I - THE ACTOR

Solid, red globules poured from a torso removed from its legs. A snarl on his face, a bare-headed and blond Ultramarine drove his fist through the face-plate of another Marine in crimson armour, scattering blood across the vacuum. All across the warship's hull, Marines in blue and red exchanged shots and blows. Limp bodies, indifferent to the chaos, drifted towards the three planets the Marine warfleets held orbit around. Orange tattoos glowed on the surface.

Hmph. At least they got the solidified blood right. I'm not sure how exactly that one is breathing. Lieutenant Commander Innes Barakat scratched at his greying beard. So, do the laws of physics not apply to Imperial heroes then? Nice bit of art anyway.

The moment the lighter's ramp touched the deck inside one of Phalanx's city-sized hangar bays, a warm, muggy stench found its way inside Barakat's nostrils. God-Emperor, is that landfill? It can't be. Not a single speck of dust or grime smeared the polished walls and glorious vaulted ceilings. Ground crew, in spotless coveralls decorated with the yellow livery of the Imperial Fists, stopped and saluted Barakat on his way through the hangar and all the way along to a tram system linking the hangar bays with the rest of the station. Positive turnout. That smell though…

"Marines, I am after the survivors of Cadia. Can you tell me where they are being housed?" Covered head to toe in bright yellow power armour, two Marine sentries stood guard before a bulkhead decorated with an engraved golden fist. Both held bolters low at their waist. Forefingers rested off triggers. One looked down at the deep maroon carpet underfoot. A long trail of brown bootprints, in the dozens, stained the carpet. Barakat's eyes followed the trail along the corridor. That damned smell again.

A tickle arose inside Barakat's collar. He slipped a finger inside and rubbed the skin. Has the air conditioning broken? Barakat's armpits had grown damp before he found a pair of naval armsmen on guard in front of a bulkhead. Neither wore Fist flashes. "Would the Cadia veterans be beyond this bulkhead, Armsmen?"

"Sir." An Armsman banged on the bulkhead. "Officer coming through."

Barakat ducked through the connecting hatchway. He slapped the back of his hand against his upper lip. Oh, good God-Emperor Almighty!

"Watch your head there, sir," an Armsman on the other side said. Sweat stood out beneath his beret. Ratings snoozed on bunks stacked six high. Men in shirt-sleeves and vests scrubbed at dirty clothes inside steaming buckets and hung them over rope lines strung between bunks. Pencils scratched across paper. A rating with a short buzz sat with a towel around his shoulders and his head tilted down. A short comb tracked through his hair. Other men stood in line behind. Cigarette ends hissed against dirty shirts and underwear.

Armsmen stood guard at a partition separating male and female personnel. Through a narrow gap in a strung-up groundsheet, two bald, tattooed women arm-wrestled. Laughter rang throughout the billet. "Where is your commanding officer?"

"Sir."

"Orders from Vice Admiral Curzon." Barakat unbuttoned his breast pocket and held up written orders. "Now, where is your commanding officer?"

A naval officer, a full commander with short, spiky blonde hair, pushed the groundsheet aside. "Lost your way, Commander?" A cigarette sat behind her ear. Her grey uniform jacket hung open. Stains coated the front. "Come on."

Barakat entered the women's area. The clenched arms slammed down on the table. Cheers went up. The commander sat on the edge of a bunk and patted her jacket down. Why mingle with the ratings? Can't be good for discipline.

"I'm on the hunt for an infantry officer, ma'am."

"The hunt?" The commander retrieved the cigarette from behind her ear and pulled out a lighter from her jacket. "I haven't seen any sticky provost footprints traipsing around. No officers out there. Try the General."

"Are you the commanding officer down here, ma'am? Is your commanding officer here?"

"Mine?" The lighter flicked open. "Left on her orders. Captain always goes down with the ship."

"I'm sorry."

"Course, that doesn't account for the twelve-thousand lives going down with her." The commander half-smirked, half-sneered. "Hmph. Emperor protects."

His jacket clinging to his back, Barakat headed back through the bivouac and upstairs. Armsmen guarded the head of the stairs. "I'm looking for the general."

"Yes, sir. Can we see some ID?"

"Of course." Barakat passed over his military ID.

"Sir, General Rebbeck is just through there on the left."

Staff officers, all major and above, occupied the suite. Clean, crisp uniforms gave off a starchy smell. Major General Alexis Rebbeck, the only officer sitting, occupied an office bordered by opaque glass walls. Flanked by aides, the general removed a pair of thin-framed glasses and pinched his tear ducts.

"Help you, Commander?" A colonel approached Barakat.

"Yes, sir." Barakat gave a naval salute. The colonel returned a Guard salute. "Is the general available?"

"Name?"

"Innes Barakat, sir. Lieutenant commander."

"Right." The colonel knocked on the wall.

"What is it?" The general beckoned with his stylus.

The colonel leaned in to the office. "Naval officer requests to see you, sir."

"Urgent?"

"Is it urgent, Commander?"

"Not life or death, sir," Barakat said.

"Not life or death, sir."

"Not now then, Colonel."

"Yes, sir."

"Shut the door, would you?"

"Sir." The colonel closed the office door. "The general's busy currently, Commander. Can I offer you a drink?"

"Thank you, sir."

The numerals on Barakat's chrono crept around. Beneath him, the dregs of the Cadian Shock Troopers and Imperial Navy eked out a stifling, sweat-laced existence. Can't imagine what it is like breathing other people's air. Barakat leaned over the rail. And they are the lucky ones.

"Commander? The general will see you now."

"Oh, thank you, sir." Barakat waited for a gang of staff officers to leave the general's office before stepping inside. Bodyguards wearing holstered sidearms stood in three corners of the room. The general's desk held the other. The man himself, well in to his forties and sporting a trim moustache, tossed his stylus down and diverted his attention from his desk-mounted cogitator.

"Lieutenant Commander Innes Barakat, sir," said the colonel.

"Admin! Scourge of a staff officer's life, wouldn't you say, Commander?"

Barakat saluted. "Yes, sir, I would."

"Yes, yes. Your passage from the fleet was a comfortable affair, I hope."

"As comfortable as a lighter could be, sir. I bring Vice-Admiral Curzon's compliments."

"Who? I've not heard of him. Is he Battlefleet Cadia?"

"No, sir. INI."

"Go on."

"If I may, sir…" Barakat held out a sealed letter. "Stamped and dated by—"

"—The Lord Commander…" The general pried open the seal and unfolded the letter. He hooked the arms of his glasses around his ears and held the letter at arm's length. "Not after an escaped convict, are you, Commander? Afraid I don't have any provosts on hand."

"No, sir. Though the individual in question is not entirely clean—"

"—Aha! Show me a soldier that is."

"He is an officer, sir."

The general passed the orders back to Barakat. "I know of no subalterns in present company, Commander. Cadia took a dire toll on company-level officers and senior NCOs. We have not yet had the chance to receive replacements."

"I see."

"You can check through the NCOs and other ranks billets downstairs if you have the time, Commander. I am afraid I cannot help you. You might try the navy's billet."

Barakat tucked the letter away. "Thank you, sir."

