Two Blocks West of Brunzmann Stadium, Lower Gorev

Dangling cables sparked. A red light blinked in the cargo bay. Lusia's chin sat on her breast. Copper soured her tongue. Sticky lips peeled apart. "…Desh?" Pink fingers felt along the harness for the release. Clasps parted and Lusia fell from her seat and slammed in to a body. Her elbow cracked upon a visor. "Agh!" Pins danced along Lusia's arm. She hauled the crewman's body off Desh's and pushed it down the slope towards the open hatch. Lusia squidged her ear to Desh's chest then put two fingers to his neck. Omnissiah forgive me.

Burnt robing draped over Desh's head, Lusia folded Desh's arms across his chest and broke the cord of the dented medallion around his neck. Blood clung to Lusia's scalp and edged down her forehead. Her neck twinged. Sirens wailed in the distance. And grant me strength.

Lusia clambered up to the hatch separating the cargo bay and the smoke-filled cockpit. Plexiglass shards crunched beneath the raised seats the pilot and co-pilot occupied. Lusia hit the co-pilot's release and moved back from the descending seat. More plexiglass spilled from the co-pilot's lap. A fist-sized chunk of his helmet had caved inwards, embedding itself within torn skin and shattered bone. Blood soaked his flightsuit. Murderers. Lusia sent the co-pilot's seat upwards and lowered the pilot. Broken teeth littered the cockpit floor. Tiny, bloody scraps of flesh clung to the instrument panel. Two headshots on a mobile target. Wind and elevation… impossible. Lusia reached for the seat release.

"Come in. Come in. How do you copy?"

OSEC? Lusia, wincing, twisted the pilot's helmet and pried it off. Released from the helmet's pressure, blood poured down the pilot's head. "Eurgh." Grey flecks, matted hair, and skin clung to the inner liner. "Oh…"

"How do you copy?" The voice filtered in from the helmet's intercom. Lusia wedged the helmet down until the liner touched her bun. "This is Lower Gorev dispatch. If anybody is alive, hold tight. Ground units are converging on your position. ETA is fifteen minutes. Hang in there."

That voice. Lusia wrenched off the helmet and disconnected the intercom. She dragged her fingers through her hair and massaged her bleeding scalp. Down in the cargo bay, each of the three crewmen lay motionless. Headshot. Lusia felt for the door-gunner's pulse. The two that had brought Desh aboard bled from the chest and arms. Their heads lolled at awkward angles. Broken necks. A short-barrelled laspistol sat horizontal in a holster on a crewman's breast. Lusia broke the clasp and slid the sidearm out. Fifteen minutes. Lusia's eyes followed the zips on the crewmen's flightsuits. All they'll see is red.

Ruptured pipes spat aviation fuel in to the cargo bay. Clad in a grey, bloodstained flightsuit, Lusia backed away from the spreading pool and fired a shot at it. Flames whoomphed across the cargo bay. Lusia fell on to her belly and crawled out in to the dirt channel the crashing Valkyrie had left. Her visor scraped the torn-up earth. Heat rode up her legs and warmed her backside. To Lusia's right, the upper levels of the banking tower burned. Further beyond Stancias stood Atamani Heights. I'm up, I'm moving. He sees me, I'm down. Lusia's gloves disappeared in to the soft earth. She straightened up and took off running nearly bent double. Blood thundered in her ears.

A searing wave catapulted Lusia off her feet. Her body thumped in to the churned-up ground and rolled. Flames took over the Valkyrie's cargo bay and spread along the wings. Burning debris crashed down around Lusia. The fuel-soaked earth behind the Valkyrie ignited and rushed towards Lusia. Lusia scrambled backwards. Ferrocrete struck her helmet. She twisted, gripped the lip of a broken wall and slithered over on to a tiled floor. A gull wing protruded from the collapsed floors and roof piled in centre of the building. Grey fingers poked out of the pile.

