bombing fuelled the burning city with an ungodly intensity. Such raw, crude power could not have possibly left anyone alive. Only within the deepest holes could beings survive. Izuru hoped Keladi had found shelter and was thinking of her.

A watery explosion just outside the gate followed a high-pitched whistling of a falling bomb. This was quickly repeated with more and more ordnance landing on Izuru's side of the river; in the water and overhead. Just like that! Elation gripped her when the enemy bombers began delivering unhindered payloads on the citadel. The void shield had collapsed. Again, just like that. Blessed Asuryan, it is a sign. Izuru let out a tiny gasp of relief, slapping her palm upon the gate. I am going to live. Surely the pursuit would be called off due to the suddenly non-existent protection above the humans' heads. Let them cower in their bunkers, Izuru thought contemptibly. See how long they hold.

Optimistic now that the bombs had driven her pursuers away, Izuru prowled around, searching for a way to open any one of the gates that barred her way. From further along the tunnel, lost in the blackness, a roar that was unlike any explosive rolled towards Izuru, revealing itself as a surging torrent of water. Gritting her teeth, Izuru scrabbled for purchase upon the unmarked surface of the hatch, feeling herself be carried backwards without a handhold to grasp. Horizontal shafts of light shone through the water, the narrow hatches in the gates letting it flow out into the river. So close to the way out, Izuru strove vainly to get a hand around the opening. Each time she failed and was carried further down. At last finding the wet metal, Izuru hauled herself against the current, blind with the water pummelling her face, and tried to force herself through the opening that could not possible have been wide enough for a human-sized body. It was not. Unable to open her mouth to let out a moan of discomfort, Izuru wriggled her shoulders through, groaning when her chest caught on the sharp rim of the hatch. Stoppered briefly, the water burst out from behind, sending her shooting down towards the river below. She broke the surface like a bomb, floating downwards in a brief period of unconsciousness. Coming around, Izuru inadvertently took a gulp of the disgusting water, spitting it back out as she swum towards the light. On reaching air, Izuru saw that both sides of the river were on fire, the east bank, and the citadel; having had their first bombs. Hoping the confusion would grant her the cover she needed to escape, Izuru struck out for the west bank, thoughts of revenge intermingling with worry for her friends.

---

12 Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 06:39

Simon Corta's outrage that fully one-third of his remaining men had taken off without his knowledge turned to alarm when Corporal Dranno, the highest-ranking NCO and now acting sergeant, had rushed into Corta's makeshift company command post and blurted that there were personnel with unknown intent approaching the CCS from the east. "Could be Garst returning with ammo? I mean, maybe he sent out some of the lads to find food or meds for the wounded?" Dranno guessed.

"Then why did he not tell me of his intentions first?" Corta, not expecting an answer from Dranno, put on his ceramite cover and hurried down to the entrance hall of the hab with the NCO in tow. "Where? From the east you say?"

"Yes, sir." Dranno pointed along the street. "There they are."

A bit bloody late telling me that, Corta thought, raising his glasses. "Cheeky bugger," he muttered. Larn was in the forefront with Garst, leading a party of roughly thirty men, two-thirds of whom were neither company men nor Siphanis. Their sighting drew curious onlookers. Wharton, still bearing his useless vox in the hope that it would be someday repaired, waved. The Tabors, Peter and Woulter, stumbled outside, the son supporting the father who had taken shrapnel in his left arm and left leg. Both man and boy's face lit up at the return of their brothers-in-arms. Corta, unimpressed, glared.

"Sergeant, get me a detail quickly." Corta intended to properly arrest Larn before the situation could get out of hand. Why else was he approaching at the head of an armed group? He wanted to take command and dispose of the last remaining obstacle: Corta.

"Morning, sir," Larn said, halting his men a short distance from Corta's. Alongside him was Aimo Garst, Cyrano Semirechye, Joe Herle, the Highlanders, and the cooks; all armed.

"Mutiny, is it?" Corta glanced disparagingly at the faces of whom he had once called soldiers.

"What?" Larn frowned.

"I let you off arrest – for now at least – until we are safely evacuated. Now what am I seeing before me? It looks awfully like a mutiny, Private. D'ambrosia you may have got the better of, but this ends now."

Larn began to speak but was cut off by Aimo. "Sorry, sir." Aimo raised a hand, stepping forwards into the gap between parties. "We've given you the wrong impression."

"The impression I'm getting is that your ex-sergeant would remove me from command because I ordered his xenos bitch to be subject to the firing squad." As the words cleared his mouth, a murmur of discontent circulated the men still under Corta's command, as did those with Larn and Garst.

"The xenos has been and gone. And we're not any worse 'cause of her, sir. If it weren't for her, we would have had it far rougher up on the perimeter. It was she that manned the autocannon. She that zipped Nathaniel enough so that we could waste him."

"Sir." It was Larn's turn to cut Aimo off. Slinging his Lecta, Larn said, glancing aside at the broad front of the muncip building as he did so, "this isn't a mutiny, sir. And I'm sorry for zipping D'ambrosia. Our policy rates all xenos as enemy, which I can understand. But it's not about xenos anymore." Raising a finger Larn added, "can you hear that? That's some of our lot in contact with Zeke in the streets north of here."

Corta had in fact heard the gunfire a lot earlier, troubling him enough that he wished to be away from the CCS and marching down to the evac points before Zeke could catch up, and preferably before sun-up. "And that is precisely why we are leaving, Private." Corta gestured to Dranno and a few of his men to go and arrest Larn. "Please hand your weapons over and come with me. I don't want any accidents to happen."

"Not happening, sir." Larn retreated with Aimo, both unslinging their weapons. "We're staying here."

"Staying here?" Corta aghast, looked first from Larn, to Aimo then to the others, baffled at the bold declaration. "You do realise that by staying here, you're condemning yourselves. After everything that has happened since Rakka. You are so close to safety, and you fling it aside like some cheap harlot."

"Sir, there are 300 wounded men in that house. By not staying here, we're condemning them to die. I'm staying, Aimo's staying. Everyone that's here with me is staying. We want payback for Rakka, sir, don't you?"

Swallowing, Corta replied, "alright. You can die in glory defending this mass grave, maybe salvage your reputation somewhat. Or live and face the consequences of your actions at the perimeter. Anyone that wants to live can accompany me to the evac points. I will be leaving right away."

With Corta came Len Wharton, Dranno, Arrigo, Colvin, Rhidian, the two Tabors, and a smattering of others; putting his number at roughly twenty. Corta's proposal for his people to remain with the Siphanis was flat-out rejected. The remains of the pioneer platoon would also not fight alongside Larn, with various members casting livid eyes frequently in his direction before they tramped off southwards. Not a man in the divided house that was Cannon Company spoke as they watched Corta's party depart on foot. Only Peter and Woulter Leurbach bid anyone farewell. In their case, Larn and the Highlanders, having become surprisingly close with the latter three.

"B-bye, James." Peter smiled. "I hope you pull through. I'm – I'm sorry about Izuru."

"Don't be sorry, lad." Larn shook the boy's hand, keeping his face blank. "You get your dad through this now. You see the smoke rising in the sky? You walk there, you get on a ship, you go home. Anyone tries to stop you, give 'em a bunch o' fives. You're a man now. A proper field grunt." To Woulter, Larn said, "worth a million credits that wound is."

"Hope it takes both me and Peter out of the fight." Woulter smiled weakly. "There's no way I'm letting him go off on his own with you."

"Nah, you're making the right decision here, old man." Larn shook Woulter's good hand.

"I'd cuff you for that remark." Woulter snorted. "Never had to cuff Peter. I taught him manners."

"Yeah, and you're gonna be able to use those manners when you find something better to do with your lives. An officer of mine once told me to find some better men, men that knew how to build, think, and create, rather than destroy as we're doing now. I reckon I found a couple of 'em right here."

"Oh, I don't know about that…" Woulter shook his head. "And I don't think this is the right decision we're making either. We're – we're running out on our friends. You, Aimo, the Highlanders, you're all doing something noble here. We're running away. It feels cowardly."

"Survival seems cowardly. But it's the right thing to do. Peter, if your dad tells you to turn around and come back here, you right-out ignore him. You're not in any trouble here. You can leave with Corta. We've had our differences yeah, but Corta's only looking out for you."

"He's looking out for you, James."

"I'm already binned. I can't leave here, ever. They'll have me hung – hanged – for what I've done. At least this way I can do something properly before… before my real estate deal." Pausing, Larn scratched the rough underside of his chin, his expression one of acceptance. "Now, please leave. Go on, iggery."

---

Seeing off Woulter and Peter, I turned and was immediately surrounded by Aimo, Cyrano, the Highlanders, and the rest of the odds and sods we had pulled out of the cellars, all throwing questions at me; calm discussion being thrown aside callously in favour of disorganised argument.

"Aimo." I grabbed Aimo's shoulder and shouted. "Take charge here. Organise the men into fireteams. I'll go over their disposition once I've spoken to the MO."

"Right." Aimo nodded.

"And watch her." I jerked my head in Keladi's direction. She had wisely stayed in the background during the stand-off but was now attracting some attention.

"What do I with her?" Aimo pushed outwards at grunts who were crowding him. "Come on, you lot, give us some room here."

Grasping Aimo's shoulder, I said in his ear, "she's Izuru's sister."

"What – really?" Aimo stared, astonished.

"You know what I mean."