"I wish you luck in your endeavour, Commander. Though I dare say the chances of encountering one man amidst the many thousands aboard this vessel are frightfully slim indeed."

"Good morning, sir." Barakat saluted.

"We've just made noon. I'll let you off that one, ha-ha-ha."

Noon! It feels like the evening is wearing on. Barakat rubbed his finger against his sore eyelid and returned to the sweat-box beneath the general's headquarters. Steam rose from a large pot Cadians queued in front of. Mess tins and spoons were passed around after use. Bare feet dangled from bunks. Flies buzzed about. Nearly all sharing bunks wore double-breasted khaki. Even those without jackets had the violet eyes and the brutal buzz that only Cadian barbers could pull off without shearing their victims' skin away from the bone.

"Navy billet's back the way you came, sir."

"Hmm?" Barakat planted an elbow on a metal frame and leaned down. The Cadian, lying on his bunk with a creased pict in his hand, jerked his head at the navy's billet.

"Said the navy's billet's over there."

"Guard subalterns. Any of those around here?"

"Ha-ha." The occupant on the bunk above rolled on to his stomach. "Were you at Cadia, sir?"

"No, he wasn't." The Cadian below shifted on to his side.

Eyes found Barakat. Mutterings ceased when he approached, leaving only the creaking of mattress springs. Cigarette ash ground beneath Barakat's heels. Sweat splashed on the deck. Debris pelted past a viewport, through a figure in blackened camouflage fatigues.

"Might want to leave that one alone, sir." An olive-skinned soldier lying on a bunk tilted a woollen cap out of his eyes. A smoking pipe stuck out of his mouth. "No arguing when they got the window."

The window? Barakat frowned. "I'm—I'm after an officer."

"They'll be in the mortuary. Best you leave this place, sir. Your own safety, mind." The smoker puffed. "No use, sir. He won't talk, won't sleep, won't eat."

Barakat unfolded the black and white pict attached to his orders. "2nd Lieutenant Larn?"

Two large rips cut across the back of the man's jacket and holes showed in the elbows. The buttons holding his shoulderboards were gone. Both hung loose. Mud caking his boots turned the leather and canvas brown. The green in his trousers had faded to a pale grey.

"You are to come with me at once, Lieutenant." Barakat rubbed his thumb across the side of his forefinger. Heads turned in Barakat's direction. "Come with me, Lieutenant, that's an order." Barakat brandished the orders. "Vice-Admiral Curzon of Imperial Naval Intelligence requests yours and Commander Sorge's presence. This bears the Lord Commander's signature. Come with me." Larn looked over his shoulder. Barakat's arm fell and he took a step back. My God…

Deep lines ran across a pale brow. Fresh scars on the cheeks and nose stood out on blotchy yellow skin. Purple bags ringed a pair of pale blue eyes. Colourless, trembling lips parted.

Two days earlier…

Josef Herle, former combat correspondent-turned buck grunt, laid a hand on Peter Leurbach's shoulder. The orphan sat with his knees drawn up on the end of the bunk and his arms wrapped around them. "Peter, you've got to go."

"But I don't know anyone else."

"You'll make new friends, Peter. Friends your age. You're fifteen, for God's sake!"

"James?" Peter looked across at James. James's head and shoulder rested against the metal frame. His mouth hung open.

"No. No, no, James would agree with me. You're fifteen, Peter. You are not a grunt."

"You're not neither."

"Either, Peter."

"I'm not a child either."

"You are a child, and you're going in to education, whether you like it or not."

"I don't want—"

"—And find work once you're eighteen. You're not wasting your life as a grunt. Take what you've learned and make something of it. Just not with a gun in your hands."

"James?" Peter reached over and touched James's arm.

"Alright, say goodbye, Peter."

"Wish you could come with us, James. Thank you for taking us in. For everything."

"James?" Joe kneeled in front of James. "I had this developed. If you're ever on Haven, look me up at Chiechen. It's my old civvie newspaper job. If you ever need a favour just…" Joe tucked a black and white pict beneath James's hand. "We'll see you soon."

"Bye, James."

"Right." Joe took Peter by the arm and walked him away from James.

"Joe?"

"Hm?"

"I don't want to leave James on his own."

"He'll be alright. He survived Cadia, Peter."

"But his face, Joe. He wouldn't look us in the eye. Something's wrong."

"Give him a few days, Peter, and he'll be right as rain."

"That photo you gave him…"

"That's James's business."

"What happened to Iz—?"

"Ssh, Peter. Don't ever say that name aloud. Forget it."

"But—"

"Forget." Joe squeezed Peter's arm. "Forget that. Forget Cadia."

Naval ratings packed the seats on either side of the lighter's fuselage. Lieutenant Commander Barakat sat opposite Lieutenant Larn. Shoulders hemmed the both of them in. Five young ratings sat nearby yacking. "Oi, go on about that officer's drawers, Snider."

"So, there's old Bugger Balusa…"

"Balasubramian."

"Baloo-what?"

"Oh, piss off, you can't say it any better."

Barakat glanced at Larn. What's eating him?

"Bugger Balasubramian, marching with that stick up his arse and poking out of his gob. He's marching out the barracks and down the parlour thinking he's getting a good time wi' one of the girls. What he don't know is that we're waiting for him to leave his clothes outside and when he goes in, we swipe 'em all. Bloody puffy drawers with little hearts on 'em."

"Haw-haw!"

"Heh-heh, getting pulled off by a lance, I bet."

"And that's not all. We're making off and he runs out the building holding a towel 'round his waist screaming 'that man stole my pants!'"

Larn, tight-lipped, clenched his jaw and dug inside his jacket.

"Yeah-heh!"

"Aw, brilliant, mate."

"Then this dog, slobbery beast and all, pelts up to Bugger and pulls at his towel. Rips it right off him. Turns out sub-lieutenants don't shave below decks."

"Ha-ha-ha-ha! And those drawers?"

A rating leaned across Larn grinning. "Flying at full-mast next morning right on top of the steeple." Larn took out a pict from inside his jacket and stared at it, his head cocked. The ship jolted and the lights flickered off.

"Aw, get lost. Had enough of this at Cadia."

"You weren't at Cadia, Betts. My teeth have seen more combat than you!" A pair of false teeth flew at Betts.

"Oi, mind out. Coulda taken me gnashers out there, Garby!"

"And they'll still be in better shape than yours."

"Aahhh." Another sailor opened his mouth. "Fourteen creds. Got my molar done."

"That's a canine. Reckon you got ripped off there. It's tin."

"Tin?"

"Pyrite. Two weeks from now that tooth's gonna be about as intact as Cadia."

"Heh."

"Haw-haw! Better not let any Cadians hear that one. He'll wake up with his bollocks taped to his chin."

"Useless lot. Why give up now after fighting off Chaos for so long? Big bloody waste of time. Let Chaos have Cadia. It's been nothing but a battlefield, long as anyone can remember. Bit more blood soaking the soil. So what?"

Larn ran his thumb across the pict and tucked it away. He shifted in his seat and tugged at the harness buckled across his chest. His eyes flitted about the hold, never sitting still.

