Along with Kernow and the other Inquisitorial acolytes, Susannah and I squeezed in to the tent with representatives from Urgraf and a smattering of men from other outfits. "How did they find us anyway?" Susannah scratched behind her ear.

"D'you notice how they were looking for the dog? Something tipped 'em."

"A tracker in the beast. The only explanation."

"Trip, Susannah."

"Don't. It's a working animal. Inquisition property." Susannah's eyes flickered across to Kernow. "The beastmaster."

"He's not a bad dog—"

"You can't know. You can't possibly know if he hasn't been set on prisoners."

A muscled Urgraf wearing a sleeveless jacket stood up in the centre of the floor. "Much as I like trading anecdotes, we're no closer to freedom. The Obrist won't like us sitting idle here, waiting for him to come and unlock the cage. It's up to us to get out there and harass and confound Satwa as much as possible." Other Urgraf nodded and grunted. I gave Susannah a nudge and she rose and faced the Urgraf. "No, no, no, no, you sit down, Cadian. That ugly one's got you dangling from strings. How 'bout you offer a suggestion, boy?"

"Well, you've been 'ere longer than us. How many Satwa we got patrolling outside the wire? What time do they change shifts? Any of us approached them, even tried to press 'em for gen? If we wait for the Obrist to ride in, Zeke will have already blockaded the planet and we'll be trapped here. He's already done a fly-by of the orbital platform, blasted it to slag. How many hours 'til he breaches atmo? Forty-eight? Seventy-two?"

"Sorry, who put you in charge, Tross?" The large Urgraf cracked a shoulder joint.

"Officers, raise your hand."

A man in a reddish-brown jerkin raised his hand. "I'm—I'm WO2. I had a colleague. He was sergeant major of our pioneer regiment."

"Any commissioned officers?"

"Aw, don't say it—" The Urgraf flung a finger at me. "Lying, he's lying. Look at him, he's not even born."

"S'cuse me." Kernow and his men stood.

"Go to the Warp, Inquisition! How d'you like being on the inside for a change?" Urgraf gathered to the braggart.

"You need this." Kernow held up a pair of wire cutters. "We need this. Let's bring our heads together and formulate a plan—" The Urgraf lunged. Kernow reeled back, blood running from his nostrils. The Urgraf drew back his head to smack Kernow again. Acolyte and Urgraf locked together. The stragglers scooted around the brawling eight and joined our group. The cutters lay forgotten inside stampeding boots.

"Call Satwa. Call the guards!"

"Wait." Susannah crawled forwards and reached for the cutters.

"Shit." I fell over Susannah's ankles and dragged her back. "Gonna lose your bloody fingers doing that."

"Now can we call the guard?" A man with swirling tattoos around his eyes snapped at me. "Sir?"

"Yeah, everybody out." I ducked outside. Dust scythed through my hair. "Coulda gone worse, I reckon."

"How? We learned nothing." Susannah slipped the cutters in to her back pocket.

"Front pocket—oi, front pocket."

"Why?"

"Bulges."

"I see." Stragglers scattered around us. Three Satwa stood outside the gate with rifles slung bore-down.

"Oi, Urgraf's brawling with the Inquisition in the tent with the patched roof." I shook the fence. "Soldier!"

A Satwa unslung his rifle and mounted a bayonet over the muzzle. "Back away from the fence."

"No, look." Another Satwa drew a whistle from a pocket on his body armour. At the far end of the tents, an Urgraf and one of Kernow's men tussled in the sand. After two blasts on the whistle, the Satwa shouted. "Turn out the guard!"

I leaned close to Susannah. "Count them."

"You two, down the slope."

"Come on." I walked with Susannah down the slope and sat near the bottom.

"Fence looks old. That metal hasn't aged well. Should give way without too much trouble."

"One, two, three, four, five…" Satwa jogged past, over to the brawlers. "Seventeen—eighteen. Two sections on-call."

"Old rifles. Semi-automatic, ten-rounders. Third-rate junk."

"Grenades?"

"Can't tell. Those ponchos cover a lot."

"Yeah, they still go bang though—pff! And the four patrolling the fence and three on the gate. You know, I don't reckon they expect an escape. Where would we go except the desert?"

"It's freedom though, isn't it?" Susannah wiped dust from her fatigues and pulled me up by the forearm. Inside a tent, we found a corner and plonked down against a post. "Just us tonight."

"Hm?"

"I don't trust Urgraf or my jailers. Let's find a good spot and work on it once the light goes."

"Alright, sounds like a plan. Meet at sundown at the generator in the centre closest to the gate."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

A flare burst over the cage. Flat against the sand, I lay still and watched the crackling sun wane. Fingers tapped my arm. Susannah put an arm around shoulder and said in my ear, "Wait 'til it fades."

With the flare's departure, Susannah and I crept through the tents and crawled up the slope to the fence. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Voices drifted over from the gate. Susannah drew the cutters from her pocket and opened the jaws. I lifted my head and checked both ways. "Okay, go."

Susannah pushed the cutters through the fence and squeezed. "Mmph." Iron jangled. The section snapped, giving a clack. Susannah froze.

Eight, nine, ten. "Go."

Susannah cut a semi-circle in the wire, leaving two pieces holding the section in place at the apex.

"Hey." Four shapes crawled up the slope behind us.

"What? No, piss off!" I swept my arm at Kernow and his men. "Get the fuck—!"

"Send them away." Susannah pushed at the weakened section. "Damn it."

"We're not taking you with us. Find your own way out."

"Kind of you to offer, but we're on our own mission, friend."

"What?"

"To the south." Kernow twisted and pointed around his shoulder. "In a few minutes a fire will start at the south-east transformer. Our mercenary friends are scaling the fence. Cause some trouble for us."

"Oh, all friends now, are we?"

"Hey, we all want the same thing, Lieutenant."

"Offworlder." Susannah levered the fence up with her shoulders and slithered through. "Careful. Sharp edges." I slipped under the fence and held up the section for Kernow.

Metal scraped across Kernow's shoulders. "How do you fit through such a…?"

"Ssh!"

Kernow dragged himself through the flexing fence. "Boys, come through."

"Cheers." I passed the cutters over to Kernow. "Take off."

"Good luck, Lieutenant."

Susannah and I crawled across open ground towards the civilian camp. White painted letters covered a wooden signpost. No firearms, explosives, blunt or bladed weapons in the camp. Beneath it. No ball games, shouting, running.

I reached for an embedded peg and worked it out of the ground. Susannah wiggled another peg out and crawled beneath a tent flap. "Hoi." I shook Susannah's heel. Her legs poked out of the tent. "Susannah?" Susannah flicked her heel and moved inside. "What the hell was…?"