"Well, I don't but…"

"Just – just keep her closeby." I patted him on the shoulder and shoved my way through the throng in the direction of the CCS's gate. Leaping up the stone steps, I went inside and called out. "Where's the commanding officer here?"

"Downstairs, mate." An orderly looked me up and down curiously, aware of how bad I smelt and my current state of dress which, to him, may have looked completely barbaric. Whatever, I did not care how I looked, or that I was several weeks overdue a shower and appeared terribly scruffy.

"You the MO here?" I asked an officer in a white coat after trotting down a narrow flight of steps that led down to a cellar. The officer had short, curly hair, green eyes and a somewhat weak chin. He was also sweating profusely and looked several days overdue of sleep. No different from our lot then.

"No, sorry. We have no medical officers here currently," the officer replied, glancing at the stairs then to me.

"Right, you're a doctor then?"

"Well, I'm a surgeon more than I am a doctor really."

"You're the ranking officer here though, sir?"

"Yes, I'm Major Fillip Serreck. Er, I thought your unit just left. At least that was what I was told…"

"Lieutenant Corta ordered us to dig into the grounds and the streets around the CCS. We'll be keeping Zeke away from here so your team can get as many wounded out of here as possible, sir."

"Oh, that's very noble of him. Well, we're grateful for your assistance…"

"Larn, Major."

"Hm, alright, Larn. You're not perchance the man your Lieutenant Corta mentioned as being under arrest, are you? I wouldn't want a deserter sharing the facilities here with men that deserve them."

The lie came easily. "No, sir. I'm Sarn't James Larn, Corta's 2IC. My staff sergeant was killed yesterday. The man under arms – Lance Corporal Careth Belisha – went with Mister Corta just now. He'll be turned over to provosts as soon as they can be found, sir."

Serreck appeared to swallow the lie hook, line, and sinker. "Fine. That business is over then. Good riddance."

"Yes, sir. At what – at what rate are you removing the wounded?"

"Well…" Serreck stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat. The thing was stained all over with equal amounts of blood and muck. "I'm still waiting for the ambulances to return from the airbase. They may have been waylaid by last night's bombing. Emperor forbid, the road is bad enough as it is."

"How far is it to the airbase?"

"Six klicks."

"Six klicks? They've been gone hours."

"It took me nearly two and a half hours to make the round trip yesterday evening. We can move twelve stretcher cases, spread across three ambulances, if you're looking for numbers, Sergeant."

"…Twelve?"

"That's the most we've been able to make of the situation, Sergeant." Serreck smiled. "I'd accept it. It's all we can do."

"And you've…" I rounded on the empty operating table, dismayed to see it bereft of a patient in need of surgery.

"Shut down the operating theatre, yes. I already informed Lieutenant Corta of this last night. Did he not inform you of our situation?"

"Yes, sir," I said quickly, sensing I was about to get into some hot water. "Sorry, we've had a rough time getting here from our firebase. We're all a bit shagged here."

"Okay, I understand. Is there anything we can do to help with the defences?"

"Any way in from the back of the building, sir? Any doors, windows?"

"Two windows, both at ground level—"

"Shore 'em up with anything you can lay your hands on. Any walking wounded that can use their arms and legs without too much trouble, I want seeing to the back of the building. If you need any help, I'll be outside."

Now to sort this rabble out, I said to myself when I stepped out of the door. Always dependable, Aimo had organised several five-man fireteams out of the odds and sods, each based around an automatic weapon. "How's it looking?" I nodded at Cyrano, who acknowledged with a smile. "Aimo?"

"Okay, I propose we split our numbers in two. Fifteen men in three five-man fireteams making up a section. These two sections are gonna set up firing positions in the outlying streets. One to the north-west of the CCS. One to the north-east. Now the north-west section – we'll call it One Section – will be positioned in an L-shape with our two section automatics set up to catch Zeke in a crossfire when he comes down the street."

"Fine. Same with the other section?"

"Two L-shapes are gonna have grunts in each other's line of fire but only if Zeke reaches the street running behind the CCS."

"Right, so the L-shape thing stands until Zeke reaches the street behind the CCS. Then, let's say One Section reforms from the L and makes a solid defence line with Two Section's Rekyl in enfilade."

"Okay, but we'll be splitting our fire. We might need more weight on Two Section's flank, and you're talking about diverting the Rekyl to support One Section."

"Yeah, that's just the basic plan. We'll assess the terrain and see how things go." Letting out a breath, I scratched the back of my greasy head. To tell the truth, I really had little to no idea of how to set up a defensive position in urban warfare. I was not trained in street fighting tactics, or any kind of combat that didn't take place upon an open field in favourable conditions. Aimo's ingenuity though spoke for him. "Did you get training in street-fighting, mate?" I said quietly.

"Nereus taught us stuff they didn't during training," Aimo said. And that was that.

"Uhh, I might need you to take over…"

"No. No, James, you're not shying away from this."

"I don't know what I'm doing," I whispered. "I'm not trained for this."

"None of us are. They're looking to you to lead, to give the orders and make the hard decisions which I know you can do." Aimo clasped my shoulder and grinned. "That speech, mate. You're a hero. You don't give yourself enough credit. Stop kicking yourself in the bollocks for things that have happened and step up. Do it for Izuru, for Keladi too. Be our sergeant again."

"This is about you, Aimo. You and the lads there matter more than them stickies do to me. And honestly, I couldn't care less about being a sarn't now. I've been up and down the bloody ladder enough for it to get boring."

"Well, you're still my sarn't. You'll always be my sarn't, pal. And I'll always be your corp." Aimo patted his thigh pockets. "I'm short a smoke. We're in trouble now."

"Take 'em." I handed him my last packet. "I'm short a light."

Generously Aimo lit us both. "Right, shall we see about recceing those positions?"

"Mmm. Hang on a mo'."

"What, you forget something?"

"No, I'm gonna sort Keladi out first."

"Fine. Don't take too long."

Keladi was still sitting out of the way of the recently-organised sections but had fallen under the gaze of quite a few of the odds and sods whose intentions could not have been less benign.

"Come on, you." I pulled Keladi to her feet and escorted her through the waiting grunts.

"Cyrano, I need your gun." I was past calling it a piece or a weapon now. And who was around to tell me otherwise?

"Very well." Cyrano wilfully passed his M-36 to me. Nothing else was said but Cyrano nodded at Keladi. Maybe he guessed who she was.

"Property of the sergeant, is she?" a helmetless grunt in a tattered windproof smock leered at Keladi.

"Anyone touches her gets a bullet," I said. It was a promise I fully intended to stand by. Emperor only knew what I had envisioned for any potential assailants would seem incredibly tame compared to what Izuru would do if Keladi was harmed by any of us. If it was one thing I feared, it was Izuru's wrath.

Once inside the hab's entrance hall and alone, Keladi said something to me. "Sorry, I don't understand. You know I don't understand." I shrugged, nonplussed. "Wish Izuru was here."

"Izuru." Keladi's face turned gloomy.

"Come on, upstairs." Checking no-one was watching from the doorway, I led Keladi upstairs to the first floor. I suspected, as uniformity was part of Cadian society, that each floor above would be identical. Rough, unpainted walls were routinely marked by heavy bulkhead doors with locking mechanisms that looked naval – great big wheels that needed to be turned several revolutions. Working one such wheel, first one way, and then the other, I gasped as the exertion needed to disengage the lock was immense. Muttering something, Keladi took ahold of the wheel and helped turn it.

"There." I panted, shoving the door inwards. "Right, in you go."

Taking in the layout of the room, Keladi kept her hands stiffly by her sides as she went in. Only the basic amenities were afforded to the ordinary Cadian citizen it seemed. Four bunks – more pallets with mattresses and pillows – were spaced, two each on opposite sides of the room. In the centre, set in the wall, was a large fan that would have normally seen to the room's temperature. Without power though the fan lay dormant. Underneath it was a grey sink with a single tap; cold water only, I guessed. Beside it was a mirror. Like the fan it too was set in the wall – bolted down tight so it could be broken and used as a weapon.

"Look. Look here." I beckoned to Keladi. "Let's see if you're really who I think you are."

As reactions went, Keladi's could not have been more genuine. If she was an imposter then she was also an extremely talented at acting. What began as a slow, uneasy look of dismay quickly worsened. Clapping her hands over her mouth, Keladi shrunk away from the reflection, her eyes widening in horror. Collapsing on the floor she clasped at her throat wheezing.

"What did they do to you?" Kneeling beside the poor girl, I unclasped my canteen and offered it to her. "Poor thing."

Chugging the lukewarm water, the stuff dribbling down her chin, Keladi coughed when she caught the taste of promethium, spitting some back up in disgust.

"Sorry. Only way to get water, I'm afraid," I said, retrieving my canteen before Keladi could drain it. "I need you to listen now."

Unslinging Cyrano's Kantrael, I took the weapon into both hands and adopted a stance. "Keladi?"

Wiping at the brimming tears, Keladi turned despair-filled eyes to me.

"Listen." I pointed two fingers, first at myself, then at the M-36. "This is your basic M-36 Pattern Kantrael lasgun, okay. M-36."

"Emm thurtee six," Keladi repeated, sitting up straight. Wiping her nose, she swallowed, pulling herself together and giving me her attention.

"Power pack," I said, pressing the button in the magazine well and sliding the power pack out. With the weapon emptied I passed it to Keladi. "Take it in both hands. Don't be afraid."