Flames crackling behind her, Lusia slipped sideways through a sliding door at the front of the building and descended a zig-zagging ramp to a cluster of eight-storey hab blocks wedged together. Rats skittered along alleys overflowing with kipple. Water dripped from above. Loose newspaper pages fluttered around. Lusia drew her laspistol and gripped it in both hands.

"Now, from Shimago Corporation…" A holographic advertisement glowed on a storefront. Lusia swung her laspistol around. "…Introducing Setting Sun, the latest in—"

"—Birth-control pills." Lusia flipped up her visor and spat at the advertisement. Shimago and Urgraf in bed together. Omnissiah, help this planet. Next to the ad, sprayed yellow paint covered a closed shutter; Spartacists = Loyalists.

Boots drummed along the alley. Lusia's muzzle trembled and fell. She stuffed the laspistol away and bounded over to a raised ladder at the base of a fire escape clinging to the hab's outer wall. She sprang at the rain-slick bars and pulled her body on to the fire escape. Rusted iron groaned and flexed beneath Lusia. A bolt popped from the wall and fell to the ground. The clatter rang up and down the alley. Lusia gripped the rail and sidestepped up the stairs. Water dribbled through the tread plate. Drops pattered her helmet.

Eight armed men wearing carapace armour over flightsuits thundered beneath the fire escape. Long-snouted respirators poked out from beneath vehicle crewmen helmets. Torchbeams jerked around. None came near Lusia's perch.

"Legion, Stalker One. Approaching OSEC crash site from the west. One block out."

Legion? The Obrist. Lusia stayed flat against the wall and listened to the splashing boots fade away before swinging out and climbing higher. Eleven floors up, Lusia found an emergency exit; a circular hatch with a white number thirteen printed on the surface. Lusia gripped a handle set in a depression and pulled it outwards. A mechanism clunked and the hatch swung up. The rim hit Lusia's visor and she toppled in to the railing. Another bolt popped free and the platform flexed. Lusia ducked inside the hab and hit the hatch seal.

Kipple piled at the sides of the corridors and gathered in corners. One pile caught Lusia's eye when it shifted and a metal foot scraped over the floor. Two milky eyes glinted beneath a watch cap. Long, yellowed nails curled around a glass jar labelled 'Veteran'. Rako clinked inside. Lusia kneeled and set her helmet down and moved it forwards. She touched her flight suit's breast then pointed at the veteran's ratty clothes.

Coarse hairs itched Lusia's neck. A red, puffy jacket with multiple patches sewn on it covered the laspistol tucked in the waistband of frayed sweatpants. Homeless swallowed in blankets packed the hab's central staircase. Bare toes poked out of worn shoes. Shaggy hair covered sunken eyes. A shaven-headed, bare-chested man stepped out in front of Lusia, blocking her way. Tattoos coated every inch of his bare skin. A spiked muzzle was bolted to his skull. Iron ring pierced his skin. Heavy footfalls came down the stairs behind Lusia. She drew her laspistol and pointed it at the brute. The brute raised his hands and backed in to a corner. Lusia whirled and brought the laspistol to bear on tattooed, muzzled men sneaking up behind her. They faltered, raised their hands, and shuffled back. Convicts? Lusia passed the first thug and hastened down the hab's floors.

The stench of tightly-packed bodies clinging to the tip of her tongue, Lusia rounded the last turn before the ground floor and threw a look at the floors above. Bald heads watched her from the third floor. One moved over to the stairs. Lusia stumbled between homeless huddled around a fire crackling inside a rusted drum and over to a glass cubicle housing a Public. A tone played in Lusia's ear. "Okay…" Lusia brought out a folded piece of notepaper and flattened it against the dusty cubicle. 31422397.

"Insert currency before dialling."

"No…" Lusia put the note down and plunged her hand in to her trouser pocket. Her fingers pulled a single stick out and pressed it in to the tray. Lusia typed out the numbers and held the receiver to her ear. Come on, pick up. Pick up.

"Officer van der Beek speaking. State your name and reasons for calling."

"…I'm calling it," whispered Lusia.

"Repeat please. I don't understand."