Sleeping civilians filled the tent. Susannah stood up and pointed at a slit at the far end. A gas cape hung from a nail driven in to a post. Susannah reached out and lifted the cape off.

"No, leave it!"

"Ssh." Susannah folded the cape and tucked it under her arm. Snores buzzed through the tent. Susannah pointed out a khaki duffel coat at the end of a cot. "Take it."

I passed the cot by. Parents clutched babies to their chests. Children slept on single beds together. Old, young, infant. All were crammed in to dusty tents. Susannah undid a knot at the top of a gap and tugged the rope through the eyelets. Halfway down, Susannah lifted her leg through the gap. I followed Susannah out and fed the rope back through the eyelets.

"Leave it!" Susannah shook the cape and pulled it over her head. "Why didn't you take it?"

"Not stealing from these people. They've nothing else to give."

"Shut up!" Dust fell from Susannah's cape. She threw it over her shoulder and crept through the camp. Flies flitted around rubbish piles, taller than the both of us combined. Oh, God-Emperor! I raised my collar and hooked my t-shirt over my nose. Susannah pressed a fold of her cape against her mouth.

"That's my daughter!"

Susannah charged off towards a tent. "Susannah. Susannah!" I pushed inside and found Susannah with her arm around the throat of a Satwa. Susannah dragged the Satwa over and fell on her back with him on top of her. A mother and father huddled with their daughter in the far corner. I fell on the Satwa's ankles and held his kicking legs down. "Ssh!"

Another Satwa stood with his back to a flap on the other side of the tent. He bent down and pattered at a green glass bottle. It toppled and liquid flowed across the sand.

"Urgh. Gerson?" The Satwa turned and bumped in to a post. "Finished already…? My turn now…"

A flare burst. White light spread across the camp. "Go." Susannah, pinned beneath the quivering body, flicked her foot at me. "Go, damn you."

"Gerson, what the hell's going on?" The Satwa raised a hand over his eyes and stumbled in to the tent. "Gerson—umph!" I slammed in to the Satwa, bowling him over. Crashing outside, I ran off along a street. "GERSON!" I threw a look over my shoulder. Come on, Susannah. A round cracked past. A Satwa flew around a corner ahead, a rifle bouncing at his hip. I ploughed sideways and dove at a hole in the perimeter wall. Dry weeds filled a ditch. Beyond it, dead ground stretched away from the starport. Thin yellow grass sprouted from crumbling walls and tumbledown arches.

"Prisoner escaping!" Boots slid down the slope behind me. My stomach thumped in to a ledge at the end of the ditch. I hoisted my body up and swung a leg over and rolled behind a long colonnade. Fat pillars separated me from Satwa spilling from the wall. Rifles cracked. Ferrocrete burst above my head, spraying me with dust. Grey smoke exploded from the breach in the wall and chunks of masonry flew in to the sky.

White phosphorus? I fell against a pillar. "No…" Burning Satwa tottered from the smoke. I pushed away from the pillar and jumped in to a dry ditch. Shadows prowled from the haze across the dead ground. Metallic pops came from the north. Grey clouds spread behind the perimeter wall.

Armed men swarmed across broken walls. I scuttled forwards on my hands and knees and jumped up. "Where's your commanding officer?"

"Whoa—shit!" A soldier in a black assault vest and helmet swung a lasgun on me. "Where the fuck did you come from?" Others around him jerked their lasguns around.

"Urgraf?"

"Yeah."

"You're bombing civilians!"

"That's not on us, pal. That's the Fours."

"Please tell 'em to stop—" A blast flung me against the opposite slope. Smoke stinging my eyes, I crawled along behind the mercenaries.

"Rooftop. One-oh-five gun!" Urgraf rose and fired up at the roof of the terminal in the far distance.

I seized the nearest Urgraf. "Where's the Obrist? WHERE IS THE OBRIST!" An explosion flung nearby Urgraf in the air. I let go of the Urgraf, clambered out of the depression, and ran in the opposite direction of the advancing mercenaries.

"Where d'you think you're going?" An Urgraf lunged. I dodged around and bolted through other bodies. "Stand fast, damn you!"

"I'm on him." A slight Urgraf shoved a lasgun behind his back and slipped through the marching files.

"Move! Let me through."

"Arrest and detain that man!"

I hared up a steep slope at the end of a fallen wall and hauled myself to the top. Cement and brick crumbled and cracked beneath my boots, cascading on to the mercenaries' heads. Black smoke and flame rose from the civilian camps. Grey mist coated the outer wall. Arms wheeling, I cleared spikes topping a fence and ducked in to a warren of tunnels packed with Urgraf.

"Wha—where did you come from?" A bare-headed Urgraf fell against crates of mortar shells.

"The Obrist. Where is he?"

"Er, he's back up in some apartments. Third floor. Where did you—?"

I bowled through Urgraf carrying folded stretchers up the passage. "Oi!" Outside, mortars pop.

"Stop, you're dropping it on civilians!" I dropped through a broken window. My knee cracked against an Urgraf lifting a mortar shell from a container.

"Oh!" The Urgraf dropped the shell in the sand.

"Sergeant!" The team leader jerked a thumb at me.

"What you doing? Pick that round up."

"No, please." I staggered behind the tubes. Pale blue 4-inch shells sat inside open cases. "You're dropping it on civvies."

The battery commander snapped his fingers at me. "Sergeant, get him out of here. Keep firing!" Smoke popped from the ends of the tubes. "Sergeant!"

I avoided a lumbering NCO and flew at steps leading inside an apartment block.

"YOU, HALT!"

Steps disappearing beneath my feet, I charged up to the third floor. Two Urgraf sentries blocked me from entering a command post. "Where d'you think you're—?"

"Obrist!" I pushed against the larger men.

"Get back!"

"No, no, you're bombing civilians. There's civilians—"

"James?"

"Sir, they're dropping white phosphorus on civilians!"

"Obrist." Commander Sorge leaned over a mahogany table a grey-haired officer stood at. "My subordinate reports your tubes are hitting civilians."

The Obrist turned milky eyes on Sorge. Deep lines surrounded them. "Sir?" A younger officer lifted a 349 vox handset to his ear. "What are your orders?"

"End fire-mission."

"Yes, sir. Hello, Igol. Cease fire. Cease fire. Out."

The Obrist's fingers curled in to a fist. "Continue the attack."

"Sir."

"No! Commander, there's women and children in the camps."

Sorge rounded on me. "Shut up."

"Let the Tross go," the Obrist said.