Awkwardly shouldering the lasgun, Keladi wrapped her forefinger around the trigger and passed the muzzle across my body.

"Ah-ah." I gently pushed the muzzle away. "Firstly, finger off the trigger." I pointed at Keladi's trigger-finger, waving my own forefinger in emphasis.

Understanding, Keladi removed her finger and rested it on the magwell, looking at me for confirmation.

"Yep. Good. Good. Now – watch your muzzle." I indicated the chunky muzzle, trying to mime that Keladi was not to point it at anything that she did not intend to engage. After getting her to point the muzzle at me, I waved a finger and shook my head. "No. No. Number ten."

Hopefully getting the message, Keladi hastily pointed the muzzle elsewhere. "Number ten."

"Okay. Selector." I showed Keladi the three-position fire controls. S for safe, A for automatic, and R for repetition. "Pull the trigger now." I mimed pulling a trigger with my forefinger.

"Mmm." Keladi examined the fire selector after she tried pulling the trigger. With the weapon set to safe, the trigger was disabled and would not budge.

"Now. Semi-automatic."

Setting the Kantrael to repetition, Keladi smiled when the trigger clicked audibly.

"Okay, we'll stay with semi for now." Pressing the charge pack into Keladi's hand, I added. "I'm trusting you with this now."

"Mm, okay." Keladi nodded, fitting the charge pack and propping the Kantrael against a bunk.

"Okay, stay." I raised a hand. "Please stay. I'm not worrying about you too."

Realising I was about to leave her by herself, Keladi adopted a wounded expression.

"Sit down. Stay there."

Shaking her head earnestly, Keladi picked up her M-36 and made to follow me out.

"No. No. You're not coming with me." Retreating to the door, I pulled the heavy steel shut, ignoring Keladi's protests. Sorry, lass. I don't want to be worrying about you as well as the lads. I needed to concentrate on organising the defence of the CCS. With Keladi out of the way, I could wait for Izuru to find us. An optimistic thought, I know. But I had full confidence in her ability to give the inquisition the slip, and hopefully waste the inquisitor in the process.

---

Bastion 1, now General Headquarters Cadian Home Army, 09:24

Unlike his corps commanders, General Ursarker Edgar Creed's spirits rose when he received notification that the void shield protecting the citadel and the eastern quarter of Kasr Kraf had collapsed, as it would hopefully divert a good portion of the enemy's bomber squadrons away from bombarding the western and southern quarter of Kraf, as they had been doing over the past weeks. It would also relieve pressure from the airbase, the facilities and runways there, having been under near-constant air attack, both from bombers and fighters. Though the Cadian Home Army's Air Corps were engaging – or trying to engage – the enemy as far from the evacuation points as possible, many of Zeke's raiders still made it through to deliver their payloads upon the tarmac. With the losses the Air Corps had sustained, the idea of preventing every single enemy aircraft from breaking through was fast becoming a wild dream.

Further lifting Creed's spirits was the belated arrival of Kasr Luten's choir beacon at the citadel. After touching down at the citadel, the Valkyrie bearing the package – as well as several stretcher cases – was directed on to Bastion 1, which Creed had taken over as his headquarters with the departure of the rear admiral to the waiting ships. To Creed's dismay, Lieutenant Colonel Donjeta Lapraik, the officer whom he had authorised with the task, was not present. Only her adjutant, Captain Lyle Ruth showed up.

"Good afternoon, Captain Ruth." Creed beckoned the officer forward into the packed room. "Cigar?"

"Thank you, My Lord Castellan." Ruth bowed.

"Oh, don't be such a kowtower. Stand up straight when you speak to your general," Creed grunted, passing Ruth a cigar from his personal box.

"Sorry, General. We've had a rather trying time. I humbly apologise for the lengthened delay." Ruth nervously lit his cigar and waved the crate containing the beacon forwards. "The package, as ordered."

"Capital!" Creed barked. "Volquan. See your remaining psykers are inducted into this beacon. I want tidings sent far and wide of this treachery. And bring me reinforcements."

"My Lord." Astropath Cyris Volquan, blind like all astros, bowed, and hobbled away on his staff.

"And what of your lieutenant colonel?" Creed glared.

"Alas, the lieutenant colonel's Valkyrie was downed by ground fire on the flight down from Kasr Jark, General. I do not know if she yet lives, either as a devout soldier of the Emperor, or as a captive of the Chaos hordes."

"No matter. You have accomplished your objective, Captain. Thank you, and good luck. Dismissed."

The loss of Donjeta Lapraik cut Creed deeply, for he was fond of the young officer. She had showed pluck by taking on that mission. Pluck and ingenuity. Her loss would be remembered. Creed dearly hoped he would see her name amongst the many honours printed on the front page of both the Cadian Inquirer and the Imperator Victrix when both daily issues were published. If not put up for a decoration then her name should be on the front-page column; it was what she deserved. Hell, Creed himself would personally recommend her for the Macharian Cross, and in such a way that it would not be refused.

All that had happened the previous day. Now, on the fifth day of the fifth week of the invasion, everything began happening at once. Dismissing the director of medicae services, who had told him that he was suffering from exhaustion and needed proper rest, Creed had taken to the command post within Bastion 1 in the small hours of the morning and surveyed the strategic map. An update from Kasr Jark, which itself was suffering heavy, round-the-clock bombardment, described the Space Wolves Great Company taking to the field from Jark's walls alongside the Dark Angels Four Company which had sallied forth from the downed strike cruiser. Both companies were launching a counteroffensive against the air-dropped bastions of the Warsmith Krom Gat. Acknowledging with a grateful reply – the Space Marines were at last getting off their collective, armoured backsides – Creed was then issued with updates from Kasr Stark on the west, the Kolarak Plains to the east of Kraf, and Martyr's Rampart, 72 klicks to the south. The tidings were all dire.

Every communique his headquarters was receiving now spoke of mutated warp-spawn, Chaos Space Marines, and millions of corrupted, traitor-guardsmen either steadily pushing the gallant defenders back towards Kraf or keeping them locked in a meatgrinder and unable to disengage. Stark was being overrun and pleaded for relief that Creed could not provide. II Corps, formerly under the command of Lieutenant General Lucian Garrett, was now being handled by an overworked brigadier with the general's death. Though supported by the fighter-bombers of Marine Air Group 15, the beleaguered Corps was having to contend with Chaos titans which roamed freely across the vast flatness of the Kolarak Plains. In the south, the Black Templars were conducting a fighting retreat, having had to abandon Martyr's Rampart after an enemy cruiser, firing from orbit, had obliterated the entire structure. To the Templars' credit, all previous offensives had been repulsed. The enemy was too afraid to engage the Templars in a head-on assault, forcing them to resort to the somewhat cowardly, though more efficient manner of precision bombardment. As distasteful as he found the Marines, Creed now felt a deep-seated respect for the Templars' continuing resistance. Were it not for them, Martyr's Rampart would have fallen far sooner. Another worry was the thinly-defended outer bastion wall which, if reports were to be believed, had already been breached in multiple areas, allowing the enemy to advance – though still opposed – through the streets of the Aptus District, with only the inner perimeter – that Bastion 1 was part of – left to stop the enemy from spilling out onto the evacuation points in and around the airbase.

"Rather an itchy situation. Wouldn't you agree, Alex?" Creed said to Major General Alexis Rebbeck, GOC Cadian 1st Guards Division, who had just been admitted to the command post.

"If you say so, sir," Rebbeck replied, removing his beret and smoothing his hair.

"Alex?" Creed beckoned to Rebbeck. "I am in need of a replacement GOC for One Corps."

"Throne. They haven't done for old Wallace, have they?" Rebbeck exclaimed. "Damned dirty business."

"Could you take over the defence of the northern sector for me? We're thin on the ground now, and everything is a bit disorganised."

"A little above my station, an entire corps…"

"Oh, you'll manage. You'll probably only have what amounts to one division's strength, truth be told. The entire corps is in quite a sorry state. Can I count on you?"

"Absolutely, sir." Rebbeck accepted the new position readily. "And what does the lord castellan command One Corps' GOC to do?"

"Exactly what Cathker Wallace was doing. But…" Creed lowered his voice, not wanting to be overhead by any of his staff. "If it comes, and the enemy is threatening your command directly, leave a brigadier here, and make for the ships with all haste. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Rebbeck replied.

"I shall mention furthermore, that if – with the collapse of Kasr Stark – the enemy's warmachine turns its sights upon the western outskirts of Kraf, I shall adjourn from this command post and personally lead the 8000 men and women of The Lord Castellan's Own onto the Elysion Fields, where they shall do battle with the legions of Chaos. We will buy you as much time as we can to get your forces off-world."

Folding his arms, Rebbeck said, "and do you to intend to leave a brigadier holding the reigns of Eight Brigade if the time comes?"

Gesturing with his cigar, Creed replied stonily. "Cadia is my home. As long as I live, I will not see her humbled and downtrodden underneath the boot of Chaos. If the time comes, let it be known that the lord castellan gave his life for Cadia, which stood alone and undefeated. Cadia stands, General."

"Cadia stands," echoed Rebbeck.