"If you're ever in a tight, call me on the Public. Your words. Remember Bouaziz Plaza?"

"…Are you in danger?"

"I'm…" Lusia leaned out of the cubicle. Five of the muzzled thugs stood on the other side of the burning drum. "Very shortly, yes."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in a hab three or four blocks west of Brunzmann Stadium. Mercenaries are on the streets. They will shoot if you get in their way."

"I understand. Meet me at Vydelin's Arcade."

"It'll be closed."

"South side. Fifteen minutes."

Bellowing turbofans deafened the occupants of the Urgraf Valkyrie's troop bay; those without headsets. Ear defenders with attached intercoms clamped over Richard Sorge's and the Obrist's ears. Still in their finest No.1 dress uniforms, the officers' shoulders squeezed against one another's. A rooftop near Upper Gorev's underbelly passed beneath the Valkyrie's jutting ramp. Air blasted two crouching figures in Urgraf combats and ballistic covers. One bore a Zsanett .338 sniper rifle in his arms, the other a spotting scope and a Merotech lascarbine. Both rushed to the ramp at the crew chief's wave and climbed aboard. The sniper folded the Zsanett's stock and set the 49-inch rifle on its bipod legs on the deck. He took off his cover and snapped a pair of ears on.

"How did those match rounds hold up, Ost?" The Obrist stuck out his arm.

Captain Raymonde Ostapenko gripped the Obrist's hand. Scars around his lips stretched. "All fun until a crosswind catches you mid-flight."

"Very well-played, Ost. You had the target fooled for a good while there."

"As long as I could, sir. Couldn't fault the Zsanett. It's a fine weapons system. Good for FIBUA. I look forward to testing three-three-eight black on emplacements… maybe light armour." A grin stretched across Ostapenko's scarred jaw.

"The airship just a dry run then?"

"Hah! Wet paper, sir. I could bring it down by flinging darts at it!"

"See you at the dartboard, later on."

"Roger that." Ostapenko and his spotter bumped fists.

"So, where'd the airship go down, Captain?" Sorge leaned forward in his seat.

Ostapenko squatted over the Zsanett, removed the magazine, and cleared the chamber. "Oh, guest of honour…?" His eyes fixed on the three rows of ribbon above the medals on Sorge's breast. "It's alright, Commander. It only goes bang when I tell it to."

"Ost, this is Commander Sorge, NAVINT."

"How are your darts, Commander?"

"I'll tell you when you tell me where the airship hardlined. You sent those rounds downrange, didn't you?"

"Roger that." Ostapenko removed rounds from his magazine and slipped them in to loops on a vambrace on his left arm. "S'about two blocks west of that big stadium."

"Brunzmann," said the Obrist. "No game on so no big crowds. Lucky us."

"Did anybody make it out of the bird?"

"Yeah, one of the crew chiefs wormed out—"

"—What? Ost, why didn't you prosecute?" The Obrist snarled. "You were cleared to engage!"

"Cleared to engage any and all AdMech personnel atop Polychron 7. ROE adjustment granted permission to engage the OSEC airship, not the personnel aboard. Your authorisation, sir." Ostapenko unrolled a rifle bag and folded the Zsanett's bipod legs. "I thought you wanted the target alive, sir…"

"OSEC cannot know Urgraf blew up half the district—"

"—Sorry, sorry, Obrist. You say a crew chief wormed out…?" Sorge clasped his fists together. "Where did he go?"

"He made off south just before the airship went up. Anyone else aboard wasn't worming out of that one." Ostapenko zipped up the rifle bag. "We'll confirm the bodycount—"

"Damn right we will!" The Obrist dabbed at his sweaty brow. "As long as that OSEC is alive, he carries the message."

"Condemning who?" Sorge said. "Urgraf doesn't exist to OSEC."

"Ost, give me a rough estimate between the time the target embarked and you sent the first package."

Ostapenko pinched dark stubble on his chin. "Err… time between embarkation and sending was six—seven—six seconds. Nowhere near enough time for the target to pass the information on. Not a chance. She couldn't have told any of the crew—not with the noise. They'd be trying to stabilise the secondary target too."