Barakat's chrono beeped many hours later once the thrumming of the engines fell away to nothing. Larn alone left his harness. Barakat unclipped his harness and sat back and waited for the ratings to sling their kitbags and disembark. Once the laughter receded, Barakat leaned forward and tapped Larn's knee. Larn unfastened his harness, stood up, and trudged after Barakat. "Lieutenant?" Barakat paused with Larn just before the boarding ramp. "It's better for all if we leave the past behind us. Does that make sense? You should appreciate that certain individuals in positions of influence will not be sympathetic."

Fury Interceptors sat in narrow berths in a grey hangar bay throttled with gantries, cables, and ground crew. Lumbering Menials shunted repulsor sleds stacked with fuel and ammunition containers across the deck. Techpriests in ragged crimson robes pottered around the fighters, waving smoking urns around. Several decks above the hangar, Barakat stopped by the door to a cabin and pressed the call button. "Hold fast for a moment, Lieutenant. I'll call you in when we're ready." The light blinked green and Barakat stepped in to the cabin.

"Innes." Broken-nosed, and with a thin scar running from left ear to chin, Commander Sorge looked up from a desktop cogitator. A jewelled ring glinted on his third finger. Alcohol sat in a glass next to Sorge's wrist. Smoke rose from a cigarette lying in a beige ashtray. A picture-frame lay face-down on the desk. "Welcome back. Kettle's boiled."

"Ah-ha. How did you know, sir?" Barakat placed his hand against the kettle's body. "Well, well, well."

"Well, you'll never if you call me sir in private again."

"Sorry, Richard. May I?"

"Course, of course."

Barakat dropped a teabag in to a mug and poured the kettle. "I uh… I have the subaltern waiting outside."

"All in one piece?"

"Arms and legs appear in working order, if that is what you mean…"

"The window?"

"The… yes, yes how did you know that?"

"The face a man wears after engaging the enemy in close combat is not the same face he wore before. Nor would he ever wear again. Not ever."

"…I'll show him in."

"Please do." Sorge beamed at Larn and waved him in. "James, welcome to Kyriacou. Very glad to have you aboard with us. This is Innes Barakat, my deputy."

"Hello, James." Barakat placed a mug of tea on the edge of Sorge's desk. "Didn't know whether you wanted sugar or not. Do you?"

"No." Sorge shook his head. "Thank you, Innes. Have a seat, James. I will be with you in a second." Keys clacked beneath Sorge's fingers. A green sheet of paper buzzed from a slot. "You'll have to pardon the wait, James. Admin." Sorge flipped the sheet around and laid it beside the mug. "If you would sign this please." Sorge plucked a pen from a holder and passed it to James. "Non-disclosure if you're wondering."

James's eyes passed over the blocky text, printed in tiny font. The pen sat unused beside the paper.

"James, the opportunity to start afresh rests on that dotted line."

"It would be better for everyone if we do not drag the past along with us," Barakat said.

"Precisely. Sign the agreement, James, then we'll talk about the future." Numerals on a wall-mounted clock clicked from 1705 to 1706. "You will be sitting in the officers' mess in one hour and fifty-four minutes' time. Between now and then you will begin to act in the manner expected of one. Is that understood?"

"Officer of what?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Officer of what?"

"That's an insolent remark from your mouth, Lieutenant."

"Alright, Innes. What do you need, James?"

"A discharge."

"I meant what can we do here, James. If you are out on the streets, jobless and without income, how will you care for yourself? You are safer here working for me. I am sorry about your friends, but war is war and casualties are unavoidable. Only a very small percentage of those that made it off Cadia are still here one week later." Sorge twiddled a stylus. "I want to help you work through this, James, but it is a two-way street. Favour for a favour. I offer employment and a prospect of a career in INI. You sign and I provide you with a clean slate."

"I might have something actually…" Barakat leaned close to Sorge and whispered in his ear.

"Maybe. I'll talk to the captain. If you'd like some time to think, by all means. This agreement stays on the desk in the meantime. If you would like to follow Innes, he'll take you down to your cabin."

"First names always in private. The commander's insistence," Barakat said outside the commander's cabin. "Outside, rank and surname. Business as usual. Your cabin is just up here on your left. I'll collect you at eighteen forty-five."

"Yes, sir."

"Dress code smart, so wash and change. Your uniform is hanging up by the door. Any questions just stick your head in on the commander." Barakat waited for Larn to enter the tiny cabin and seal the door behind him. What exactly did he go through on Cadia?

At just gone twenty to seven, Barakat knocked on the cabin door. "Toffed up and ready?" Larn wore navy grey with the insignia of a sub-lieutenant. "Sub-lieutenant?" The hems of Larn's stone grey trousers were tucked inside his mud-darkened boots. "Oh, no. No, you cannot wear those, Lieutenant. Did they not provide…? They didn't!" Barakat tutted. "Alright, follow me, Larn."

Barakat rapped on Sorge's cabin. "Commander Sorge?"

"Yes? Oh, no. No that simply will not do, Lieutenant."

"Footwear was not provided, Richard. And he's a…"

"Ah. Was a midshipman's uniform unavailable?" Sorge sealed his cabin and did up the top button on his jacket.

"Well, I presume so. He isn't the broadest or the tallest, and that surely wouldn't have helped matters either. Could we have kept him Guard?"

"Not without questions from the major. He'd probably request the subaltern be transferred to his outfit what with the lack of able-bodied junior officers. Besides, where do we find some clean number twos for a second lieutenant aboard a destroyer?"

"And the boots…"

"Yes, we should focus on the boots. Never mind he's just jumped a rank."

"Anything to buff them with?"

"No, unless he does a two-minute bodge job. Those cloth bits at the ankles disguise the mud at least."

"He could spit and rub?"

"Do you have a tissue handy?"

"I do."

"James, can you wipe your toecaps down? Bit of spit and polish, there's a good chap." Sorge passed a tissue back to Larn.

"Richard, how often do you examine a person's shoes?"

"I find the quality of a person's footwear can speak very loudly for one's character."

"And his? Unkempt mongrel pawing at the table for scraps."

"Innes! I will be having words with the captain on this matter. She will understand."

"Ah, speaking of the captain."

"Sir?" Larn held out a brown tissue.

"Thank you, James. Keep it for now. What about the captain?"

"Does Larn know the ceremony? The seating arrangements?"

"Stars! I almost forgot. Thank you for reminding me."

"Unless midshipmen are joining then Larn will be on the captain's right and you on her left. What if she speaks to him?"

"I'll keep her entertained, Innes. Put my stage face on."

"Oh-ho, lucky her."

"Actually, now that you say it, it would probably be better if Larn said nothing at all. Speak only if spoken to."

"Rather a tall order, wouldn't you say, Richard?"

"Ah-humph, clearly! James, we'll be going up to the officers' cardroom shortly. Once there we will enter the mess hall at nineteen hundred and stand behind our seats and await the captain and her officers. It is our job to seat the women on our right. I'll have the captain and you will have another junior officer. If you are up to it, can you smile band make eye contact with her? Just be civil without saying anything. It's a formal occasion, I know. But you should at least and try and enjoy yourself."

"Yes, sir." Larn, his head low, dropped back.