"James." Sorge laid a hand on my shoulder and walked me down the stairs. I shook free and glared up at him.

"Sir, have you any idea what they've just done?"

"Detach yourself, Lieutenant!" Sorge slapped my arm and pointed me down the stairs. "This is neither of our business."

"Sir, they're massacring—"

"—Civilians by the dozen. It happened on Cadia, it'll happen here, and it'll happen again tomorrow elsewhere. We are an officer down and your heart bleeds for the common citizen?"

"It's not just Barakat, I've got a friend in there. She's—she's—"

"You don't have any friends, James, you work for me."

"Not 'til my name's on that dotted line."

"You will sign, James, or you will find yourself on the firing line. You don't want to be there. You want what's best for yourself and that's right here by my side."

"You're wrong."

"I'm never wrong. You're hysterical. Calm down and detach yourself. That's an order."

"Bastard."

"Say it. Let it out and breathe—"

"Don't fucking tell me to breathe!" The mortar crews squatted around their silent pieces. Heads turned in mine and Sorge's direction.

"Come on." Sorge took me inside a dim corridor. I linked hands behind my head and pushed my elbows in.

"Whiskey." Sorge removed the stopper from a flask. "Drink up, my lad."

I took the flask and tipped it up. Liquid sprayed from my mouth. "Eurgh!"

"Best to pinch your nose and put your tongue on the roof of your mouth."

"Pff." I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. "Lifer."

"James, the typists, the ink-spillers, and the paper-slicers are the reason you stand here. You are in such an enviable position now. Why take it for granted?"

My right hand closed in to a tight fist. Beneath the dressing, the cut stung. "I left someone behind."

"We did. Though with any luck Satwa moved Innes down here from the nest. Once this exercise is over, we can head over and collect him. Poor chap has concussion probably. Needs the Medicae."

"Concussion…?" I closed my eyes. Faint pops and thuds came from the starport.

"James, it's none of our business. Drop this hero attitude. The common citizenry are not worth the heartache. You've got this far yourself. It's only you that matters. You cannot save Henna-Morata."

Head drooping, I shook it. "No."

"Find yourself a bunk for tonight. We'll head out at first light." Sorge shook a cigarette packet and tipped two out. "Well done for losing Satwa." Sorge flicked the wheel of his lighter. "Hm?"

"Ta." I placed a cigarette with a gold band between my lips and inhaled.

"Brooding hurts. Think positively, James. Let's move on together. I'll come and find you at sun-up." Sorge smiled and patted my shoulder.

Alone, I opened my breast pocket and unfolded the pict. Smoke seeped around the ripped edge. I'm sorry. Urgraf stretcher-bearers tramped past. I folded up the pict and slipped it inside my pocket. "You're tarradiddling, soldier. Grab a stretcher and follow."

The cigarette hit the floor and I crushed the butt beneath my heel. Smoke shooting from my nostrils, I stooped and gathered a stretcher beneath my arm.

Unwashed and unshaven, Richard Sorge jogged up the stairs to the Urgraf CP. His fingers, choked with plasters, stung. "Good morning Obrist. I trust your operation was a success?"

"Near a success as it could be, Commander. My men finished mopping up the last few pockets of resistance twenty minutes ago."

"Excellent. There may be an officer – a lieutenant commander – among the PDF's PWs. He's one of mine."

"Yours? Not that snot that barged in here last night?"

"No, Obrist. Lieutenant Commander Innes Barakat is my direct subordinate and is still in the care of Satwa, and with a concussion I might add. Do I and my lieutenant have permission to enter your area of operations?"

The Obrist twiddled a stylus between pudgy fingers. "There'll be no interference with my operation. I'll lend you a man. Adopt protective posture as well. There's kit downstairs." The Obrist handed Sorge a written note. "Trabant Ulman, accompany the commander in to the field. Make sure he finds his officer."

"Thank you, Obrist. Good morning, Trabant." Sorge smiled and shook the hand of an Urgraf in a maroon beret and black assault vest.

"Hello, Commander." Ulman returned the smile. "Pleasure."

Ulman and Sorge left the CP and headed down a floor. "Richard Sorge. What's yours?"

"Gwyn, sir. I'm Trabant."

"Never heard of such an appointment."

"Life Guard of the Obrist's staff."

"Do all Life Guards have such dashing headwear? I'd have handed my notice in if I'd known."

"Ha-ha. Airborne Rangers, sir. Two and a half tours and a lot of metal dug out of me." Ulman patted his right thigh. "Plenty more inside too."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Best years of my life. Best people to work with too. Really, really good people."

"I see."

Inside a second-floor apartment filled with weapons containers, Ulman laid a black ballistic vest on a table covered in firearms. "Two SR-10s, Armourer. Let's have two ceramites as well. CP for me. Blank for the commander."

"Off on a bimble, Den?" The armourer placed two bare ceramite covers and a pair of respirator masks on the table.

"Uh-huh. Bring you back a recaf, yeah?"

"Yeah, five sugars."

"You, er, looking forward to diabetes then?"

"If it means I can die suddenly and in a blaze of glory, then yeah." The armourer broke the seal on two plastic bags and laid out two filters.

"We'll need another I'm afraid," Sorge said.

"Another? Yes, sir."

"Bringing a third, Commander?"

"Another of mine. Larn, his name is. Good chap. Escaped from the Satwa base last night. Seemed a bit put out over the white phosphorus incident."

"Wholly psychological, sir. WP is brutal but necessary. It's half the fight."

"Absolutely. I made an official remark to the Obrist. The Imperial Navy objects to the use of deadly chemicals on personnel." Sorge flexed his fingers.

"Your hands alright, sir?"

"Never mind the hands. I just wanted it known that I and the Imperial Navy as an institution are against the usage of white phosphorus on personnel."

"Yes, sir. Can we try this for size, please?"

"Right. Do you have a smaller sizing too?"

A second ceramite under his arm, Sorge left the apartment building and crossed the ground where the 4-inch mortars sat. "Don't be alarmed at the lieutenant, please. He's had a trying time on Cadia."

"Were you at Cadia, sir?"

"Not boots-on-the-ground. Honest to the Golden Throne, I'm glad I wasn't. Bloody shambolic. Not a shred of co-operation between services. Not 'til it was too late anyhow." Sorge tutted. "Disgraceful."

"And your man was?"

"Correct."

"Well, any man or woman that fought on Cadia is a hero in my book."

"Yes, well, keep that to yourself. Some unsavoury attitudes towards Cadia veterans are blowing in the wind right now."

"I… I sort of guessed I was in the minority there, Commander. I shouldn't say this but the Obrist voiced aloud his disdain for the Cadian Shock Troopers. I'm surprised the Guard did not liquidate the survivors."