---

Kasr Kraf Airbase, Solarus District, 10:04

Smoke from ruptured promethium tanks and burning refineries rose up hundreds of feet into the sky, hanging like an ominous cloud of foreboding death over the airbase. With the narrow route along the northern perimeter wall choked by refugees, wrecked motor vehicles, other soldiers, and hastily thrown-up defences, the single file of grunts that was Cannon Company felt their progress throttled, and gradually brought to a standstill when they hit a line of Cadians. Extending as far as they could see, the Cadian file did not appear to be in any way moving, leading the men of C Company to awkwardly shuffle on the spot, their sore feet making it uncomfortable to be standing still.

"Why aren't we moving?" Private Arrigo said to no-one in particular, hoping somebody might come out with an answer.

Lieutenant Corta, just as in the dark as the rest of his men, offered an answer. "Because we are at the end of a very long line of men, Private. When our turn comes, it will come."

Some nervous glances were cast around. Being out on the street in broad daylight was putting the wind up some of the jumpier grunts who were fearful of air attack, not a man among them aware that it was more dangerous inside the airbase's walls than it was just outside; where C Company was at that moment lined up. They had been waiting for a little while when a Cadian warrant officer, in a greatcoat and bearing a map case, strode down the line. His intentions became clear when he reached Corta's men. "Any walking wounded among you? No room for stretcher cases."

"Two of my men down there." Corta indicated Woulter and Peter. "I'm Second Lieutenant Corta. This is Cannon Company."

"Can that man walk?" the warrant officer looked the hobbling Woulter up and down suspiciously. "The boy bears no wounds. He must step back in line."

"WO, he is the man's son. He will be taking his father to the ships," Corta said firmly.

"Very well, sir. But the rest of you, I need you to return to Bastion One. We are only accepting walking wounded, and you are all still able-bodied. Any teeth formations are to report to Bastion One, by order of General Creed."

"WO—?" Corta began to ask why.

"I'm sorry, sir. Those were the orders I was told to give. I know no more than you do."

Once the warrant officer had gone, Corta turned to his men. Many of them had faces like thunder, others despair. Peter was still supporting Woulter, not knowing where to go. "Well, good luck to you Woulter. And you, Peter." Corta shook Woulter's hand, trying for an encouraging smile. "I am proud of the both of you. Your conduct during the retreat was exemplary."

"Thank you, sir." Both Tabors echoed.

"Alright, you follow the warrant officer now. And take care."

It struck a mournful chord within Peter to be leaving the lieutenant and the rest behind. Mister Corta had been so good to him and his father, and now the poor man was being denied entry to the evacuation points and ordered back the way he had come.

"I don't like leaving the lads," Peter said.

"Don't worry about them. Mister Corta's got them this far. He'll bring them out safely," Woulter said reassuringly. "They're clever blokes. They'll be alright."

Permitted to move down the centre of the road, the only space not taken up by queuing men or rubble, Peter realised, after a half hour's going, just how far Corta and the rest were from the gate. Facing west, the airbase's main entryway – or one of them – was choked with coils of concertina wire, bolter nests, concrete pillboxes, and tank traps, funnelling the queuing soldiers, great lines of khaki and olive grey, quite unending in every direction, into single file so that they could be admitted one at a time.

"Name, unit, number." The Cadian NCO behind a screen of bullet-resistant glass repeated, as he had done for every man and women that had come and gone before the Tabors.

"I'm Woulter Leurbach, this is Peter Leurbach. We're both Cannon Company, 144th Battalion," Woulter said.

The NCO's fingers were a blur on his keypad. "No such unit exists. Please step out of the line and await further instructions."

"Uh, sir, we're 144th Battalion. Our headquarters is in Kasr Jark," Woulter said quickly.

"Fall out of line and await further instructions. That is all," the NCO said coldly.

"It's not fair. It's right there," Peter muttered, looking at the stone steps that led up onto the base.

"Ssh, Peter. We'll find a way, don't worry."

A tapping on the glass caught the unhelpful NCO's attention. "Excuse me, Sergeant," a Cadian officer said impatiently. "You are in error. These two guardsmen are in my company. They will be going through without delay."

"I can't let them—"

"I want to speak to the duty officer, Sergeant. Perhaps he can explain why I am being held up by petty paper-pushing."

"My apologies, sir." The NCO, becoming flustered at the interruption to his routine, drummed out a piece on his keypad. "Two passes for wounded."

At his words, two card tags attached to loops of string dropped down a narrow, cylindrical chute, popping into existence in a trough beneath the glass. Peter plucked both tags from the trough and gave one to Woulter.

"You take your father and make for the nearest medicae vessel. Do it now," the Cadian officer said.

"Thank you, sir." Woulter let out a breath of relief.

"Thought we were sunk there." Peter, equally relieved and grateful for the officer's kindness, helped Woulter up the steps towards the square of light. With all the trouble C-for-Cannon had had from the Cadians before, it did not seem possible that there existed a Cadian that was not out to threaten, shoot at, look down on, or otherwise inconvenience the Cannon grunts.

Much the same as the city's streets outside, the airbase was a wreck. Broken and abandoned vehicles were everywhere. Craters pocketed the roads and runways. A number of buildings and hangars were burning, and all of them had suffered some kind of damage. Walls from fighter pens had tumbled down, leaving the parked Lightnings with little to no cover from strafing. Aircraft, either destroyed during air attack or simply unserviceable had been shunted off the runways and landing pads by bulldozers and left in heaps of twisted, blackened metal, sticking up in all directions. Debris lay everywhere – masonry, rubbish, weapons, dead bodies. The stench was appalling – of decaying flesh, smouldering rubber, burning fuel, and acrid, choking dust. Peter and Woulter also, for the first time, saw the true scale of the evacuation. Tens of thousands of men were lined up on crater-scarred runways, spilling out of buildings they had occupied, or just sitting on the grass that separated each mile-long strip of tarmac; like insects, waiting.

Up in low orbit, or either in the process of taking off or landing, were transport barges, perilously few in number. Many, brought down in previous days, were simply left lying on their sides once the onboard fires had been tended. The sounds of battle, now that the Tabors were free of the noise-deadening effects of the buildings, was loud, despite it taking place far from the airbase' walls. Within the confines however, there was precious little happening. Seizing the opportunity to board a medicae transport, Peter and Woulter latched onto a loose chain of walking wounded that were allowed to pass the ranks of the waiting Cadian artillerymen and followed them up a steep ramp that rose a good seventy feet above ground level. The gain in height was for the benefit of transport vessels and other spaceworthy craft that did not have the capability – landing gear – to set down safely upon a landing pad, having only the facilities to dock in orbit. The airbase's seven special docking claws were their only means of berthing.

Ushered along in the wake of the ragged files of walking wounded, Peter and Woulter were ordered along a tightly-packed gantry not more than twenty feet wide, all the way to the end where a pot-bellied transport, boldly-emblazoned with the twin snakes encircling the staff – the symbol of the Officio Medicae – was berthed. It was the only ship currently using the dock.

"Are you the last ones?" the ship's master, a fresh-faced and nervous-looking lieutenant, asked.

"Don't know, sir, sorry." Woulter did the talking, hoping the officer would not notice Peter was able-bodied.

"Are we departing berth now, Lieutenant?" a sub-lieutenant nearby said.

"Uh, I'm not sure." The lieutenant checked the chrono on his wrist anxiously. "We're not nearly close to full…"

That much came clear when Peter and Woulter discovered the deck they were on was bare of passengers. All the bunks that would normally fold out from the white-painted bulkheads were vacant. "Here. Down here." Woulter chose to be set down on a bunk that offered an unobstructed route over to the airlock. "If we go down in atmo, it's better to be closer to a door than flailing about in the dark below decks."

"I didn't think of that." Peter gingerly perched upon a bunk next to Woulter's. "What if we're not in atmo?"

"There'll be lifepods. Plenty of them round here somewhere."

Having swallowed what his father had said before, Peter now was not sure whether Woulter knew for certain or was simply saying such things to reassure him. "Okay, I'm – I'm just not sure what to do if we do go down. I'm scared."

"There'll be someone around to tell us what to do. Don't worry," Woulter said gently. "It won't be that difficult."

Footsteps on the deck and an officer wearing a navy-issue helmet and gun belt stepped through a narrow accessway.

"Excuse me, sir, what are we supposed—?" Woulter began, only for the officer to cut in irritably.

"Move down to the lower decks please."

"Can't we…?"

"Move down to the lower decks please."

"Alright, alright." Woulter sat upright, pain etched in his face. "Help me here, Peter."

"Take that man down to the lower decks then return to the shore."

"I'm sorry, sir?" Peter glanced at the officer in dread.

"If you are able-bodied, you must step off. This is a medicae ship."

"Please, sir. He's my dad."

Brushing it off callously, the officer remained adamant that Peter was not to remain onboard. "Take your father down to the lower decks and remove yourself from this vessel."

"Sorry, Dad," Peter whispered, as the officer followed them down a steep set of stairs that lead into the lower belly of the ship.

"Not your fault. I'm sorry you can't come with me, Peter." Woulter hugged Peter tightly as he helped him lie down on a bunk. "Aah, blasted arm and leg."

"I don't want to go, Dad." Peter, his face buried in Woulter's shoulder, would not let go. "I'm all on my own out there."

"You're a grown-up now, boy. We've done what we had to do to make it through. You'll be fine. I'll see you in short while."

With the Navy officer not letting Peter out of his sight, he could do nothing but climb back up the ladder and step off the ship where he was brusquely ordered back down the line. Trudging glumly along the gantry, Peter kept his head down, conscious of the accusing stares some of the Cadians were giving him. All faces were then diverted by a sharp, single-note report in the distance. Craning necks and standing on tip-toes, the Cadians jostled at one another to see what was going on.