The deck tilted and the Valkyrie's landing skids plunged in to uneven dirt tracks. Urgraf bodyguards disembarked and fanned out. "You coming, Commander?" The Obrist hung up his ears and unbuckled his harness.

"That's Urgraf business out there. I'll be in touch, Obrist."

"What, does he think he's getting a free ride out of us, sir?" Ostapenko followed the Obrist down the ramp. The crashed OSEC Valkyrie burned less than forty feet away. The few fire extinguishers that were held aboard the Urgraf gunship sputtered at the blaze.

"Mutually-beneficial relationship, Ost." The Obrist pulled on a pair of flame-retardant gloves. Behind him and Ostapenko, the Urgraf Valkyrie lifted off and headed east.

"All that trouble we had on that Inquisition ship a couple of years back was 'cause of him, wasn't it?"

"No, it's because of them!" The Obrist punched a finger at the burning Valkyrie. "It's because of them—that little AdMech cogette and her abominable intelligence. They murdered Ephraim Zeljko. They gave you and Warren Hutnik those scars, the ones you see when you wake up every morning. This is payback, Ost, payback for all of us."

"Roger that." Ostapenko wiggled his ballistic cover over his ears.

"You're getting even, Ost. No joy…?"

Ostapenko's nose wrinkled. "Why couldn't we just kill her?"

"She had to know why. She had to know why. I could not have let her believe it was a random act of terrorism—"

"—these were random acts of terrorism! Why blow up half a dozen buildings when one sent package—one—could have solved your problem, sir?"

"Urgraf's problem, Ost. My enemy is yours too. Do you want to keep that sniper rifle in your hands? Do you wish to employ it on emplacements or light armour?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Then keep on my wavelength—Urgraf's wavelength, Raymonde."

Grey clouds gushed inside the Valkyrie's interior. Urgraf thrust nozzles at the flames covering the bodies.

"Sir, your uniform!"

"Ahh, to hell with it." The Obrist plucked a fire extinguisher from a bodyguard and squeezed the trigger. "Sat on my arse all evening waiting for this…"

"Sir, your mask!" Ostapenko took a respirator a bodyguard offered him.

Soot smearing his No.1s, the Obrist seized a smoking corpse by the ankles and dragged it in to the mud. "Eurgh, God-Emperor." The Obrist fired spittle in the mud. "Get the others out! I want them out!"

"Sir?" Ostapenko pushed a respirator at the Obrist.

"No—" The Obrist slapped a broken visor on a crewman's helmet. "OSEC, headshot, first-class marksmanship! I never expected modesty from you, Ost."

Rancid meat and overripe cheese clung to the humid air. Ostapenko's eyes stung. Seven corpses lay in a row, five in flightsuits and the other two in AdMech robes. An orange haze hung over the crash site.

"Headshot, headshot, headshot, chest, chest." The Obrist moved along from the OSEC crewmen, crouched by the first cog, and lifted a skeletal arm. Bare metal glinted beneath the burned skin. "Ost?"

"Could be either, sir." Ostapenko wiped his eyes. "I tagged the secondary. No hits on the primary."

The Obrist dropped the arm and kicked at the first cog's foot. Leather had peeled away, exposing the toes. "The male."

"I'm not sure I concur, sir. How did you…?"

"Too tall for the female. It's got man-sized feet—knife." The Obrist held out his hand. A bodyguard popped a short blade free from a sheath on his shoulder and handed it over. "Ever seen a woman with large feet, Ost?"

"Everyone's got large feet in combats, sir."

The knife split the cog's robes from neck to groin and the Obrist pulled the tattered layers apart and reached inside. "Male genitalia. He's our secondary."

"Killed in the crash?"

"Check." The Obrist ripped a neck scarf from inside his tall collar and wiped his face. A whump and fresh flames engulfed the Valkyrie's broken fuselage. The Urgraf bodyguards flinched and stumbled back from the inferno.

"Full fuel tanks, sir!"