"Richard, if there's trouble…"

"I cross my knife and fork. They will be on my left. You will be able to see them easily. Come and collect James and return him to his cabin. I will occupy the captain."

"Understood, Richard."

"Worst-case scenario of course. We'll play it by air. Just be gay and smile."

Barakat entered the cardroom with Larn and Sorge and exchanged handshakes with the ship's male officers. "No plonk yet?" Sorge said to the ship's second in command, a lieutenant commander.

"Not 'til the captain is seated I'm afraid." The lieutenant commander grinned and shook Sorge's hand. "How are things at the bureau?"

Sorge lit up and offered the lieutenant commander a light of his cigar. "Seedy. We're having a turnover. Moving house too."

"Oh, to where, sir?"

"Ah." Sorge tapped his nose. "Don't ask, don't tell."

"Oh yes, of course. Can't be too careful these days. Could be spies sneaking around."

"Ah-ha-ha, yes…"

Barakat kept half an eye on Larn. The lad stayed out of the way and didn't say a word. Better that way. Rather he didn't try and make conversation.

"Time, gentlemen." The lieutenant commander stubbed out his cigar. "After you, sir."

"Oh, please, call me Richard."

"Thank you very much, Richard. The captain though keeps a formal table. Rank and last names I'm afraid."

"Oh, where's her sense of fun?"

"I know. Captain's table. What can you do?"

Barakat hung around the cardroom. Once the other officers had gone through Barakat shepherded Larn in to the mess. Wooden chairs with leather cushions and tall, straight backs stood around a rectangular table covered in a white cloth. Ratings waited by the bulkheads. "Richard, where will you be?"

"You should be on the captain's left, sir," the captain's 2ic said. "Does your sub mind sitting on her right?"

"No, not at all. Over here please, Larn."

"New man?"

"Yes, yes he is. Little nervous – ha-ha!"

"First time in the officers' mess, Larn?"

"Yes, it is," Sorge said. "No-no, don't sit just yet, Larn. We wait for the captain and her officers."

Barakat stood four seats down from Larn and on the other side of the table from Sorge. "Must be very few Guard officers aboard if we're like this."

"Just one infantry company bunked up right now, sir," a lieutenant on Barakat's right said.

"Oh, are their officers not invited?"

"Two officers, a major and a captain, are both in the medical bay. There is an able-bodied lieutenant but…" The lieutenant's eyes roved around. "…Err, he would not be welcome to sit at the captain's table in his present state."

"I see." Barakat's eyes turned to Larn. Larn slouched a little. His stare fixed on the tablecloth.

"Attention." The company fell silent. The captain, of equal rank to Sorge, entered with her officers. Nearly all wore their hair buzzed short. Only the captain, a woman in her mid-thirties, wore her hair in a bun.

Sorge bowed to the captain. "Madam… ladies."

"Sir… gentlemen."

Sorge pushed the captain's chair forwards. With the women seated, the men sat. The ratings, bearing platters and bottles, came forward and laid the table.

"No starter this week, Commander." The captain smiled at Sorge. "Bit of a restless one."

"It's made an enemy out of my alarm clock I can tell you." Sorge raised his glass for a fill up. "I'm still searching for the pieces beneath my bunk. A lump hammer has more uses than you'd think."

"Ah-ha-ha." The captain covered her glass. Barakat noticed a fair few of the female officers looking at Sorge. Larn's glass sat unattended. Sorge shook his head at the rating when he approached to fill Larn's glass. Barakat, male officers on either side of him, glanced at a young sub-lieutenant on Larn's left. Short, blonde, and flat-nosed, the sub nodded at Larn. Good, nice and quiet please. Barakat accepted a fill-up. "All in order, Lieutenant?"

"One moment, sir." The lieutenant waited for his own fill-up. "Should be, sir, unless this glass empties."

"Well said."

"So, what was it like at Cadia, sir?"

"Oh, I've no idea honestly. We were aboard Phalanx when she entered the system last week. We've only just transferred to Kyriacou. Dicey, I'd put it. But honestly, I know nothing of the Guard's affairs on the ground. Anyway, to the crew of Kyriacou." Barakat raised his glass.

"Oh, sir, the captain calls the toasts."

"Does she? Oh, beg pardon. Now I'm the one making the mistakes." Barakat set his glass on the table. The sub-lieutenant beside Larn leaned back in her chair and looked down at Larn's feet.

Oh, she hasn't, has she? Sorge's knife and fork sat beside one another. "The er—the captain eats what the ratings eat, I take it?"

"Hm." The lieutenant sawed at a length of fat circling his piece of meat. "Could almost be real this meat. Shame it's well-cooked. My thoughts go out to the gallant fighting men and women of the Cadian Shock Troops and the Space Marines who saved them." Brown gravy trickled down his chin. "Whoops." He wiped it away.

"Is that your first thought? What about your family here? This little nation called Kyriacou."

"Oh, the Emperor always falls before them, sir."

"Yes? Have you ever been in combat, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. Hope to. What's er—what's it like anyway?"

"Like this." Barakat pointed to the grey hairs in his beard and raised his glass. "Another." The sub beside Larn muttered something. Larn's head shot forward. Spit flew from his mouth.

"Gentlemen, clear the table." The captain shoved her chair back. Cutlery clattered against plates. Every other seated officer rose and stared at Larn choking.

"Ma'am, I do apologise—"

"Clear the way." The captain wrapped her arms around Larn's chest and squeezed. Half-chewed food flew from Larn's mouth. "Is that it?" The captain let go of Larn and sat him down in his seat.

"Ma'am, I—"

The sub-lieutenant opened her mouth. "Ma'am, that officer is a sp—"

"That will be all." The captain smoothed down her tunic. "That will be all for tonight, gentlemen and ladies. Commander Sorge, if you please."

"Yes, Captain." Sorge followed the captain out of the mess hall.

Throne, Larn, what have you done? Barakat made his way over to Larn and, under the glare of the female sub, walked Larn from the mess hall and took him back to his cabin. Those damned boots certainly didn't help matters.

"We're off the ship." Sorge returned to his cabin twenty-five minutes later. "Bloody hell, Larn."

"No!"

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. The captain told me we would have left Kyriacou at the next stop regardless. We find our own transport to Haven from there."

"The captain said—?"

"Captain's orders, Innes. We are three useless eaters with no stations to man." Sorge fell in to his chair and leaned back. Barakat folded his arms and placed his chin on his breast. "Is James bunked up?"

"Sealed and bolted. All that's missing is the padding."

"Innes! It's not just him. Though the Imperium confesses ignorance of the toll combat exerts on the mind, it cannot be ignored or shouted down."

"Hmph." Barakat scowled. "That meat was tough."

Sorge linked his fingers behind his head. "We've got one thing to thank Larn for then."

"Probably what he choked on." Barakat pressed his knuckles against his mouth and stifled a belch. "S'cuse me. Hasn't had decent food in so many months probably. Must've looked a banquet to him."

"To anyone coming from the ranks." Sorge tilted his picture frame up then let it fall. "Dash it. Missed out on cigars and Sacra."

"Sorry, Richard?" Barakat pulled out two fresh cigars from his pocket. "Captain's compliments."