From near 1000 yards, closer to the south-east corner of the airbase, a Hyperios missile turret had just fired a surface-to-air missile. Watching the projectile fly westwards, captivated by the arrow-straight trail it left, the gunners heard the pom-pom-pom of Scoba 40-millimetre batteries as they opened up. A ruffle of unease swept through the gunners' ranks when tiny black clouds appeared on the western horizon. Not wanting to be caught in berth during an air attack, a low hum began resonating from the transport's engines. Up near the open airlock, a whistle was blown. Simultaneously the docking claws began inching forwards, bringing the vessel out of its berth and giving its twin engines space to fire. Watching the ship's progress with a dry mouth, Peter's knuckles were white as he gripped the thin rail, hoping, praying there would be no attack. At first no enemy planes showed, the pom-pom batteries apparently seeing him off.

A head turned to look up into the sky, followed by another and another as more and more realised what was coming straight at them from above. Suddenly feeling quite alone, even amidst the swell of bodies, Peter's nervous anticipation died then and was replaced with an impotent, shaking fear when his ears picked up the growing drone of aero engines. Hidden by the smoke, the raiders dived down from above, peeling off gracefully from their three-plane vic and lining up on the defenceless transport as it made its ponderous way out of its berth. Only Avengers made that noise when they dived, a terrible banshee-like wail that brought every man crowding the gantries to his knees, in a huddle with the man beside him, trying to hide underneath his respective helmet; hoping his time wasn't up. All protests were for naught. The peaking crescendo of air rushing through the fighter-bomber's perforated airbrakes fell upon them all in its indiscriminate, omnipotent majesty. It was judgement.

Keeping as still as he could, his fingers plugging his ears, Peter felt tears escape his tightly-shut eyes as the horrific cacophony roared over his head. Unseen by all, bombs began to fall, exploding amongst groups of soldiers, tearing through bulkheads, severing steel cables, spreading destruction and death through the dockyard.

"She's hit!" somebody cried, his voice quickly being drowned out as a second pass delivered rocket salvos into the vacant berths. Flinching from the chain of explosions going off nearby, Peter pulled himself up and leant over the rail. "Dad!" he wailed, terror gripping him. The Medicae ship, sustaining several hits from rockets, had broken free of the docking claws but now lacked the power to gain altitude. Fires were now burning within multiple holes blown in the superstructure. After giving one last surge of momentum, first the port engine died, and then the starboard. Gradually, as if some external force was slowing it down, the ship keeled over on its port side, crashing into the ground in a blaze of sparks. From the same airlock that Peter had left, tiny figures wreathed in flames clambered out before sliding down the smooth hull to roll like madmen around on the blackened grass. Their cries of agony were ignored as the Cadian gunners got to their feet and fell back into line to wait for the next ship. Unable to tear his way through the taller men to get a closer look at Woulter's ship, Peter, rendered helpless and struck dumb by the suddenness of the bombing, whispered, "…Dad?"

Not a man around Peter wondered why the boy was crying. No consolation was offered. Nothing was said. It had happened, and now everybody else was moving on; only concerned with their own lives. Within the crowd, a single helmet was removed, and a lonely, tear-streaked face looked up at the sky. Contrary to his father's final words, Peter Leurbach did not feel like a man anymore.

---

2 blocks north of 12th Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 10:40

For hours Zeke crawled south through Aptus, house by house, street by street. Judging from the heavy exchanges of automatic gunfire, he was being waylaid at every corner. Yet it was not enough to halt his advance which ground forwards, sometimes sluggishly but always in motion; never stalling. In the hours since Aimo and I had gone over the terrain to the north of the CCS, we had found suitable positions for the two sections. 1 Section, under Aimo's command, had a smooth, and completely sheer block of concrete that elevated a pair of railway tracks above the city streets by way of a ramp on his extreme left; giving him solid protection from any flanking action. 1 Section, we decided, would occupy the habs underneath the railway line, granting protection from mortars and artillery firing indirectly. I left it to Aimo to choose his fields of fire. I trusted him fully and had confidence he would make the most of his section's position. Also choosing a spot underneath the concrete roof, I deployed 2 Section's riflemen facing north, and the Highlander's Rekyl team – with an extra grunt as security – at an angle further east along the street which would allow it to rake Zeke's flank when he moved into the narrowest point of the backwards L. The fireplan was to let Zeke get as close as possible, preferably after his scouts had passed through our line, and let fly on the main body, making mincemeat of it.

As all preparations were completed by 0800, I left Cyrano in charge of 2 Section, and headed back to the CCS. Zeke was still a way away yet. And, of course, we would hear him long before we saw him, such was the loud, bombastic manner with which he had to conduct his daily affairs.

"Keladi?" I rapped loudly upon the door of the hab dorm. "Keladi, it's me."

Getting no reply, I dragged the wheel around and shoved the door inwards, finding the small room bereft of stickie. Where've you got to then? Getting on my knees, I swept underneath both bunks. Come on, lass. Don't do this now. Hurrying downstairs, I crossed the street, making for the muncip building. Where's that major? Quickly coming across Major Serreck, I asked him if he had seen a red-haired girl.

"She's hard to miss." Serreck laughed, nodding at the next room across, similarly packed with stretcher cases.

"Oh, good." I saw Keladi was moving around the room and bearing two mess tins filled with water; providing for the wounded.

"Clever girl boiled them beforehand. Is she yours?"

"No, no. I'm just watching her until her… friend can come and take her off my hands."

"Well, she's certainly caused a bit of a stir, I can tell you. Some of these poor souls think she's an angel. Is she mute?"

"Shell-shocked, sir. I think she had a rather nasty turn before she got here. You will tell me if there's any trouble, won't you?"

"Aha, so that's where that broken wrist came from." Serreck smiled knowingly. "I wouldn't worry about her. It appears she can handle herself."

An orderly bursting in interrupted Serreck. "Sir, the ambulances are back. They've brought two more with them."

"Excuse me." Serreck left with the orderly, leaving me by myself.

Intrigued by Keladi's resourcefulness, I hovered at a distance before going over to her. "Hello, Keladi."

Keladi's face lit up at my approach. Lifting up a half-empty mess tin, she offered the water to me.

"Ta." I took a sip. There was not a single trace of promethium in the water.

"What is her name?" A man with blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his chest, and an amputated leg, asked. "I must know."

"Keladi." I figured there was no harm in letting him know Keladi's name. With the surgery, she was no longer recognisable as a stickie, rather occupying the gap between human and stickie. Neither one nor the other, like Izuru.

"Keladi." The man smiled peacefully, his eyelids drooping. It was not clear at first but he would not be awakening from his slumber.

"Nah, he's gone," I said, gently feeling for the man's pulse. It was the best way to go for sure, in one's sleep, and having gazed upon a beautiful face just before. If there could be such a thing as a good way to go in this day and age.

"Come on, Keladi." I took her arm and guided her away. Someone else would be along to check shortly. Against my expectations, she had taken the death before her very well, not appearing even slightly fazed. But then, I suppose, she was technically a trained combatant, however youthful her exterior. With the idea to take her back to the hab and shut her inside the dorm again, I went back on the idea as Keladi was apparently making herself useful around the CCS. "Okay, you carry on here, Keladi," I said, patting her on the shoulder. A reply, offered in a little voice, I ignored. There were more important things to focus on. Armed, and in the company of others, Keladi would be safe. After all she had easily fended off unwanted attention, and given the perpetrator a broken wrist to boot, the incident speaking louder than any words could that she was not to be messed with.

Out in the street I noted, with approval, that Major Serreck was helping to load his five ambulances and would be driving one himself down to the evacuation points. A small column of walking wounded was just setting out as well. None of the measures taken would substantially thin the CCS's numbers. But any greater number of men saved from Zeke's clutches was a small victory.

Now, just gone 1030, I lay in wait with the rest of 2 Section, listening to the clatter of rifles and lasguns, the rattling of automatics, and the shrill whistling of mortars, mixed in with the heavier, thunderous sound of artillery. I counted the spacing between shots. It was near-constant. Within our position, not a single one of us spoke. Only sweat standing out on brows and nervously flitting pairs of eyes betrayed the fear that gnawed greedily within each grunt, tempting him to quietly slink off back to the rear. But nobody did. Admitting readily that I was scared – anyone who didn't was a fool – I thought of Keladi, Izuru, and the men alongside me, further praying for their safety. Pious I was not but I thought it was appropriate, seeing as the next hour or so would be difficult for us all.

"Contact." Cyrano was the first to spot Zeke when his scouts appeared around the street corner, seventy yards down from us.

"Hold your fire." Picking up the pair of officer's field glasses I had scavenged, I glassed the running figures. "They're ours. Pass the word along."

Acknowledging, Cyrano moved through the gutted building, passing the order down from me.

Who are you then? I surveyed the retreating guardsmen through the scratched lenses. They had to have been the unit previously opposing Zeke. By the sounds of the firing, they had conducted one hell of a fighting retreat, slowly the enemy's attacks down considerably.

"Oi, Guardsman!" I hissed loudly, beckoning at a trooper as he hurried past. Wearing incredibly baggy trousers, and a camouflaged jacket that was not quite the length of an overcoat, the man, startled, fell to his knees, searching around for the source of the noise.