"When they burn, they burn." Ostapenko pulled a pair of goggles over his eyes. "How's it looking, sir?"

The Obrist sliced through the second cog's clothes at the neck. "Eyes open, gentlemen. I don't want to see a single OSEC airship in my sky."

"Roger. Call contact first," Ostapenko said.

The Knife blade parted blackened cotton and drew a red line down bare skin. The Obrist frowned. "No metal."

"No tit either, sir."

"Wait…" The Obrist slipped the knife inside the collar and lifted a pair of identity tags out by the chain.

"They're OSEC-issue." Ostapenko took the tags and rubbed the printed letters clean. "Esh, Daniel."

The Obrist sliced down to the waistline and felt around the groin. "Male genitalia."

"Dry haul…" Ostapenko rocked back on his haunches. "Sorry, sir."

"SIGNALLER!" The Obrist lunged for the 350 receiver his signaller held out and dragged the man along by the cable. "Cain Cain, this is Legion Zero. Target is on foot and heading south. Be aware, they are dressed in OSEC combats. All callsigns have shoot on sight authorisation. Out."

"Clever girl, sir." Ostapenko drummed his fingers on his ballistic vest. "Made bitches out of all of us."

The Obrist removed a flare from his signaller's vest and struck it. Bright red sparks hissed. "Are you ranged in?"

"We're good to go, sir, just say the word, we'll have eyes on her. No bullshit, this time."

A grin on his face, the Obrist bowled the flare across the waste. "Good man, Ost."

Cool air nipped at Lusia's cheeks. Her blouse clung to her back. Wool itched her skin. Around her, the monolithic hab blocks blotted out what little light found its way beneath the artificial ceiling of Upper Gorev. Smoke poured from vents overhead and an elevated rail-line buzzed when a tube roared over Lusia's head. Lusia wiped muck from the face of her chrono. 01:42.

Across a deserted street, Lusia found the shutters closed over the arcade's entrance and skirted the building. Ahead, curfew-dodgers sat together on steps smoking. Empty bottles stood atop a low wall they gathered beneath.

"Smoke, pretty lady?" A curfew-dodger shook a cigarette packet. Hooded heads turned.

"I've never smoked a pretty lady before." Lusia took the cigarette.

"Hur-hur-hur."

"Aww, she knows…"

Lusia stuck the cigarette between her lips. "Listen, there are mercenaries on the street tonight. They will shoot you if they see you."

"And xenos too who'll fuck you sideways—hahaha!"

"Hey, remember those guys we saw earlier…?"

Lusia pulled her jacket back and drew her laspistol. "Home. Now."

"Shit, man…" A bottle toppled and rolled down the steps. The curfew-dodgers sprang up and skirted Lusia. Lusia trotted down the steps and moved between a set of smaller habs. Overflowing drains left stinking brown puddles. Vermin scurried between bins. Spartacists? Lusia's fingertips brushed the yellow paint. Not seen you before.

Red and blue lights flashed at the far end of the street Lusia came out on. Stone pillars flanked the road. Empty stalls lined the outside of the arcade. Lusia splashed in to the road and stuck her arm out at the braking OSEC patrol car. Thanks for this, Ovaiz. Lusia dropped her arm and rolled her sore shoulder. I'll be burning these clothes first chance I get.

"Miss van Callet…?" Ovaiz van der Beek got out of the driver's side. His hand rested on his holstered laspistol.

Lusia pulled off her watch cap and took the unlit cigarette from her mouth. "Hello, officer."

"God-Emperor, you look a wreck. What sort of party were you throwing?"

"We need to…" Lusia leaned on the bonnet. Her head drooped.

"Okay." Ovaiz ducked inside and unlocked the passenger door. "D'you want to step in, Miss van Callet?"

"It's Lusia. Ovaiz, wasn't it?"

"Ovi, if you're taking it that far."

Lusia slammed the door and fastened her belt. "Road—roadblocks…"

"Yeah, I saw them on the way in." Ovi killed the lights and turned the car around. "Must've been quite the accident…"

"Accident? Bloody murder, what is was…"

"Murder?"