"HA-HA!" Sorge slapped the desk. "A toast of our own then."

"To the bureau?"

"No…" Sorge flipped open his lighter and lit him and Barakat. "To actors and unkempt mongrels."

Barakat removed a stopper and poured a finger for both. "May there be some pedigree within." Glass clinked together.

Through dimmed shutters, a black outline of an orbital platform stood silhouetted against a brown planet. "Anything?" The pilot said to his co-pilot.

"Negative. No hails either. Static, sir."

Sorge and Barakat stood behind the pilots on the shuttle's tiny bridge. "Try it again?" Sorge leaned over the head of the co-pilot's seat.

"Sir, Kyriacou received a reply two hours ago."

"Maybe Warp currents—"

"No." The co-pilot shook his head at the pilot.

Debris zipped past the shutters. A docking arm, separated two-thirds of the way along its span, floated inside a field of wreckage. In its shadow, a derelict corvette took up a berth. Tiny bodies hung motionless.

"They're not long gone."

"Try the planet, pilot?"

"Sir, we are not authorised to proceed past the station."

"Well, are you going to take us back instead?"

The co-pilot switched channels. "Kyriacou, this is Lighter One-One. Henna-Morata Station unserviceable. Request permission to breach atmo, sweep for Blue forces, and drop the packages off. Roger. Out."

"Sounds promising," Barakat said to Sorge.

"Sir, we've got permission up to placing you boots on the ground. That's all we can do for you."

"Of course. Your ship, Chief. Commander?" Sorge and Barakat stepped down from the cockpit and took their seats opposite Larn. A frown darkened Larn's face. His mouth hung open. "Strap in, Lieutenant." Larn's hands worked the harness across his chest.

Turbulence shook the three's teeth. "Mmph, damn!" Barakat's finger came away from his lower lip bloody.

"Just lie back and think of the Emperor!" Sorge, his head tilted back, smirked.

"I'll wager the Divine never had turbulence as rough as this."

Once the buffeting died away, Sorge sat up and unbuckled his harness. "Innes, let's see what's what. Stay here please, James."

Brown dust swirled around the unshielded viewport. "Not much to see here I'm afraid, sir." The pilot reached above his head and flicked a switch.

"Any hails, pilot?"

"No hails. We're fifteen klicks out from the largest settlement on the continent. A coastal city. Should be a few million at least."

"In this weather?" Barakat peered over the co-pilot's shoulder.

"Windspeed, pilot?"

"Eight-five kph. Skyscraper coming up on our starboard. Eighty metres."

"Skyscraper?"

"Yes, sir. Wind can't be doing all that glass any good."

A tower, nothing more than a shape in the clouds and leaning to one side, passed by on the right. A sagging span made of wooden planks joined up more towers. A coin-sized disk glowed high in the sky.

"TACBE, sir."

"Where?"

"Two-and three-quarter klicks to the north-west, sir."

"Ours?"

"Good frequency, sir."

"Can you bring us closer?"

"Affirm."

The lighter flew past a nub of roadway jutting over a chasm. Severed cables dangled from two towers. "Skyshield." The pilot throttled back and steered the lighter through the clouds to a hexagonal landing pad penned in by steel caskets packed with rocks. Sandbags piled on top, encircling the LZ with a nine-foot-high screen. "Sir, soldiers."

"I see them. Your sidearm loaded, Innes?"

"Don't keep mine loaded usually." Barakat fitted his laspistol with a power pack. "Fat lot of good in a firefight."

"Keep the engines warm, Chief. Fly Lieutenant Larn back to the ship if we are taken prisoner. Unclasp your holster, Innes."

Barakat straightened his pistol belt and unlocked the side hatch. Both officers tugged on infantry small packs dyed navy grey. "If we are taken prisoner? So, we survive Cadia to be taken prisoner by some lowlife scavvers?"

"We didn't survive Cadia. Our feet never touched the ground." Dry air seeped in to the hold. "Ahhh." Sorge tipped the brim of his ceramite over his eyes and headed down the ramp. Barakat followed in to howling wind. Soldiers swathed in ponchos and gas capes waited just inside a bagged passageway. Sorge waved and received a return gesture from a soldier in a watch cap and dust goggles.

"Thank you for answering us, sir." The masked soldier gripped Sorge's hand.

"What?" Sorge leaned in.

"Thank you for coming, sir!"

"Good. Good. Innes, fetch Larn, will you?"

More soldiers wrapped tightly in capes and scarves lined the hazy passage. "Who are you, soldier?"

"KE-224, sir. Satwa Irregulars." The Satwa lifted up his goggles. "Is it true about Cadia?"

"Where is your commanding officer?"

"Down in a cut-and-cover, sir. He's regular Guard."

"Many regulars among you?"

"Right here or in Satwa as a whole?"

"Bad comms?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe these last three days, sir. The storm shut us down completely. But if we're like this then so is the enemy."

A Cadian in dust-coated khaki lay on a mattress with a woollen cap pulled down over his eyes. Coils poked through the mattress's stuffing. Irregulars slumped around the cut-and-cover cradling lasguns and rifles. Bundles of rags and rolled-up clothing stuffed apertures keeping the dust out.

"Sir, officers of the Imperial Navy are here," KE-224 said.

"Officers of the what?" The Cadian sat up and slipped the cap out of his eyes.

"Navy, sir."

"Did they send ships?"

KE-224 looked to Sorge. "Alright, I'll take it," Sorge said.

"How many are you?" The officer planted his hands on the edges of the cushion and hunched his shoulders.

"Three."

"Three! Is this a fucking joke? We asked for evacuation and you drop us a courtesy call?"

"I'm Commander Sorge. This is Lieutenant Commander Barakat, and Second Lieutenant Larn. I have orders bearing the Lord Commander's seal. Unless you hold a colonel's rank, I now command here."

"Hmph. You're welcome to it. Satwa's yours for the taking, Commander."

"Any objections, Captain?"

"Ca-aptain! I'm a Guardsman." The Cadian smirked. "Vying to be a civilian."

"Any more of you here?"

"Could be."

"Could be? Could you fill us in on the happenings of these past three days, Guardsman?"

"Do it for three cigarettes?"

"Stand up straight when an officer addresses you."

"Oh, hostility, is it?"

"My lighter takes off and your wounded remain here. You do have wounded you wish to evacuate, don't you?"

A lit cigarette sagging in his mouth, the Cadian led Sorge, Larn, and Barakat down a tunnel network lit by lamps dangling from hooks. "Up top's a no-go. If the enemy doesn't spot you, you'll lose yourself in the cloud or drown. Soft sand swallows you up whole. There's no getting out. Why the poeface, young man?"

"And what about the starport? Who holds it?"

"Could be us… could be the enemy. Oh, watch that fissure there, boy."

"You're speaking to an officer."

"So are you, sir." The Cadian plucked a severed blue and white tac-flash from his pocket. "Major, 226 Signal Squadron EW."

"Well, this is a turn up for the books, Major. How come you're here by yourself?"

"We burned the books, sir. And the signals codes."

"Yes, why are you here?"