"Over here," I called, catching his eye. Underneath a round, bowl-shaped helmet bearing thin netting and wire, a pair of combat-weary eyes stared back at me. "Who are you? What's your unit?"

Leaping through a low window, the guardsmen in the baggy trousers paused briefly to catch his breath. "Gerax Jaegers. Twelfth Gravtroop Detachment. Who are you?"

"Just some odds and sods. There's three-hundred wounded down at a casualty station a couple of streets back. We're gonna be holding Zeke up here."

"Well, good luck with that." The Gerax began scrambling away.

"Oi, oi. Come on! You can't leave us here. We're just a platoon – thirty blokes – you're…"

"Even less. We've had Zeke hounding us all the way through the streets for hours," the Gerax shot back.

"There might be some of your mates there at the CCS. You want to run out on them?"

The Gerax hesitated, the knowledge that some of his brothers might be left behind stopping him from fleeing.

"Look, give us one of your rifles, if you're not staying. Come on, cough up your grenades too. You don't need 'em."

Slung over the Gerax's right shoulder were two identical rifles, one of which he somewhat begrudgingly parted with alongside a bandolier draped around his neck. Two stick grenades with long, wooden handles were passed over too.

"Go on, iggery." I jerked my head at the gravtrooper who needed little encouragement to follow his unit.

"We could use these men," Cyrano muttered.

"They've done all they can. I'm not forcing 'em to fight. I'm not forcing anyone here to fight. If their hearts aren't in it…" Trailing off, I had a look over the odd rifle the Gerax had left. Absurdly the magazine was sticking out of the side of the weapon which itself was a mish-mash of stamped steel and chunky wood. On top of the body was a flip-up rear sight, lowered to allow the mounting of an optical gunsight. What kind of weapon is this? Perplexed by the strange design, I fiddled with a second flip-up sight near the muzzle and ran a finger along the ribbed muzzle brake.

"James, eyes forward," Cyrano murmured.

Setting aside the rifle, I picked up my Lecta and aimed at the spot on the street corner where the gravtroopers had come from. Surely Zeke was now minutes away. But we had yet to hear him.

My assumption was proved correct when two Zekes ran around the corner. Both carrying rifles, the two kept to either side of the street and hurried forwards, their posture low; wary of falling into a gravtrooper ambush.

"Okay, hold your fire, lads." Checking the levers on my Lecta were both forwards, I set it in the channel I had dug through the rubble and tracked the Zekes' progress. Another pair of scouts quickly followed in the other's wake, advancing a set number of paces forwards, stopping to assess their surroundings then moving on, repeating the manoeuvre. After the fierce stall-and-retreat action fought by the Gerax Jaegers, Zeke now exhibited overt caution. Perhaps the Jaegers had so severely blunted the hardpoint of Zeke's assault that he had lost all of his initial momentum during the earlier struggle through the streets.

Behind the two pairs of scouts came the main body. Spilling from a side street, a platoon-sized force roved across the ups and downs made by the fallen buildings and shell craters, their route exactly the one I had hoped they would take. Excitement threatened to eclipse my coolness, the buzz spreading through my limbs, making them tremble. With the scouts coming up on our positions, my left knee started jiggling. Lying still next to an opening, I could have easily reached out and brushed the scout's ankle with my fingertips when he walked past. Both scouts even glanced into the building were in but neither the first nor the second spotted us, simply walking on to check other ruins along the street. Exhaling slowly – I had held my breath – I looked over at Cyrano and mouthed, "wait."

Subtly inclining his head, Cyrano's cold eyes found his rifle's sights. Fingers now rested on triggers, safeties were off, rounds were in chambers. Our target approached. With nothing uncovered by his scouts, Zeke moved forwards readily, glad at the reprieve from the on-off skirmishes he had fought earlier. Steadfastly holding our fire until the platoon was passing our firing positions, I turned to the others and whispered loudly, giving the signal to open fire. "go!"

Like a field of corn swept by a sharpened scythe, Zeke fell in one collective mass, toppling like sacks of potatoes. So many caught at spitting distance by our wild bursts collapsed without a sound, not having had the chance to draw the necessary breath to cry out, to protest the unfairness of the ambush. Eviscerated by the lasguns, .338s, and automatics from the front, the Zeke platoon was further thrown into disarray by the laser-like accuracy of the Rekyl that was biting chunks out of his right flank; the Highlanders' aim merciless. Caught up in the madness of the close-range contact, I ran through my Lecta's magazine, the weapon kicking against my shoulder, a silent stream of cases flying from the port. Having emptied the load into any Zekes still standing, I paused, lowering the smoking weapon. Besides a few stragglers, the entire platoon was down. Scattered shots were sent back our way by the scouts, now cut off from their company, who quickly cottoned on that we were dug in too deeply for them to pry out with small arms alone; quickly fleeing.

Loading a new magazine, I set my Lecta to one side and brought my Castra to bear, aiming just above the street corner where Zeke had retreated, and placing a round of HE there. It exploded right where I intended, bringing out a grin of satisfaction. "Two Section, reload!" I yelled, dumping the spent casing. In the time Zeke broke contact and the loud ringing in my ears had subsided somewhat, firing could be heard in Aimo's sector. He too was being engaged, and heavily by the sounds of it.

"Cyrano, take over for a mo'. I'm gonna go see how Aimo's doing."

"Right, James."

Leaving my Castra and Lecta behind – I could run faster without the encumbrance, I broke free of the cover of the building. Noticing the weaponry lying underneath and around the Zekes we wasted, I called back to Cyrano and the others, "oi, take these," and gathered up a pair of Kazalaks and two Vintoks in my arms. "Take 'em. I'll be back."

On the left flank, Aimo's section was beset with an attack of a larger magnitude. The Zeke platoon had not been ambushed successfully, having heard the initial exchange, opening fire immediately before they were within a suitable range, and rushing to spread themselves out within the buildings.

"How's the right flank?" Aimo shouted between letting loose with his KP-70. He had the stubber firing through a hole blown in the corner and the floor of a room and was keeping the muzzle well back from the opening, giving him defilade on the street in front of his firing position. Rounds were stitching snaking patterns in the tattered wall above his head.

Flinging myself down beside him, I said in his ear, "Zeke broke contact. The right is good for now. I can give you three more guns here if you need 'em."

Deafened, Aimo held up two fingers.

"You want two? I'll get you two."

Nodding, Aimo was smacked in the face as a stick grenade came sailing through.

"Got it." Deftly I scooped the bomb up by the handle and tossed it back outside, feeling the concussive thud when it went off. Scurrying backwards on all-fours, I dragged the nearest grunt over to Aimo's position. "You, protect the stubber."

Further assessment unnecessary, I doubled back to 2 Section. Mortars were exploding all along the railway line overhead, the explosives not nearly powerful enough to penetrate the thick concrete. Zeke would need the long-range snipers for that. At the same moment I made it to 2 Section, a cry of "track" was given.

"Zeke track coming out." Cyrano aimed a hand at the street corner where a Zeke Chimera had appeared. Angling its front armour, the track's commander, boldly standing up in his cupola, surveyed our positions through glasses.

"Keep his fucking head down." I barked, taking the Gerax into my hands and putting my eye to the scope. The crosshairs consisted of two horizonal bars and one vertical bar, with a small gap in the centre for placing the target. It was in that gap I found the track commander's head. Squeezing the unfamiliar trigger, I was distracted from observing the shot placement in conjunction of where the sights were by the ejected brass skimming my face. Dropping the weapon, I clapped a hand to my scalded cheek. Not a rifle I should be firing left-handed then. Even with .338 rounds now skimming off his cuploa, the track commander's attitude was nothing more than nonchalant when he leant back to grasp the pull ring on the inside of his hatch, dropping out of sight.

Convinced of their invulnerability in the face of rifle-fire, the track ground forwards, the long-barrelled autocannon coming around to target the building we were in. Huddling behind the protection of the hull was a second platoon of Zekes. With only a few grenades and no anti-tank weapons – the autocannon was with Aimo. We were sunk.

"What do we do, James?" Cyrano cried as the crash of the track's autocannon brought down showers of dirt on our heads. A second shot punched a plate-sized hole through a thick, concrete foundation, letting in sunlight. The third collapsed part of the ceiling above our heads.

I conceded we were not going to hold against an armoured assault backed up by infantry. If the track advanced alone then a charge from close range against a blind spot may have netted us gains. But Zeke would not let us keep the initiative that easily.

Looping my Castra's and Lecta's sling over my shoulders, I gave the order to pull out of the building. "Cyrano, take the section back one street and set up there. Highlanders, pull out!"

Making sure the Highlanders and their supporting riflemen had safely pulled back, I made sure I was the last out of the building before following. Having just cleared the threshold, a second barrage of autocannon fire was directed upon the ruin, bringing down the ceiling above properly, covering the interior with thick, grey dust. Halting momentarily, the track continued to pour cannon and stubber fire into the building as the infantry behind waited for it to do enough damage and hopefully flush out any enemy that remained. This gave us time to pull back and set up in the street behind.

"Did you—?" I belted out a question to Cyrano only for him to give the answer before I was finished.

"I sent a man down to Aimo. He'll be pulling back too." Cyrano replied, wiggling a finger in his ears.

"Okay."