"Urgraf."

"Urgraf, what's Urgraf?"

"New bullies on the playground. Mercs with guns and attitude."

"I know…"

"You know them?"

"I've seen them before. You're not wrong about them being bullies. Authority to implement—"

"—Implement executive measures in all districts of Orsolya, I know. I lost a man to them, just now."

"Sorry." Ovi brought the car to a crawl on its way down a narrow road with tall walls on both sides. The front wing caught a bin and knocked it over, sending its contents flying. "Only way out of Gorev without using the main roads."

"Thank you, Ovi."

"I, er… I lost a friend to Urgraf too." Ovi swallowed. "We're all in the crosshairs, aren't we? Never mind the bloody list, it's whoever's an inconvenience!"

"No, this is—this is two years overdue. Their commander – the Obrist – has a long memory." Lusia kicked the dash and dragged claws down her cheeks. "Fuck, I should have known he'd recognised me at Bouaziz! Ohhh, Desh."

"Desh?"

"Deshwar Bhogal, Enginseer."

"Friend?"

"…Friend." Lusia's chest heaved. She clasped her hands over her nose. "They knew… they exactly where I'd be. My own units used against me."

"The SCOs?"

"Suiciders…" Lusia croaked.

"God-Emperor, they didn't…"

"It's all Urgraf. They're behind everything." Lusia wiped her nose on her sleeve and pressed her palm to her eye. "Getting cosy with Shimago."

"Is there somewhere safe I can take you? Home perhaps?"

"I dunno—dunno if they know where I live. They asked me—they asked me over the vox. Asked me everything."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing." Lusia curled her swollen fingers. "They knew exactly where I'd be…"

Ovi stamped on the brake. Lusia jerked forwards. "Sorry." Ovi pointed at a Valkyrie flying overhead. "Company." A white beam shone from the Valkyrie's chin and whirled away to the west. Ovi and Lusia sat still and silent until the Valkyrie flew out of sight.

"Ovi…? I may need further use of OSEC's facilities tonight." Lusia eyed a pair of binders held in a pouch on Ovi's hip.

"You're—you're not serious, are you?" Ovi started up and turned out of the side road.

"Come on, get creative! Think of something—anything! Nobody's gonna think twice about you dropping an AdMech in the cells tonight. Just a lofass Enginseer, remember?"

Ovi's gloves squeezed the steering wheel. "I'm not filling out all that paperwork tonight."

"You are." Lusia offered Ovi her wrists. "You're never gonna hear this again, Ovi. Arrest me."

Tyres squealed. Lusia lurched sideways. Ovi tugged his handbrake on and turned in his seat. "You think of the misdemeanour, I'll put it on paper."

"One night in the cells only. Tomorrow, I'm out of Orsolya forever."

"I can't guarantee you out by tomorrow morning. We're drowning in paperwork as is."

"I think of the misdemeanour, you guarantee me out by tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow, late afternoon at the earliest."

"Oh, I'll need some stuff picked up from my dormitory too. I'll go with late afternoon tomorrow. I'll think of the misdemeanour too."

Ovi wagged a finger. "Yoouu… ahh, I can't argue. I'm too tired. I'll make sure you're out before noon tomorrow; some petty infraction no one will look twice at."

"Deal?"

Ovi's hand closed around Lusia's and shook. "Deal."

Orsolya

The horizon glowed orange. Joe Herle seized the mesh screen bolted to his cell window and rattled it. It's happening again. God-Emperor help us.

Wind moaned through the half-built block. Dirty plastic sheets nailed to ferrocrete foundations flapped. Joe clutched his hands inside his armpits and shuffled over to an animal bowl next to a barred door. Crumbs gathered in the water at the bottom. Joe fell on his knees and tipped the bowl up.

Boots scraped over rough stone. A key snicked in a lock and two men in grey combats and balaclavas swooped down on Joe and forced a bag over his head and tightened it at the neck. They took Joe by his arms and hustled him outside. Joe's feet caught on the edges of steps. His head caught a low ceiling. Lights danced in front of his eyes. Hinges squeaked and Joe was forced in to a chair. A door banged behind him and a bolt grated.