"Well, no Cadians in my unit. That I intend to keep clean of the violet-eyed. Now, where did Lieutenant Larn get to?"

Ulman touched an earpiece. A wire ran down from it and behind his neck. "I could send out a consecutive call. What does your lieutenant look like?"

"Five eight, slight, light brown hair, blue eyes."

"Is he in khaki?"

"OG Guard-issue trousers. An enemy camouflaged jacket and enemy boots as well."

"Make room there! Sorry, sir, wounded coming through." Stretcher-bearers trotted past Sorge and Ulman.

"James?"

"Wait, is that him?"

"Yes—James?" Sorge followed James down a ramp and in to an underground car park housing military tents. "James, I told you to get some sleep."

"Couldn't sleep." James bent his knees and set the stretcher down. His voice came out a dry croak.

"You were ordered to."

"You got a fag?" James looked at Ulman.

"Please don't. God-Emperor, you look like utter hell."

"Have some water." Ulman unlatched a clear plastic tube from his shoulder. "It's clean."

"Ta." James took the tube and sucked on the nipple.

"James, we're heading over to the starport to pick up Innes. Put these on please."

"Why?"

"No questions. Don your vest and cover." James donned the vest and sat the ceramite on his head. Sorge reached for the laspistol sitting in a holster attached to the chest. "I'll just have that, my lad." Sorge removed the power pack and re-seated the sidearm. "There. Tighten those straps and we're all set. We'll be wearing protective gear so don your mask when I say." Sorge draped the sling of the SR-10's carrier over James's head.

"When you're ready, sir," Ulman said.

With the Urgraf leading, Sorge and James traipsed over a pontoon bridge crossing a ditch choked with weeds and thistle. Walking wounded passed in the opposite direction. Grey fog hung over the starport. "Masks on, gentlemen." Sorge opened his sack and fitted his respirator. "James?" Sorge tapped his knuckle upon his crown.

"That's a smell you don't forget." Ulman pointed at one of many holes where the perimeter wall had collapsed.

"James, follow me."

"Might want to unholster your weapon, sir."

"I trust you, Trabant."

"Okay." Ulman climbed up a rubble slope and through the wall. "Oh, my sweet…"

"Mmph. Up you come." Sorge pulled James up. "Easy does it."

"Mind your feet here." Ulman sidestepped down a slope.

"Mind your feet, James."

Piles of broken-up wood and twisted metal lay in burning piles. Masked Urgraf sifted through collapsed tents. Black smoke poured from the terminal buildings. Wind carried the sound of crackling flames across the starport. A line of Satwa, half-naked with blackened scraps hanging from blistered bodies, stood against the flank of an eight-wheeled armoured personnel carrier, their hands bound behind their backs. An Urgraf sat on a foldout chair watching the prisoners. He waved at Ulman. James lifted a piece of tent.

"James, leave it. Nothing here for us." James strayed down a path and stopped in front of an open flap. "James, come back!"

"D'you want me to…?"

"I'll do it." Sorge followed James and put an arm around his shoulder. "Alright, no more of this now, my boy. Let's just—" Civilians lay in cots. Embers drifted through the tent. Sorge's skin prickled. "Come away." Two children sat in a corner with their arms around one another. "Let's go."

Ulman leading, Sorge and James followed tyre tracks cutting through dust layering a road. Three eight-wheeled carriers were parked around a glass foyer leading inside the terminal. Inside the troop compartments, Urgraf sit between stretcher-bound holding up fluid bags.

"Captain?" Ulman approached an Urgraf in a grey beret.

"Mm? Ah, good killin' today, Trabant."

"A fine killing, sir. I have Commander Sorge here of the Imperial Navy as well as Lieutenant Larn."

"Good morning, Captain." The Urgraf captain's glove squeezed Sorge's hand. "Not a man short, are you?"

"A man short…?" Oh, you sneaky beggar.

"Want me to go look for him, sir?" Ulman said.

"No, no, um, Captain I'm looking for an officer in my service, a lieutenant commander. Your men didn't find any naval officers, did they?"

"Not to my immediate knowledge, Commander, but there have been a great many prisoners taken. I shouldn't be alarmed. We're only getting rid of the NCOs and other ranks. Officers will be ransomed off."

"Well, do I have your permission to check the PWs for my officer? He'll be stretcher-bound, likely. Concussion."

"May I see some authorisation?"

"Of course." Sorge handed the Urgraf the written permission from the Obrist.

"Thank you, Commander. This permission only extends to the starport itself, so please do not stray beyond the perimeter, or you will be declared enemy combatants."

"Understood, Captain. You have my word we will remain on these grounds and not interfere with your operation." James on the other hand. Where the hell has he got to?

"Sir, Legion for you." An Urgraf with a 349 on his shoulders held out a bagged handset.

"Excuse me." The captain turned away and tucked the handset between his ear and shoulder.

"I never saw a thing, sir," Ulman said.

"Not your fault. Let's go."

"The lieutenant commander?"

"Larn is in a somewhat difficult position right now. Just be aware he could be a little unpredictable."

"I'm sorry, sir?" Ulman tilted the edge of his ceramite up. "Larn is what?"

"Unpredictable, Trabant."

"Violent, you mean, sir?"

"No, no, certainly not. He left people behind on Cadia. A softer touch is required."

"A softer touch, sir? I don't follow."

"Don't try and shout this down, Trabant. For him, death may seem like a mercy." Sorge swiped aside a tattered tent flap. He popped the clasp holding his laspistol.

"Really? Anything's better than death surely."

"Ever lost men in combat?"

"Not—not under my direct command, sir. I'm Close Protection. I've never led a team."

"And this is a mercy, is it?" Wispy smoke curled around a pile of blistered, reddened Satwa and civilians. Lips were burned away from yellow teeth and limbs hung on by threads. The few scraps of leather or cloth remaining fluttered in the breeze. "Standard Urgraf operating procedure?"

Ulman stopped before the pile. His lasgun dropped to his side. "A—a—a consecutive call may assist in our search, sir."

"Keep the net clear." Sorge turned his back and continues on. This was too far. A whoomph, and smoke rolled in to the sky. Sorge dropped and drew his laspistol.

"Fuel tanks, sir!" Ulman, on his knees, aimed his lasgun at the rising fire at the far corner of the starport. "Wind's in our direction."

"Oh, perfect." Sorge lifted his mask up, spat, and fixed it back in place. Damnation, James.