Gripping the corner of a wall, I looked to see if Zeke was in view then bolted from Cyrano's position, dashing across the street and up a short pile of rubble that had fallen from the wall and roof of a hab. My weaponry bouncing around, I came to rest against a wall near where the Highlanders had set up their Rekyl. As with Aimo's tactic, Lorne, the No. 1, had ensured he had a clear line of fire down the street, and kept the muzzle of his weapon well back from the narrow opening.

"You know, you should find some proper hard cover," I said, tapping a knuckle against my ceramite cover. "I need my gunners protected."

"Not likely, mate," Lorne replied. "We're Gellen Highlanders. We want Zeke to know exactly who we are."

"Does it matter? Would they care?" I hadn't the foggiest clue why Lorne and his friends still cared about the enemy knowing that they were facing a supposedly prestigious regiment. Those khaki berets with the tufts on top the three continually wore offered no practical protection whatsoever.

"It matters to us." Lorne scowled, adding in a low voice, "s'all we've got left."

After a pause, I asked, "you good for ammo? Barrels?"

It was Borens spoke. "We're fine for now."

"Joe, you good over there?" I called across to Herle who was busy taking shots – not with rifle – of the building we had recently vacated.

"Fine." Herle replied.

"They're coming," said Lorne, squeezing the Rekyl's trigger, sending a quick, three-round burst at the first Zekes when they came into view, forcing them to keep back from returning fire.

"Okay, pour it on." I made a fist and performed a jabbing motion with it. The nine of us inside the building could fire unimpeded upon Zeke, but the way in which the street turned sharply prevented Cyrano and the handful of grunts with him on our left flank from adding to it, taking them out of the fight.

"Runner!" I yelled, seeing a Zeke festooned with hand grenades on his belt run up the street under cover of the fire put out by his comrades. "Shoot him!"

Flitting from cover to cover, the Zeke avoided everything fired at him from our side, only falling on his shoulder when hit by a shot that had come from our left; one of Cyrano's grunts having got lucky. It was not a killing shot though as the wounded Zeke managed to drag himself behind the cover of a wall. Whilst the runner was stalking up the right side of the street, more Zekes were moving along the left. Before I could order Lorne to target them, a weapons team, having set up within the building formerly occupied by us, began firing. "Focus on that stubber!"

"Ho!" Lorne acquired the Zeke stubber team and started exchanging fire.

Having to shout at the top of my lungs, I directed the riflemen to focus on the Zekes closing the gap between them and Cyrano. "Base of fire left!" This I chose to include myself in too, letting fly with short bursts from my Lecta alongside the .338s and lasguns. Out of the corner of my eye Cyrano readied a stick grenade and hurled it over the piles of urban wreckage Zeke was hiding behind. The bomb exploded in a cloud of grey smoke. Any Zekes out of the way of the blast were effectively suppressed.

"Last magazine," someone cried.

"Sarn't, my lasgun's dying."

Dammit, we're gonna be falling short soon, I seethed. No matter how well we did against the Zeke infantry, there was still the fact that we were compounded by our dwindling ammunition supply. "You need to change?" I threw the shouted question at Tsak, who was waiting with a loaded magazine at hand.

"Yeah. Wait, wait." Tsak raised a hand. The timing would have to be dead-on, or Zeke would sense a reduction in the enemy's output of fire, and rapidly exploit it.

"I'll cover you." I waited with my Castra aimed for Lorne to run out of ammunition.

"Okay, change it." The Rekyl fell silent. Yanking the empty magazine out, Tsak slotted the fresh load in, allowing Lorne rack the action. Simultaneously my Castra spoke, lobbing an HE round into a trio of Zekes that had attempted to exploit the Rekyl's silence by rushing forwards. Try that again, you bastards, you'll get another serving of Whupper.

With the Rekyl back in action I dropped back into cover, depositing the empty casing and searching my bandolier for another. Troubling, I came up empty-handed. All cartridges were now expended. Swearing to myself, I further added, "bloody useless."

"You out of forty?" Borens said.

Nodding dumbly, I put my eye to a hole in the wall and saw, further lowering my spirits, the Chimera was coming up on us. "Lorne, concentrate on that track."

Turning his weapon on the track's sloped front plate, Lorne's rounds bounced ineffectively off the surface. "Not even scratching it."

"I'm out of ammo!"

"Magazine."

"Chargepack's dead."

"Sarn't, I need ammo."

Bombarded with pleas for ammunition, I felt a rising swell of anxiety within my stomach. Fleeing the Highlanders' position, I struggled through various collapsed rooms as cannon fire ripped through the walls. "Who's out of ammo?"

"I am." A grunt cowering with his thumb through the ring of a hand grenade cried.

"Take it." I palmed my Lecta off to him as well as a spare magazine I had in my pocket. Throne, we're really up the spout now, I thought, struggling to keep a lid on my growing fear.

Zeke was crowding the street now, shoving weapons into any windows and slits he could find and filling the openings with lead and lasfire alike, further rolling grenades inside as insurance.

"We're wasted here. Break contact." Exhorting the others to flee out the back of the hab, I kept the Rekyl in place for as long as possible before ordering Lorne and Tsak to retreat. Vaulting a window, I was knocked forwards by several consecutive blasts from the track's battery. Unwilling to close within hand-to-hand range, Zeke was opting to destroy the hab around us rather than try to winkle us out one man at a time.

"Wasn't thinking we were gonna leave you behind, were ya?" the youngest Highlander, Tsak laughed as he pulled me to my feet.

Dizzy, I was half-dragged along with the guns of Zeke biting at our heels. Kept upright by the surprising strength of the lad, I babbled that I was alright, removing my arm from where the Gellen had thrown it over his shoulder.

"Good to know. I woulda dropped you if—" Tsak collapsed with a loud sigh.

Only realising Tsak had fallen after the loud slap of his heels on the road ended, I skidded to a stop, turned and flew back to where his body lay.

"Larn, get out of the street!" Cyrano bellowed.

Rounds spitting through the air and ricocheting off the surfaces around me, I dug into Tsak's twin ammunition pouches, removing the last two Rekyl magazines he carried. Fighting the urge to run, I dug under Tsak's collar and pulled out his identity disks, breaking the cord and pocketing them. There was no time to retrieve his body.

"Come to me!" Cyrano pulled me around a street corner where the others had taken cover.

"Ammo." I tossed Borens the two magazines. "Make it last." I dropped Tsak's disks into Lorne's hand. "He's one o' yours. We're falling back to the CCS. On the double, lads."

Aimo's section, also down in numbers, had already set up in the street outside the CCS. Just about the only thing I cared about then we were no longer in possession of; our anti-tank cannon. Aimo further broke the news of the casualties his section had taken during the contact when I fell down beside him.

"Sorry, James. The roof came down, buried the lot of 'em," said Aimo, "lost the autocannon too."

"There goes our one chance of stopping the track then." I half-smiled, marvelling at our misfortune. Directly behind us were the gates of the CCS. Having taken recent mortar-fire, both gates had been blown off their hinges and now lay out in the street. The walls too were no longer a feasible defence, there being breaches the size of vehicles blown in the architecture, many parts even collapsing inwards, leaving wide open points of ingress for Zeke.

"Shit," I breathed. Keladi was crouched with groups of wounded men, lying on stretchers and too weak to defend themselves, her M-36 held ready. In preparation for the assault she had tied back her thick hair and looked ready to kill, a far cry from the confused, frightened girl I had found in the ruins.

Gentle clicks of brass on steel as grunts passed out their remaining ammunition to one another. A few hacked desperately at the ground with foldout spades, striving to dig themselves deeper. Silence gripped the CCS. In the surrounding streets, whistles shrieked again and again. Somebody spat on the ground next to me, the dirty globule of spit clinging to the sharp crest of the shell hole like a flea on sewer vermin. A nervous chewing made me rap the man guilty on the side of his cover and glare at him to stop. The thick haze of dust kicked up by the shelling obscured the street ahead, blocking Zeke from view. The tramp of many pairs of boots stalking through the wrecked district and the clamour of the enemy voices could be heard clearly as Zeke closed in for the final assault. Inside the CCS's walls, grunts retaining the use of their hands and arms gripped pistols tightly, kneeling protectively over wounded pals, some tearing off splints and castes to better grip their weapons which were held in blood-stained hands. Those without firearms sat back-to-back, brandishing bayonets, entrenching tools, and any other weapons they could get their hands on.

Bursting out of the hazy gloom, the first Zekes ran headlong into our fire. Jerking my Gerax left and right, I fired right-handed into the reckless mob, seeing my rounds punch through Zekes without body armour, and continue on into bodies behind. Pushing in with such little spacing between them, Zeke was caught up in the eye of our storm, his body buffeted and run through by multiple guns firing. With so many falling, and so many tripping up on them, Zeke looked to be losing his momentum. That was before a panicked scream warned us that Zeke was now rushing us from behind.

Slithering backwards, I pulled Cyrano, Azar, and another grunt along, frantically shoving them into positions where they could cover the western approach to the CCS. "Aimo, shift fire!" I pounded Aimo on the arm. Letting a loose with a groan at the weight of his KP-70, Aimo turned, hauling his stubber with him and dropping the bipod upon the ground next to Azar, picking up the required slack. Both stubbers firing in opposite directions briefly quelled Zeke's plays for the CCS.

"Last magazine!" Borens, now No.2 on the Rekyl, cried.

"Gonna be throwing rocks soon at this rate," Lorne snarled, working the charging handle.