Coarse sacking filled Joe's mouth. He spat and said, "I don't know shit about the Grey Lady. In the ear second-hand, y'know how it is. Lotta gumpf in the shaft. Gold-dust in the muck." The bag dampened around Joe's mouth. "Blowtorch and icepack, yeah…? Is that how you spooks do it? Or—what was it—waterboarding?" The bag whisked over Joe's eyes. A naval officer in a dress uniform dropped the bag and backed in to a wall of a very small room fitting an idle cogitator standing on a table with a keyboard attached. Green sheets filled with tiny printed letters lay around the unit. Black and white picts reflected light. Grey ringed the officer's dull eyes. Spots of grey peppered his temples. A lit cigarette smoked in his fingers.

"Bored of me yet? Two weeks nick-time worn you out, Greycoat?"

"Ten days, good fellow. Wouldn't want to overextend your welcome, would we?" Smoke left the officer's nostrils.

"I've been on worse dates, I can tell you." Joe linked his fingers and stretched his arms over his head.

"Well… can't guarantee you a number after this one."

"The least you could do after fucking me over."

"No, you're quite capable of accomplishing that independently."

"Pal, I've got no problems."

"Chiechen binned you off and slapped you on a black register. You've had ten days to think about your future."

"Thought about you a lot. Broken jaw, fractured skull, toothless, fingernails…"

The officer dropped his cigarette, crushed it underneath his heel, then pulled off his glove. Ridged, uneven patches of calloused skin covered where his fingernails should have been. "Petty revenge aside, I'll just make it clear, I have no wish to bestow physical harm upon a common citizen—"

"—You won't be the one to do it."

"No, I have experienced men, cruel men, for that. Men who will not care for the disappearance of a blacklisted, former combat correspondent. I would like to be your friend here, Mister Herle. The men outside do not."

"I don't know shit about the Grey Lady. I got it second-hand—overheard some street gossip. Multiple murders in Lutufeyo, rumours of a xenos on the loose, none of it reaching the Victrix or the heralds—"

"I shouldn't worry about that. Tell me about the article you wrote before; the Cadian story."

"You want to know about the Cadian story…? Well, take me out for a recaf at least! You didn't need to bag me up and bring the bowl in. Treating me like a fucking dog…" Joe's hands slammed on the table.

"Don't slam your hands down again like that. Tell me about your experiences on Cadia, combat correspondent."

"Read the paper. It's out on the street. Nearest corner stand. My words in print. Page two."

"Only page two?"

"Front page was a corruption piece. A banker. Uptown button-burster with enough money to keep his vices away from the headlines."

"And page two?"

"Mine."

"How many?"

"Two to four, after they made me trim it."

"Not keen on what you had to say? Too soon?"

"Too late. Two years on, nobody even in Lutu wants to hear about Cadia."

"Upper Gorev does. You should see the memorials up there." The office raised his arm and swept it across. "The Heroes of the Cadian Gate."

"Marines? Cadian Shock Troops?"

"Who else?"

"Hunh." Joe smirked. "Couldn't even be bothered to defend their own planet."

"Ahh, they signed you off the moment the ink dried, didn't they? Treasonous material like that?"

"I am a combat correspondent—"

"—Yeah, you said that—"

"—Combat correspondent. IT'S MY JOB TO WRITE THE TRUTH!"

"Don't raise your voice again. Tell me about Cadia. What did you see?"

"Saw a lot of dead men… none of them wore grey."

"Or power armour…"

"Maybe if the Cadians hadn't been so busy shooting at us, they wouldn't have lost their planet!"

"So, you went out of your way not to embed yourself with a Cadian outfit, I take it?"

"Bunch of bums and losers called C-for-Cannon. The best I ever did—best story I ever did too. I think it's time the little people's voices were heard. Heroic last stand at their firebase, a fighting retreat to the curtain walls, letting Zeke know we meant business. They were the best guys I ever did. Can I smoke?"