Sorge and Ulman passed through more tents. Dead civilians lay on gurneys. Outside, two ambulances sat with their wheels up in the air. Burning clothes lay in hampers. Ruined food and meds spilled from smashed-up aid boxes. Picts in the hundreds covered a wall. A sign above it said missing.

Sorge wafted flies away from his mask. Bloody things.

"Sir, shall we check these prisoners?" Ulman marched up to Urgraf with bayonets fixed over the muzzles of their lasguns. Satwa, forty-odd, sat in front of a fire-gutted Chimera with their hands over their heads and chins on their breasts. Burns covered their bodies. Sleeves and shirt-tails hung loose. "Recognise anyone, sir?"

"No."

An Urgraf officer unslung his lasgun. "Keep your distance from the prisoners. Who are you?"

"Sir, I'm Trabant Ulman from the Obrist's staff. This is Commander Sorge, Imperial Navy."

"Show me some ID and written permission."

"Yes sir." Ulman handed over his ID and the note. "We're looking for an officer in khaki. He is not Satwa."

"Well, why have you come to me then? I've prisoners to hold."

"Lieutenant Larn wandered off to look for a… a friend?" Ulman glanced at Sorge.

"Sounds like you need to keep your juniors on a shorter leash, Commander." The officer flung a hand at the PWs. "Only Satwa here."

"Sir, only Satwa PWs here." Ulman said. "Sorry."

"Nothing else I can do, Commander. We've more PWs inside the buildings."

"Thank you for your help, Captain." Sorge pocketed the note. The two followed the exterior of the terminal building around and looped past a fenced compound housing transformers.

"Someone sprung the coop here." Ulman's toecap pushed at a section of mesh fencing. "Was that your man?"

"I doubt that. Unless he can chew through alloys."

"Hur-hur. Well, I've met some characters in my time…"

The two trudged back down to the APCs and across broken glass. Just inside the foyer, masked Urgraf rifled through bins and bashed their way in to dispensers. "So, those masks and robes—"

"Pantomime, sir. Pure pantomime. The Obrist likes his music-hall and theatre, dance, any kind of stage play. He does stand-up in his spare time—oh, up here, sir." Ulman took some revolving stairs leading up. "Trooper, are we cleared to remove PPE inside?"

A bare-faced Urgraf clattering down the stairs said, "figured it's fine until the watchmaster shouts at you."

"The watchmaster? He's not here, is he?"

"Oh, he's here alright." The Urgraf grinned at Sorge. "Careful, Navy, those rings won't protect you."

"Better keep ours on then." Sorge rubbed at the lines the respirator dug in to his skin. On the first floor, a wide corridor led through four double doors and inside a concourse. Burn marks scoured the walls and bloodstains darkened a red carpet.

"Think we can unclench now, sir." Ulman unclasped his chinstrap and removed his ceramite and respirator.

"Urgh, God-Emperor that feels good." Sorge shoved the sweaty mask inside its sack. "Where are we now?"

"Don't know. Looks like we cleared it though. Hope there weren't too many casualties." Ulman attached his chinstrap to his belt and moulded his beret to his head.

"Ours or theirs?"

"Both." Sorge and Ulman moved through the concourse. Civilian and Satwa lay on beds on either side of the corridor. How many will be alive tomorrow, I wonder? Giant, curving monitors stood in the centre of the concourse. Dust coated the cracked screens. More military tents house wounded and dehydrated Satwa. A few Urgraf trod among them, lifting up blankets and probing beneath mattresses.

"Sir!" Ulman raised his lasgun.

"What the…?" Two figures tumbled across a room near the far end of the concourse, one driving the other backwards. A raised voice reached Sorge's ears.

"My sarn't's fucking wounded. You're a doctor. Treat her!"

"That him?" Ulman bounced on his heels and sprinted across the concourse.

Sorge drew his laspistol. "No shooting. Let me handle it."

"Can't guarantee it if there's trouble, sir!"

"TREAT HER!"

"James!" Sorge darted in to a Satwa infirmary. James held an Urgraf doctor by the neck, bending her over backwards against a table. A laspistol muzzle pressed against the doctor's cheek. "Let her go!"

"DROP YOUR WEAPON!" Ulman aimed at James.

"Keep your finger off the trigger, Trabant." Sorge lowered his sidearm. "Ma'am, it's alright. I assure you, Lieutenant Larn's weapon is not loaded. I have the ammunition for it here."

"Not loaded? I can't breathe!" Blood filled the doctor's cheeks.

"She'll die if you don't treat—" A shriek bounced around the infirmary. James swayed and fell against the Urgraf.

"You, drop it now!" Ulman whipped his lasgun around and aimed at a bedridden civilian in grey. A palm-sized handgun wavered and fell to the floor. "Hands." Ulman rushed over and jerked back the bedcovers.

"Aargh, you bloody, stinking, heathen bastard." The Urgraf doctor heaved James off and left him slumped against the table edge.

"Not hurt are you, ma'am?" Sorge holstered his sidearm and manoeuvred James on to a gurney.

"Eurgh." The Urgraf closed up her collar and rubbed at her neck. A dirty white beret sat at a wonky angle. Scissors and plastic gloves poked out of medical pouches attached to her vest. "The nerve. Bloody nerve charging in here with that."

"No fear, Commander. Stunned is all." The civilian in grey, one arm resting on his head, and the other in a sling, said. "Did you all a favour there, I think."

"Silence." Ulman dug behind his pillow. "Lean forwards." He slapped the civilian on the nape. "Lean forwards."

"No, not a mark on you." Sorge scratched his chin. "Sneaky sod getting in here."

"Sneaky, yes indeed." The Urgraf doctor leaned outside. "It's a wonder how he—oh no, the guards have gone. Off for a binge-drinking and buggery session no doubt."

Sorge picked up James's empty laspistol. "I sincerely apologise for this episode, madam. Lieutenant Larn is under my command and will be issuing a full, frank, and formal apology in written form."

"I don't want your apology. I want them both out!" The Urgraf jabbed her finger at a stretcher case with fresh burns to the shoulder and right arm.

"The sergeant?" Sorge got down on his knees and loosened the straps holding a respirator in place. Burns coated a woman's neck, cheek, ear, and brow. "Third-degree burns. What is so difficult about treating that, madam?"

The Urgraf folded her arms. "I don't treat Cadians, Commander."

Double-breasted khaki. Damnation, James. "Is this the sergeant he referred to?" Sorge lifted a pair of dirty ID tags out of the Cadian's ripped collar and squinted at the printed letters. Senf, Susannah O.

"He—he carried her in, blubbering at me to treat her. I objected, said I was in the midst of packing up, then he drew a sidearm on me."