"Every man for himself, wasn't it? Is that why the lieutenant's here? Not one of his, are you, boy?"

"You're a disgr—" The earth rumbled beneath the group's feet.

"Ahh-haah, you'll fit right in." The Signals major stuck his hands in his pockets and walked backwards. "Come on. I'll show you the nest."

Dry wood creaked beneath bootheels. Planks sat over gaps in the ground, bridging fissures wide enough to swallow grown men whole. "Eurgh, foul creatures." Barakat thrust his toecap at a rat.

"You'll lose that war, Commander. If you don't go all the way, why bother? Just don't fight."

"Oh, is that why you're skulking down here with the rats, Major?"

"Look, if I wanted attrition, I'd have thrown the infantry in. Let the storm do our work for us."

"What of the starport, Major?"

"Full lockdown." Dust trickled from the tunnel roof. "Ah, don't worry. It's just the fault line."

"Is that why those towers were leaning? Did the enemy do that?"

"We did."

"Or the storms?"

"We did."

The Signals major led Sorge, Barakat, and Larn out from an exit in to a circular chamber with a mosaic in the floor. Sand piled beneath vertical slits in the walls. Cracked wooden planks criss-crossed a wide cavity in the centre of the room. Light shone down from a hole in the ceiling. "Now, I hate using this for more than five seconds. You any idea how much heat-see befouls the machine-spirit's temper?" The major removed the caps from a pair of magnoculars. "And not a single techpriest or even a servo on this arse-crack of a planet."

"I'll take the machine-spirit's temper in to account, Major." Sorge wiped his sleeve on the lenses and exchanged a look with Barakat. "James, stay away from the centre." Sorge peeped through a narrow slit then passed the magnoculars to Barakat. "Nothing."

Stones crumbled from the hole in the roof. "How often do these tremors occur, Major?" Barakat peered through the glasses.

"A few times a day."

"Of all the places to build a city, they build it right on a fault line."

"Arid planet. Don't know why you wouldn't build a settlement away from water. Almost as if the AdMech weren't involved." The major stuck his lit cigarette behind his ear. "Nothing out there for us or the enemy, Commander."

"Yes, yes you're right, Major."

"Right then, can we talk about the wounded—?" A rock slammed against the planks covering the hole. Larn stumbled away from the rock. His boot came down on a thin board. Stones scattered around him. "Lieutenant! Don't move."

"Watch your head!" A board splintered and broke in half. Larn's leg fell in to the cavity.

"I've gotcha." Barakat rushed over and grabbed Larn's arm.

"INNES!" A stone chunk slammed against the back of Barakat's ceramite. Larn's fingers slipped from his arm and he fell through. "Damn it, James." Sorge pulled Barakat back from the depression. "Major, round up your wounded and prepare them for embarkation. Major, take command!"

"What—what about the lieutenant?"

"First your wounded, Major." Sorge unclipped Barakat's pistol belt and pulled him over his shoulders. "Argh… that belly's getting the better of you, Innes."

"Careful. Careful!" The major threw his arm out and stopped Sorge entering the tunnel. A support beam fell from the ceiling, bringing down a dust shower.

"Any chance of a rope, Major?"

"'Bout as much as a nightcap."

"I won't ask any of you to—"

"—Good, we're not."

"We're in agreement then. We sort the wounded out—stretcher cases before walking wounded—and we'll see about bringing ships down from Kyriacou."

"Not that way, Commander. Up here." The major set his shoulder against a crooked timber. "What's Kyriacou?"

"Destroyer."

"Any infantry aboard?"

"One company. Combat ineffective I'm afraid. No able officers."

"That subaltern looked able."

"No, Major. He is not to be squandered in a direct-action role."

"Direct-action? Who are you?"

"Naval Intelligence."

"Fat lot of good you can do here—mind your head."

"Isn't me I'm worried about." Barakat's foot cracked against a beam. "Ahh-chh!" Sorge wrinkled his nose. "Dust!"

"Lay him down here, sir." The Major slapped Satwa shoulders. "Stand up. Make room there."

"Any orderlies here? Any medics, come forward." Sorge laid Barakat on a cushion and undid the clasps of his cover.

A Satwa came forwards. "Sir, I studied medicine at the—"

"Thank you. Very good. See to the lieutenant commander. He's taken a blow to the head."

"Yes, sir."

"Major?" Sorge slung his pack. "Shall we head upstairs?"

"Why, what are you planning?"

The major and Sorge met a Satwa coming in from the storm. The Satwa chopped his hand across his throat. "What's that, soldier?"

"I said, your ride has scarpered, sir." The Satwa pulled his shawl away from his face and lifted a pair of dust goggles.

"…Told them to wait." Sorge ran up to the tunnel entrance. "Damn it all." He smacked his thigh.

"Well." The major tugged a scarf out from inside his collar and covered his mouth. "Welcome to Henna-Morata, sir. Please enjoy your stay."

"The TACBE."

"What's that?" The major lifted his scarf away from his ear.

"The TACBE."

"What, the SARBE you mean?" The major pointed up at a dome flanked by circular turrets rising high in to the cloud. "We put it up there before the storm hit."

"I intend to augment it." Sorge patted his pack. "I need no partner, only a rope and a pick."

"In these winds, sir? Shouldn't you wait before they die down?"

"And give the enemy opportunity? Look on the bright side, Major. It could be raining."

"Well, if you're going…" The major passed Sorge a shawl and his goggles. "Probe before you tread. There's chasms everywhere."

"Roger."

"Good luck." The Major shook Sorge's hand and headed back inside.

My eyelid twitched. A droplet crawled across my brow and dripped in to my tear duct. My right arm, trapped underneath my body, tingled. Sand coated my lips and cheek. "Ahh…" I ran my fingers behind my head in to matted hair. Blood wet my fingers.

A long, cylindrical tube with a rounded nose lay half-embedded in a slope of sand and rubble. Stones toppled along the grey body and fell inside my collar. I dug my fingers in to the sand and pushed myself against the smooth shell. Sticky fingers dug inside my breast pocket and took out a pict with the sides torn off. I held the pict close to my face and smoothed my thumb across the corner.

Tiny fires lit up a sand-filled chamber. Candles, in the hundreds, surrounded a path winding downwards. Sand gave way beneath my heels. Grains seeped inside and grated between my toes. An orange haze hung in the air. Wide mattresses, silken curtains and silverware littered crude hovels. Stacked plates and glasses sat inside cabinets. Children's drawings were tacked on the walls. Beside them, scrawled on the wall in white paint were the words, the Emperor protects neglects.

Windchimes clanged together. Smoke rose from jagged fissures in the ground. I sat down on the edge of one fissure, wiggled forwards, and dropped through. Candles glowed inside tiny holes in the walls. Stone scraped across the front and back of my jacket and pressed against my stomach. Sand choked a stone plinth a Space Marine stood on. Torn-up clothes stained with blood lay on a mat at the foot of the plinth. More stains rode up the statue's legs. I kneeled and ran my fingers over black cotton. Wind crept from a passageway and whipped sand in to my face and up my nose. I buried my nose in my sleeve and staggered in to the wind.