"Nah, we're gonna win this, lads," I shouted. Aimo's questioning look made me feel guilty at offering such a bold prediction. Of course, he knew I was lying through my teeth. But was else was I supposed to say?

Zeke's reappearance was answered by a considerably lighter volume of fire. As if sensing we were on the verge of total annihilation, Zeke renewed his assault. The final stutter of the Rekyl, and coincidental jamming of Aimo's weapon, brought heads whirling in my direction. Without any idea of what to do next, I waved my arm madly. "Back. Back into the buildings. Back!"

Any remaining semblance of order crumbled then when individuals, out for themselves, tore from cover, their flight pursued by Zeke's roving bursts.

"Aah. Think this one's binned." Aimo rolled his locked-up KP-70 down the slope of the shell hole, picking up a Vintok left by a fleeing grunt. "How about we rush 'em? You and me. We can take 'em."

"I suddenly decided I like life!" I replied from the opposite side of the hole, still firing at the Zekes, stubbornly refusing to withdraw. "I want Izuru too."

"Yes, mate!" Aimo's reply was half-hysterical laughter, half-roar of fury. "That all you got?" he howled, emptying his carbine's entire magazine in a few seconds flat.

Fiddling with a pull-cord of my single stick grenade, I gave it a gentle upwards toss – Zeke was that close – and dived back down, hauling Aimo along by the back of his webbing. "We're done here. Pull out."

Thundering past the broken gates, the loud whiz of rounds distorting the heavy air around us, I caught sight of the Chimera bursting through a half-collapsed wall at the end of the street. Hauling itself around in a shower of dust ground up under its treads, the track rolled slowly along the street in our direction. Forgetting the others, I pointed Keladi, who was snapping off shots with her M-36, at Zeke. "Keladi, get out of here!"

Paying no attention, Keladi continued to fire one-handed, using the other to pull stretchers out of Zeke's line of fire, behind the cover of a circular ornamental plinth. Whatever it had depicted beforehand, the inscription was now lost, as were the stones figures standing atop it.

"Keladi, take cover." Gripping the back of her greatcoat, I pulled her out of the line of fire, forcing her head down. "Aimo, I need you to—"

Aimo had vanished. Cursing, I cupped my hands and called Aimo's name, feeling chips of stone skim off my helmet. Lifting my Gerax up, I rested it upon the stone plinth, the weapon canted slightly, and fired back. Only a handful of pistols and other small-arms were firing now. A few brave grunts, staying in the open, determined to protect their comrades, shot at any charging Zekes with only sidearms. Seeing their quarry flagging, Zeke began pouring through the gaps in the wall, bayonet-tipped rifles bobbing. Unable to prevent them from overrunning the wounded, the few grunts, either around me, or back in the cover of the CCS, shot indiscriminately. In desperation I let fly on automatic, the Gerax shaking uncontrollably. Colourful oaths were thrown Zeke's way when he set about the wounded with bayonets, jabbing bodies in a frenzy. Screams of rage, egging the enemy to come and get stuck in with men that fought back, were let off in equal measure.

At the sighting of the Chimera outside the gates, I knew we were lost. "RUN!" I bellowed. With every man that was able to move under his own power making for the open doors leading inside the CCS, I stayed a little longer, running through the remainder of my magazine. "Keladi, move!" When the girl would not budge, I took the back of her collar and prepared to drag her back. "C'mon, lass, let's go."

Keladi's head lolled back, the M-36 falling from her hands.

"Shit it," I spat.

Leaving the Gerax and heavy bandolier, I pulled Keladi onto my shoulders and tottered over to the open door to where Cyrano, Gale, and Azar were shouting and waving to me.

"Get in here!" Spit flew from Gale's mouth as he kicked one side of the door shut, Cyrano quickly slamming the other. "C'mon, board it up."

"Major! Anyone seen the major?" I set Keladi down upon an empty stretcher underneath the stairs. Slamming my fist upon my knee, I remembered that Serreck had left with a convoy of wounded. "Need help here."

"James, we need you out the front," Cyrano called.

"We're out of ammo." Gale gasped. "Poor boy didn't deserve this." His attention was on Scurm who was sitting against a wall with a bloody stain on shoulder. Olen Azar, looking frightened, had a dirty dressing pressed firmly against Scurm's shoulder.

"Where's Aimo?" I cast about for Aimo's face amongst those that had made it inside the muncip building. "Come on, Aimo. Speak up."

"Sorry, James." Cyrano shook his head.

He was right there beside me.

"Get down!" The cry went up right before the Chimera's autocannon fired on us. Splinters flying everywhere, we could only huddle as low to the floor as possible. It was the longest barrage yet. Now that Zeke had us surrounded and trapped, he could demolish the building floor by floor, burying us dead or alive.

"Oi, something's happening!" somebody wailed.

Unclasping my holster, I drew my Moses and waited for the incoming fusillade that would demolish the door. Howls of men going mad over the noise drew a scream from my own lungs. A hand, scrabbling around, found mine and held on tightly. But instead of the doors bursting inwards, a confused chattering by Zeke outside was cut short by a crunch of steel treads upon gravel. The thump-thump-thump of the autocannon was punctuated by the rattle of the other weapons, seemingly all having a mind of their own. Listening to the unfolding chaos outside, I could only guess what was happening. A burst of green light, pouring through the cracks in the walls after the strange minute, heralded a peculiar silence.

"Stay down." Motioning Cyrano to stay where he was, I stepped cautiously over the grunts, avoiding treading on arms and legs as I made my way over to the still-intact doors. Putting my eye to a crack, I paled, my throat tightening. In disbelief I opened one of the doors, deaf to the protests, and stepped outside. Stunned at what had been a near-total walkover for Zeke, I turned around in slow circles, slightly dizzy at the extent of the carnage wrought upon Zeke by the unseen menace. The track was lying on its side, its main battery crumpled. Every single Zeke not already wasted by us, had been utterly obliterated; vaporised a more appropriate word. Mostly it was just smoking rags left behind. The scene had played out in the same manner as it had on the canal, with the Zeke mechanised unit tossed around like ragdolls. Kora did this. Or whatever that thing with Kora's face was did this.

Numbed, puppet-like men ventured from the building, staring blankly at the remains of ours and theirs, in many cases unable to tell who was who. Snapping out of the shock, I got Cyrano to organise a burial detail quickly before anyone could wander off or start to brood upon our losses.

Retrieving my Gerax from where Keladi had fallen, I was drawn to a whistle that Cyrano gave.

"Found Aimo."

Rushing over, I helped Cyrano drag Aimo out from underneath two bodies, one Zeke, and one of ours. "Aw, mate, I was worried sick." Taking Aimo's shoulder's I rested my forehead against his.

"Nah, worry ye not, pal. I'm a survivor," Aimo panted. "I wondered why it went all dark there…"

I met Cyrano's worried eyes. "Just got some muck on you. Should wash off in a jiffy." Hoping to god I was wrong, I poured water down Aimo's forehead, gently wiping his face clean with Cyrano's handkerchief. "Got something in your eye there." Biting down on the grief, I shook my head when it would not wash off.

"Can you get it out?" Aimo asked, wincing when he tried to touch the broken mess of bloody skin where his eyes were.

"Nah. Nah, prob'ly not no." Gritting my teeth gently, I suppressed a little sob.

"God-Emperor." Cyrano's eyes were wet.

Aimo was blind.

Trudging back inside the CCS I saw a saddened Gale and Azar keeping the dying Scurm company. A blanket now covered Keladi up to her chin.

An orderly crouched beside her turned to me. "She's dead, mate."

No, no, how can she be dead? If she is dead then the war is wrong.

Those naïve words I had spoken when Erkki had bought his farm, I now spoke again. They almost sounded comical now. That's it, I've failed. Wanting to be overcome with grief, I instead could feel only an acute glumness. Had I lost all empathy? If so then where had it gone?

Removing the spirit stone from where it hung around her neck, I ordered Keladi to be carried outside and left in a space that was clear of bodies. Coming to an understanding that Keladi had gone, I ran a cold, examiner's eye over the wound on her neck. Far worse on the front than it was on the back, I tutted, sighing when it came clear that somebody had shot her from behind. I knew an exit wound from an entry wound and could tell that it was all an accident. Some grunt had fired wildly, and that was that.

Hanging around for a while outside, I kept an eye out for Kora, wondering why she had done it, why she was on Cadia, and why she was different to before. My pondering was brought to an end when, hours after the attack, a long figure glided from the swirling dust. It was no being in a scaled, shining bodysuit and cape, but a bedraggled, slim woman in torn, black fatigues. Dimly registering Izuru approaching the ruin of the CCS, I stayed sitting against a pile of rubble, waiting for her to find Keladi.

Nothing at all was said between us. At first Izuru did not recognise Keladi, pausing to look down upon the strange, red-haired girl lying underneath the blanket with the mildest curiosity then glancing with aroused suspicion around the faces of the surviving grunts. Deciding to break it to her as gently as possible, I got to my feet wearily and made my way over to Izuru. I could not bear to look her in the eye when I handed over Keladi's spirit stone, and felt a deep, gut-wrenching shame that it had happened on my watch. Not a single trace of grief played across Izuru's grimy face when she accepted the stone, assuming a coldly aloof demeanour; keeping a close guard on her emotions. Izuru refused to look at me, having eyes only for Keladi. The last I saw of Izuru for a while was her sinking to her knees beside her surrogate sister right before I stepped through the gate and walked away down the street.