"What about you?" Sorge stopped by the civilian's bed. "Anything different to add?"

"Nope. That's more or less the lowdown."

"Why Cadian?" Ulman kicked the bedframe. "Oi, hand on head."

"Madam, I am sorry to have to say this but that was unprofessional."

"Your lieutenant addressed me dismissively and treated me as he would an instrument."

"I understand. Now, please appreciate that Lieutenant Larn and I have come from Cadia. He has been suffering from an extreme amount of emotional strain this past week. He is certainly not himself; I assure you. An apology will be tendered, both from his mouth and his hand."

The Urgraf looked past Sorge at Ulman. "Was this sanctioned by the Obrist, Ulman?"

"Yes, ma'am, it was. Commander Sorge has written permission too."

"May I see it?"

"Certainly." Sorge passed the note to the Urgraf.

"This only mentions a lieutenant commander…" The Urgraf's eyes roved about the infirmary. "Not in my unit, I'm afraid. He may be being held in the subterranean level. Cleaner air down there."

"Thank you for the direction, ma'am. Again, I apologise for my subordinate's conduct."

"See that the lieutenant is punished accordingly."

"He will be, you have my word. Trabant, could I have a hand getting Larn out?"

"Right." Ulman took one end of the gurney and carted it outside.

"Your name please, ma'am. For the report."

"Seroni Bukharin, Captain, Chief Medical Officer, Urgraf Quenets." Captain Bukharin stuck her hands in her trouser pockets and leaned back against the table. "Your lieutenant adopts a curious dress-code for a naval officer."

"Subaltern of the Imperial Guard, ma'am. He came from the ranks, which I imagine a good deal of young men and women have recently."

"Did Cadia really implode? There've been so many rumours and conflicting accounts, I don't know what to believe."

"Captain?" Sorge placed his palms together. "I would be in your debt if you were to take a look at Sergeant Senf. Please, this is a humanitarian request. You are not in my chain of command. You do not have to do anything I say."

"Ulman certainly seems to enjoy barking your tune."

"Captain Bukharin, your assistance could mean the difference between the life and death of this soldier. You would not neglect your duties as a member of the Medicae, would you?"

Captain Bukharin met Sorge's eye for a moment then kneeled next to Senf. "I can't do anything right now with the instruments and medication on hand. Antibiotic cream may help with the pain but it will not heal the skin entirely. She'll need skin grafts for certain, Commander. Not to mention, the time spent exposed to toxic air has most certainly weakened her lungs. She will suffer respiratory problems. Damage to the kidneys and liver will remove her from frontline duties too."

"I made it known to the Obrist that the Imperial Navy does not condone the use of—"

"Yes, nice to know you're taking the moral high ground there, Commander. Have we anything else to discuss here?"

Sorge bowed his head. "No, ma'am. Thank you for your co-operation. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience."

"I'll give her an O2 bottle. You can take her out on a gurney. There's a loading ramp not far from the revolving stairs. Make sure she is fastened down."

"Thank you, ma'am." Sorge noticed the civilian staring. "My good man, however does a private citizen acquire such a clever toy?"

"Private citizen, Commander?" The blistered skin where his eyebrows had been rose. "You of all officers should know there is no such thing." He grinned and offered his left hand. "Rude of me I know, but ruder not to shake—haha!"

"Richard Sorge."

"Garvin Kernow."

"Seem awfully calm given your present predicament."

"Well, you're just the man I require."

"Oh?"

Kernow leaned on his good elbow. "I have a ship."

"And?"

"Were previous arrangements in place for dinner this evening? I'm not sure the enemy would make particularly good conversation."

"You're welcome to try with the Obrist, my dear Mister Kernow. As far as I know, it will be military personnel embarking and only military personnel. Good morning."

"You're—you're making a mistake." Kernow beckoned Sorge closer. "I am Ordo Hereticus."

"Can you walk?"

"Course I can walk. If you let me see the Obrist, I can guarantee everybody gets off Henna-Morata."

Sorge stepped back. His hand touched the butt of his laspistol. "Stand up. That sergeant on the gurney. You are responsible for her."

"I have my own conditions."

"You've a gammy arm and a few blisters. Stand up."

"Not my physical condition. I've my own men to consider."

"This will be discussed in full with the Obrist. Ma'am, we're ready. Stand up, Mister Kernow."

"Fine, fine." Kernow got off the bed and took the end of the gurney. "Oh, we are missing a hound too. My master's property, you understand."

"Captain, you haven't seen any hounds, have you?"

The Urgraf doctor did not look up. "The Urgraf Animal Preservation Corps has not reported any missing hounds this morning, Commander."

"Umm, alright then." Kernow, one-handed, walked the gurney out with Sorge at his shoulder. Clattering and squeaking echoed across the concourse. "I urge you to consider my offer—"

"Then lay it out."

"My master is a very powerful man."

"I know all about your master, Acolyte. What flavour he used on his teeth, what he liked to eat for breakfast, and how he spent his private time."

"How can you…?"

"Kernow, my nephew was a deviant. A deplorable one without a slim shred of knowing which way right and wrong were. Be glad the reins are about to change hands."

A tongue rubbed across my cheek. "Eurgh, what the fu—?" I shoved a long, wet muzzle away. "Oh, Trip. Where'd you get to then?" Trip panted. "Not hurt, are you?" Sunlight poked through slits in a sandstone wall. Susannah. I rolled from my stretcher and picked myself up. "C'mon, lad, let's find Susannah." I shambled outside. Sandbags surrounded empty mortar pits. "Well done finding me, mate." I scratched between Trip's ears.

"Halt. Who are you?" An Urgraf guarding the entrance to the building housing the Urgraf CP lowered his lasgun at me.

"Erm, I'm…"

"Speak up, damn you!"

"Um, I'm Lieutenant Larn. This is Trip."

The Urgraf sentries looked at one another. "You're an officer?"

"Yeah. I'm—I'm looking for my commander."

"…And who is your commander?" Said the sentry. The other smirked.

"Sorge. He's Navy."

"Yeah…?"

"Yeah." Trip flicked an ear.

"Right, you can come in. The beast stays outside. Raise your arms." The sentry patted me down.

"…Wounded."

"If you mumble, I can't understand you."

"Where's the wounded?"

"Try upstairs."

"He's clean."

"Alright, push off before I change my mind." The Urgraf ran a finger in to my back. "Off with you!"

Trip whined. Sorry, Trip. I waved down at him. I'll be back. I entered a first-floor suite taken over by an operating theatre cordoned off by a fold-out screen. Tables and chairs were stacked to the sides. Stretcher-bound lined the walls. IV drips dangled above comatose patients. Everybody's military. Why aren't they treating civilians?