Sea life drifted behind a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. Light seeped through a chamber, the shafts shimmering across golden plaques giving names to the many creatures inhabiting the tanks. Bubbles spurted from pouting mouths and lipless maws. Wide, round eyes latched on and followed me out of the chamber and in to darkness.

Shadows piled against a wall. Around a corner, Cadians with orange facings on their armour slouched on a long line of chairs against a wall. Brass casings piled in the corridor. Black burn marks coated the wall. Bags covered heads. Mouths had sucked in the cloth. Stains coated crotches and the insides of trouserlegs. Tattered and burnt flags hung down the wall. Written in white paint above everything were the words, Cadia burned. I pressed a hand against my stomach and stumbled away down a narrow tunnel.

Fire illuminated a long colonnade stretching away on both sides in to distant haze. A tree stood at the far end in the centre of a windowless room with an enclosed ceiling. Flames danced across twisted, dead branches. Embers fell in to a circular fountain. A hollow rib-cage protruded from the trunk. A skull attached to a spine thrust its head forward. Both arms were embedded in the branches. Flowers drooped in the eye-sockets. Sap oozed down its chin.

My eyes left the trunk and fixed upon a shadow holding a rifle in its hands. In double-breasted khaki, the shadow lowered its rifle and moved out from underneath the branches. Embers littered its path. My feet carried me towards it. An ember touched its shoulder. It stiffened and gripped the rifle in both hands. A trot became a jog. The shadow lowered the rifle and the muzzle flashed and gave a bang. I let out a cry, jerked back, and bolted in to the colonnade. Stone exploded outwards. Fragments skimmed my cheek. Boot heels thudded behind me. Steel cracked against stone. A body thudded against the ground.

At a corner, I slipped behind a pillar and pressed my heels together. The banging left my ears and crashed through the colonnade further along. I sidled around the pillar and crept along the passage, keeping the pillars between me and the shadow. Light caught a shaven head as the shadow kneeled and studied the ground. I slipped out of the colonnade and edged over. It held the rifle by the body, and the butt sat on the sand. I padded at the shadow, breaking in to a run ten feet away. It whipped around and brought the rifle with it. I crashed against the shadow and knocked the barrel away.

"Umph!" The shadow toppled backwards.

My shoulder hit the floor. The shadow wrestled the rifle away and thrust the butt at me. "Sanna!"

Wind howled around the peak of the tower. Spattered with dust, Sorge shook the SARBE and ripped off the tape holding it. Paint flaked from the stone Sorge perched upon. God-Emperor, that stings. Sorge tugged his cuff over his wrist and popped the case from the battery pack. Can't have been kind to you. Sorge pocketed the old battery and slotted in a new one. From his small pack, Sorge took an S79 Personal Locator Beacon and placed it next to the SARBE. He turned the switch and plugged the PLB in to the SARBE. 243 MHz. Should be good for eighteen hours. Sorge extended the aerial to its fullest and nestled the smaller SARBE between the dome and the PLB. A green light blinked on. That does it.

Sorge shuffled along to a thin buttress and tied his rope around the spine. The old bowline. Never disappoints. "Hup." Sorge threw the rope out and hopped down. His boots smacked against the stone. Warm rope inched through his hands. Come on, Reichert. Need the exercise. Sorge swayed in the air then swung against the side of the tower. Glass clunked beneath his boots. "Umph." Sorge sunk up to his waist in soft sand. Letting go of the rope, Sorge toppled backwards. Hands arrested his fall. "Oh. Thank you very much—" A bag came down over his head. Hands lifted Sorge off his feet and carried him away. Very soon the wind cut out, and the noise died down to nothing.

Electrical tape held Sorge's wrists and ankles in place. Soft voices murmured. A theatre? Metal scraped across metal, making Sorge's ears tingle. "Now, now. We can talk about this like gentlemen—urmph."

"You have three guesses."

"Hammer."

The scraping stopped. "How did you guess that?"

"Next it'll be a pair of pliers. Maybe a heated knife after that. Can't torture me if I bleed out, can we?"

"Ha-ha! Who says we need visit that, Commander?"

"The rules are yours, not mine."

"And who says there are rules?"

"I am not dead yet, so clearly you operate by some code."

"Code?" Cloth rustled. Leather creaked. The voice drew nearer.

"Draw a line and keep to one side of it."

"Mm-hm. We drew it. We crossed it. And we kept on marching. Welcome to Henna-Morata, Commander." A hand closed around the bag and ripped it off. Tiered seating stretched in a gentle curve around a raised stage. Sand coated the bare seats, obscuring the red cushions. In the first four rows sat men in black robes and cloth masks covering their faces. Overhead spotlights stared down at Sorge. He blinked and rolled his head.

"Didn't realise we had an audience. I'd have prepared a routine." A man in robes and a conical wooden mask stepped around to Sorge's front. Jagged horns stuck up from the mask. Inside tiny holes, eyes glinted. "You are the main attraction, I take it?"

"Oh no. No, no, no." The horned man linked hands behind his back and bent over Sorge. "We are here for you, Commander. We would like to know everything about you."

"Shall we begin with introductions? I would shake hands but…"

"Yes, let's. Who are you and what is your mission in Satwa?"

"Reichert Adonis Charles Sorge, Commander, Imperial Naval Intelligence. I came here with my subordinate, Lieutenant Commander Barakat. We are changing over for our journey to Haven. Believe me, sir, there is no need for the craftsman's tools over by that table. The storm binds us together. Unites us—" The chair tipped backwards. Sorge landed in a sandy pit. Black capes surrounded him. One pointed an autogun at his head then shifted the muzzle aside. Sandy clouds poured over Sorge, inside his ears, through his eyelids, and up his nostrils.

"Cease fire." The leader in the conical mask wafted away the cloud and kneeled over Sorge. "You've seen the Satwa base, yes?"

"Ah-hurgh!" Sorge spat out sand. Grains ground between his teeth and clung to his eyebrows. "Yes."

"And the prisoners?"

"P—prisoners?"

"Prisoners. Our brothers those dune-dwelling dogs sent up from the starport."

"Don't know. Didn't see any prisoners. Everyone looked the same."

"How many Satwa?"

"Don't know. More than a platoon's worth—"

"Again."

Sand spurted around Sorge, coating his face and riding inside his nose. Bells rang in his ears. "Ahh—Chh!"

"Who do you work for?" The man in the mask opened a pair of pliers and pushed the sides of the jaws against the tip of Sorge's forefinger.

"The… the Emperor."

"Hah! Not the answer I was expecting to hear."

"Flinging slurs at each other? Sir, we are men of honour—pfft." Sorge spat. "I serve the Emperor."

"Then my commiserations to your widow." The jaws closed around Sorge's fingernail.

"Don't bother. She's not worth it."

"Oh-ho! And how much are you worth, Commander?" The mask's snout wavered inches from Sorge's eyes.

"Look here." Sorge waggled his third finger. "Within this ring is a piece of Pluvian obsidian. It can buy you and your followers an early retirement and comfortable living."

"Do we look like soldiers of coin to you, Commander?"

"You look inclined to follow reason. Now, I would not mark you down as Imperial Guard but beings out for material wealth. Your employer. Does he make his grave on Henna-Morata—Grrrrr!" The pliers twisted. "Grrrrr." Sorge's chest trembled. "Eigh—eighteen hours!"

"Never had one last as long as that. If you would like, I can slow down."

"In eighteen hours, my beacon stops transmitting and the destroyer leaves—AARGH!"

"You were talking to your destroyer?" The masked man dropped a bloodied fingernail in the sand. "On the roof?"

"Y…Yes."

"Your destroyer? Why send the captain down here by himself?" The pliers closed around the second fingernail. "Careful now, Commander."

"I am not the captain. Myself and my subordinate took passage aboard Kyriacou. The enemy blitzed the orbital platform and our lighter brought us down here."

"They took out the orbital platform?" The masked man glanced up at the others.

They? "And with the storm, Henna-Morata's cries go unheard. My voice carries beyond the heavens to the saviours above. My memory too goes far." The pliers' jaws closed. "Your patience and understanding shall be rewarded—GRRRAAGH!"

Shaven-headed and red-eyed, Sanna Senf thrust the rifle's butt at me. I ducked away and climbed to my feet. "Traitor!"

I caught the rifle's body and pushed back at the Cadian. "Sanna, I'm sorry about your friends. Please—I'M SORRY!" Sanna's and my heels scraped across the flagstones. My hand slipped and punched Sanna's stomach.

"Urgh!" Sanna stumbled back. Her grip slackened and I fell upon her and wrenched the rifle free. Sanna's hands beat at my arms. Her boots grazed my shins.

"Stop!"

"Where are they?" Sanna seized my wrist and shook. "My Guardsmen, where are they?"

"…It was quick."

"NO! YOU KILLED THEM! Why didn't you surrender? He spared my life—"

"It's not just you." I pulled at Sanna's tight fingers. "What d'you think 'appened to my mates?"

"That was on you, Sergeant. Their blood on your hands because you didn't stop. Why didn't you stop? You could have saved their lives if you had just stopped!"

"I…" My shoulders drooped. The rifle's muzzle hit the ground.

"Can I trust you with that firearm?" Scratched, unvarnished wood rubbed against my palms. I examined the action then reversed it and offered the butt to Sanna.

Sanna gripped the stock and pulled herself up. "I am not sorry. It is not even close to half of what you deserve."

I let go of the rifle and stepped back. "I'm sorry."

"I don't think you understand the meaning, off-worlder. Walk."

Cave-ins blocked off passages, leaving us with a single path to follow. Sand drowned bivouacs. Brick walls crumbled and supports groaned. "How did you get here, Sarn't?"

"Through an act of mercy," Sanna said.

"Mercy?"

"An inquisitor could have and should have shot me on the spot. My life was spared for a reason, off-worlder. I was meant for something greater—"

"But how did you get 'ere?"

"The enemy took the inquisitor's staff hostage when we landed at the starport three days ago. Then the storm came, and I escaped and hid. They're herding civilians to camps down there. You?"

"Err… um… the—the commander."

"Your ship?"

"Mmm…" Hands stuck out of a pool filled in with sand. Towels covered deck chairs. Parasols stood at wonky angles.

"Offworlder? Sergeant!" Sanna pushed her muzzle at me. "Do you comprehend?"

"Err, yeah."

"Mind your step. This sand is quite unlike anything I have ever seen. It strips paint from the walls, skin from bone, swallows streets and topples buildings."

"No beaches where you're from then?"

"Sewn and wired."

"Yeah, but you ever been?"

Sanna dropped her rifle to her waist. "Have I… what?"

"Y'ever been to the beach?"

Sanna wrinkled her nose and turns away. "Tchh. Offworlders."

"Both off-worlders now, aren't we?"

"Cadia stands." Sanna stopped and faced me. Her jaw tightened. "Cadia. Stands."

"Then how come you're 'ere?"

"Cadia stands." Sanna reversed the rifle and held it by the stock. "And even if one Cadian and a hundred off-worlder cowards manned the walls, I'D TAKE JUST THE ONE!" Sanna swung the butt at me. Sand poured from the ceiling. The tunnel shook. A beam cracked and toppled between me and Sanna. I fled, leaving Sanna buried. At a corner, my shoulder slammed in to a support. Dust swirled up the tunnel. I licked my lips and bounced on my feet. Throne, it's all coming down. "Sanna!" I ran back down the tunnel and clambered over the beam. "Sanna!" Buried up to my shoulders, I ploughed through the sand, clawed up fistfuls and shunted them behind. "Sanna, please!" My fingers found a leg. Working my hand through the sand, I pinched cloth and found Sanna's jacket and dragged her out. "Euuurgh!" Covered in dust, Sanna thrust her head forward and retched. "Come on." Sanna's arm around my shoulders, I hobbled over to the beam.

"My eyes!"

"Duck." I weaved beneath the beam. "Sanna, you have to duck."

"Where? I can't—"

"Crawl through!" I pulled Sanna underneath the beam. "Don't let go. Don't let go!"

I dragged the blinded Sanna through the collapsing tunnels. Within a circular chamber with a well in the centre, I took a lit lamp and held it up in front of me. Passages around me caved in. Sanna stumbled. "Sanna, keep hold!" Behind us, beams cracked and collapsed. Ahead, the tunnel forked. I took the rightmost path, the one that rose. "Light! Light!" I steered Sanna over to a shaft. A broken ladder lay at the bottom. Light shone ten feet above us.

"Where?"

"Cup your hands. Kneel. Kneel and cup your hands. On my go, push me up."

"Here?"

"No-no, here, here! Ready?"

"Yes."

"Okay, three-two-one push!"

"Uurgh!" Sanna pushed upwards. I reached the ledge and swung a leg up. "Here. Grab my hand."

"Where? I can't see."

"Jump. Just jump. I'll catch you."

"Umph!"

"Almost. Just stick your hand up and I'll grab on—yes!" My body inched towards the edge. "Oh, ssshit. Sanna, use your legs." Sanna's other hand closed around my shoulder and squeezed. "Argh…"

"I'm… I'm…"

"Just climb!" I hooked my foot around a wooden post and pulled. "Nearly." Sanna's shoulders drew level with the ledge. "Yeah, you got it." I shoved my hand underneath Sanna's arm and pulled her up to me. "Good one, Sanna. Well done." The beam my foot hooked around tore free. Sand plummeted on to our heads.

"NO!"

"STAND UP! STAND UP!" I hauled Sanna up and pushed her against wooden boards nailed to an opening. Sand fell inside our collars and built up around our ankles. "PUT YOUR SHOULDER IN! C'MON, CADIAN!" Our shoulders slammed against the boards. "THAT'S IT, SARN'T!" A board cracked and ripped free of the bent nail holding it in place. I kicked a board at knee height. "SMASH IT!" Sanna set her shoulder against a higher board. "LINK ARMS! ONE, TWO, THREE!" Two boots, one Cadian, the other Zeke, broke a board loose. Shoulders, together, tore a second board free. I pushed Sanna's head down and manoeuvred her shoulders through the gap. Once her boots slipped through, I swiped the building sand aside and dived after Sanna, dry wood scratching at my shoulders and knees.