"'Ere." I squatted next to an Urgraf. "I'm looking for a woman. Shaved head, Khaki jacket."

"A woman?" The Urgraf's eyelids drooped. "Maybe she can shoot you up too. Mmm, I love this stuff."

"Who?" I turned. An Urgraf doctor in mask and gown stepped out from a theatre and tugged off sterile gloves and tossed them in a waste bin. "S'cuse me?"

The doctor pulled down her mask. "No, no!"

I stood up and clasped my hands. "Um, I'm looking for…" The Urgraf doctor, Captain Bukharin, strode at me with arm outstretched and palm raised. "My sarn't. Please, I just want to know! I'm sorry for earlier."

"I'm sorry. The meaning is quite clearly lost on you, insubordinate."

"Will Susannah pull through?" I tugged at my cuff.

"Pfft, don't waste your worry on a Cadian. There's millions of others to pick."

"It's not like that, ma'am. I'm sorry, but you weren't there."

"Weren't where?"

"Cadia, where we…" My throat contracted. I bit in to my lower lip and ran a hand through my hair.

"At your commander's request, the Cadian was brought here and placed in triage. Her wounds are not life-threatening. They are not life-threatening. That's all you need to know."

My shoulders rose and fell. "Thank you."

Captain Bukharin yanked a fresh pair of gloves from a dispenser. "If you're wounded, have the medics see to you downstairs." Her mask back in place, Captain Bukharin stared at me. Her thin brows arched. "Fuck off, Lieutenant." Captain Bukharin entered the theatre and flung the screen across.

"S'not like the captain passing oaths 'fore noon. What d'you do to her last night then?" The stretcher-bound Urgraf rubbed at the taught sling holding his arm. "Oi, where you going?"

I climbed to the third floor. Urgraf sentries barred me from entering the CP. "Nar-har-har-har-harrrr!" The Obrist faced the Inquisitor's lackey Kernow and his three friends. All bore burns to their faces and arms. Two had the hair burnt from one side of their face. Dirty bandages encircled forearms and disappeared inside torn tunics. Commander Sorge waited out of the way. Lieutenant Commander Barakat, his own head swathed with a field dressing, sat whilst Sorge stood. "And how does it feel looking out from inside the cage, gentlemen?"

"Quite the episode as a matter of fact, Obrist. Not one I'm keen on repeating. I'll say we've learnt a valuable lesson." Kernow grinned.

"Let the Tross in." The Obrist waggled two fingers.

"How are you feeling, James?"

"Done a bad thing, haven't I?"

"That's on hold for now. We're just working out an arrangement for getting us all off Henna-Morata."

"Yes, sir." I shook Barakat's hand. "Sorry I ballsed-up."

"Commander?"

"Obrist." Sorge tapped a finger upon the table. "As our eighteen-hour window has expired, our new plan revolves around the presence of Zarkaniy."

"First your word, Commander. The Urgraf Quenets, four-hundred-plus of us, need off Henna-Morata. Dear Kernow and company have the ship, and you, Commander…"

"Pluvian Obsidian." Sorge twisted a ring from his third finger and set it on the table.

"We still need to talk about payment."

"The amount will be paid once I am able to contact my superiors. For now…" Sorge slid the ring over.

"Every man and woman, alive, wounded, or dead. We all leave Henna-Morata, or none of us do."

No civilians. I took a step forward and opened my mouth. Barakat laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Of course. Any Satwa PWs are your jurisdiction, Obrist. Naval and Guard personnel are mine.

"Agreed. Now, dear Kernow. Your ship."

"Well, with your permission, Obrist, I'll need access to your comms."

"Mm-hm, now think carefully on your words. You want to leave Henna-Morata, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, I speak for all."

"Then speak to your crew, assure them your party is in good health, and inform them the storm broke up communications. Look at Commander Sorge's hands – look!"

"Err… I – I see."

"You understand?"

"I understand."

"Send your message. Cramer, assist the civilian in his task."

"Obrist." An Urgraf sitting at a 319 removed his headset.

"Find him another chair."

Can't believe they're doing this. I left the command post and stamped down the stairs.

"Lieutenant!" Barakat stood on the stairs above me. "Commander Sorge did not dismiss you."

"Don't think he's worth my time."

"Take another step…"

"And what?"

"Sergeant Senf remains here."

"Thought you was better than that. But no, I see the commander's jumping in bed with these bastards and those men, men who worked for the man who—who murdered…" I clenched my jaw. Head bowed, I trudged downstairs. Dust hung in the air on the first floor, coating skin and blankets. Burn victims waited in a queue. Glistening, pink skin shone through rags hanging off bodies.

There you are. A fine film covered Susannah's oxygen mask. I ran my fingers across my chin. Sorry I didn't come back for you.

"Are you wounded, soldier?" An Urgraf orderly pushed past. I lifted my bandaged hand. "Fresh wounds only. If you've been treated, make yourself scarce."

"I'll be back." I touched Susannah's arm and headed down to ground level. Trip sat on the sand panting. "There you are. Good boy." I scratched Trip's ear. Trip rubbed his face against my trouserleg. "Let's go for a walk."

Urgraf patrolled the wall overlooking the dead ground separating the city from the starport. Carrion circled the ruins. I stopped and leaned on the warm parapet. Trip stood on his hind legs and placed his paws against the stone. What happened, Trip?

"You, get down from the wall. Take that beast with you." An Urgraf sentry approached. A light glinted high in the sky. "What's that?" The sentry turned his lasgun's optics on the glint.

"Reckon you got bigger worries, mate." I held my hand over my eyes. A second then a third glint fell across the sky.

The Urgraf clasped the end of a cable running over his shoulder to a pouch attached to the back of his vest. "Legion, this is Perimeter. Unknowns dropping from orbit. Please advise. Over."

"Trip?" I nudged Trip. "Down off the wall, mate."

"…Can't be friendly. SSR's not receiving a reply."

Commander Sorge, the Obrist, and Barakat surrounded Kernow and the Urgraf 319 operator. "Try again, Dano," said the Obrist.

"No pulses, sir. Friendly aircraft will send out a three-pulse reply. Silence is all I'm receiving."

"What do you think, Commander?"

"I think our first step, Obrist, is to roundup all Naval personnel, pilots and mechanics, ground crew, and give the ships berthed in the hangars a safety check before we begin embarkation. We start this immediately. Kernow, at present velocity, when can we see your dropship on the tarmac?"

Kernow levered one side of his headset away from his ear. "Present velocity…? I don't know how fast a Devourer can fly."

"Contact the crew."

"It's being piloted remotely. We've only a skeleton staff aboard Zarkaniy."

"Estimate?"

"Four… maybe five hours max. I'm—I'm not a pilot."

"No, we need them down here with us. Obrist, any pilots rated on craft heavier than fighters on your roster?"

"Ex-pilots, yes. We're in the bed with your Imperial Guard on that one. Ground-locked unless somebody gives us a lift. Hessel!" The Obrist snapped his fingers at an Urgraf sitting at a different 319. "All callsigns are to send over any pilots, mechanics, ground crew, even any techs they can find lying around. Send them here."

"Yes, Obrist."

"The enemy aren't entering atmo. None of this leaves this room."

"Understood, Obrist. I'll do my best to keep things quiet and smooth. Before I go, could you lend me a signaller?"

"Marlantes! Gear up and follow the commander. You work for him now."

"Obrist!" An Urgraf signaller tugged the straps of a vox-carrier over his shoulders.

"Mind your…" Sorge folded Marlantes's swinging aerial down.

"Sorry, sir."

"No problem. Take your time."

"Ulman, with the commander too."

"Sir."

"Coming, James?" Sorge smiled at James hovering just inside the door.

"Mm, yeah."

Outside, Trip fell in to step beside James. "No. Away, away!" Ulman drew his boot back.

"Oi, leave him. He's with me."

"James, it's not yours to order around."

"Well, they won't let Trip in the building, sir. He's got nowhere else to go. I like him."

"It's Inquisition property. Do you know who it belonged to?"

"I know."

"And you know you cannot keep it."

"Number ten, sir. If Susannah's coming with us, why can't Trip?"

"Number what?" Sorge split from James. He and the Urgraf signaller flattened against the opposite wall to James, Trip, and Ulman. Dust whipped out from beneath the wheels of a passing Urgraf eight-wheeler. Trip shook his head and sneezed.

"Bless you." James patted Trip. "Barakat not joining us, sir?"

"Commander Barakat to you." Sorge brushed dirt from his nose. "And yes, he's on light duty for now."

The party crossed the dead ground and skirted the blasted wall until they reached sand dunes. "Problem here, sir." Ulman held out his arm. "Just figured out where we are."

"Thank you." Sorge gripped Ulman's wrist. "Aaargh, God-Emperor! I miss being young."

"What's the problem?" James patted his knees. "C'mon, Trip, up you come."

"The hangars. We are standing on them. And out there should be the runways."

James's, Sorge's, and Marlantes's heads dropped. Dunes stretched away from them in to the haze. "How?" Sorge dug his heel in to the sand. "Throne, these storms were borne from the very Warp itself."

"Swallowed the city alright. Outright drowned the tarmac," said Marlantes.

Sorge stooped and picked up a handful of sand. "We'll be nose-to-nose with the enemy before we reach the tarmac."

"So, we're going with a lifer's word then?"

"Well, Kyriacou's probably halfway out of the system. It's in the hands of the Inquisition now, James."

"Don't trust 'em, sir."

"Never. They spy on people for a living."

"Isn't that what you do?"

"Err, no. Ours is purely an intelligence-gathering affair, and only on military installations."

"Still spying though…"

"But torture and cold-blooded murder are not a part of our code. We may be an ungentlemanly bunch, but we are not the ones knocking on civilian doors at three in the morning."

"Yeah, speaking of civilians…"

"Wasteful altruism. We, the Urgraf, and the Inquisition are more valuable to the war effort than several thousand men, women, and children begging for food and medical aid. We're better off leaving them to their own devices. You saw the difficulties Satwa had at governing the civilians. The moment we take civilians under our wing, we become chieftains. It's best to look after our own without worrying for the weak."

"And Zeke?"

"It's not our concern. Anybody who cannot fight or support the fighting man is left at the wayside."

"Inquisition didn't do that to your fingers though, did they?"

"A harmless misunderstanding. Got off on the wrong foot, I think. For now, let's leave Henna-Morata beneath the sand and look to the stars for salvation."

Lights shone in the sky. Sunlight glinted off the spires of the tallest towers. Marlantes dropped to one knee and pointed his lasgun at the moving specks. "So, was this what Cadia was like? Just sitting around waiting for the ships?"

"I wouldn't know," said Sorge. "You'd have to ask the lieutenant that."

A bark from Trip turned heads. "Where did he…?" Ulman charged past Sorge to the top of the dune. "The lieutenant, where did he go?"

"Damn it, James." Sorge climbed after Ulman. Sand trickled inside his boots and up his sleeves. "Where's that dog gone?"

"Dog's here, Commander." Ulman's arm circled Trip's neck. "Sand's not as deep as we thought."

"Why?" Sorge reached the crest. "Oh…" Sand fell inside a deep fissure running away through the dunes. "James!"

"Marlantes, call Legion, let him know we've found a way down to the hangars. Get someone to bring climbing gear up here."

"Right." Marlantes unhooked his handset from his vest.

"A medic as well."

"Medic." Marlantes bobbed his head.

Sorge leaned over the crest. "James, can you hear me?"

"Hold on." Ulman put his lasgun down, opened a hip pouch and removed an elastic band from coiled paracord.

"I'll go. James is my responsibility. Besides, you're stronger."

"Doesn't make it easy for you, does he?" Ulman shook the cord loose.

"Maybe this time we'll make something good out of it." Sorge laid his ceramite on the sand. "No surgeons to placate."

"Captain Bukharin won't hold it. She won't, sir."

"Professional, of course. That report won't write itself though, nor will James's apology." Sorge peeled the Velcro halves away and shrugged off his vest. "Ready?"

"Yeah. Tie around your waist, sir."

"Shave some of that blubber off…" Sorge tied the paracord around his waist and jerked the end. "Got ilume?"

Ulman pulled his lasgun's sling over his head and offered the butt to Sorge. "Take the Merotech."

"Got it."

"She's expensive. Keep her safe."

"Plan B, pass your medkit over. I'll stabilise if I have to."

"Roger."

Sorge dragged the sling around his shoulder and seated the Merotech against his back. "Let's go."

"Ulman, the Obrist is sending a team over!"

"A medic too?"

"Medic and some ground crew."

Ulman gave Marlantes a thumbs-up and played the cord behind his shoulders. "Letting you down."

"Roger." Sorge walked down the slope to the fissure. "Length?"

"Hundred feet."

"James, can you hear me?" Sorge wavered on the edge of the sand. "I've got a drop-off here. Don't let me go."

"I've got you."

One, two, three. Sorge twisted around, wrapped the cord around his forearm, and pushed off with his heels. In your hands here, Ulman.