"I don't see why not." The officer shook a cigarette free from a packet and placed it on the table along with a single match.

Joe's match rasped and a flame danced on the head. "So, what's this story you want? I'm not daft, y'know. There are bombs going off in Gorev. Fingers gotta point somewhere."

"Terrorists."

"Well, it's not Zeke, is it? If they can't have Orsolya, we can't either." Joe dragged his chair up to the table's edge and pulled the nearest sheet over. "How long ago did OSEC print this report?"

"Forty-seven minutes."

"You've people in OSEC?"

"Your data is there." A cigarette hit the floor and rolled under the table. "I'll be back in two hours."

"W—wait, I can't write a whole story in two hours!"

"One hour, fifty-nine minutes." The officer stepped around Joe's chair and put a hand on the door.

"Who's gonna read it? Oi, I'm serious! Who's gonna read me, now I'm blacklisted?"

"How does a column in the Victrix sound?"

"Column in the Victrix? Maybe you can give me my own skiff, a trophy wife, and four million along with it…"

"Front page."

"Ha-ha!" Joe scratched at his tear duct. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone still to leave his mark."

"Er… I…"

"One fifty-eight. You want to go home? Make it a good one." The officer locked the door behind him. A dangling bulb above Joe's head flickered. Joe rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. Spartacists. Joe flicked a pict of a burning hab aside and plucked a day-old OSEC report from the pile. Student demonstrations, Sparta College, protesting human-xenos co-operation. Joe chewed the inside of his cheek. What's put us in bed with the xenos?

Joe bit the cap from a coloured pen. His fingers sifted through newspaper articles dating back a week. A new millennium, a new leader. Joe opened a Victrix copy four days old. The Macragge administration denies xenos involvement in the Lord Commander's ascension to the throne. Joe circled the headline. Okay, we've got students protesting in the streets, a warlord taking the reins, and pillow-talk between humans and xenos. A long-haired, lank, unshaven thing chewed on the end of a pen in the cogitator's screen. What would you do? Joe spat the pen out, rolled his wrists, and laid his fingertips on the keys.

Black smoke stained the violet sky. Little fires writhed in the blasting wind. Acrid propellant and choking dust found its way inside my nostrils, my eyes, my mouth, and stuck to my skin. Knees together, arms against my chest, I hunched over. Torn patches of olive grey cotton flapped. Bootlaces hung loose.

Sunlight spread across the waste. Clouds peeled back and three specks, line-astern, crept across the bruised sky. One by one, they rolled over on to their backs and dived in formation. Chunky engines swelled from gull wings. Black, finned cylinders nestled in rows. Droning engines rose to a screaming pitch. Howling air beat at my ears. I clutched at my knees and rocked. Shadows dropped free of the wings and whistled towards me.

Light whooshed past the carriage window. I twisted my head away and dug it further into a woollen sweater scrunched-up against the window.

"General announcement. We are five minutes out from Karavartis Station. New Orsolya wishes you welcome to our beautiful city."

New Orsolya? My sweater slipped down the window. Seats around me creaked. Civilians brought cases down from overhead compartments. Outside, a thirty-foot fence topped with wire skirted the tracks. An artificial ceiling supported by towering hab blocks covered New Orsolya. Gigantic Aquilae reared on building faces. Are we in a hive?

Carriage doors hissed apart and people crossed a narrow gap on to a platform. A thin travel sack over my shoulder, I stepped down to the platform behind a broad-shouldered man in a greatcoat. Concertina wire barricaded the rail-end of the platform and armed soldiers in a grey uniform with a pixelated pattern stood guard behind it. Coalscuttle helmets covered in the same squares pattern sat low on their heads and cloth masks obscured their faces. At the terminus-end, more concertina wire funnelled the crowds in to lanes running up to turnstiles. The broad-shouldered man obscuring my view ahead, I dug out my travel pass from the trouser pocket of my dark khaki No.2s and presented it to the machine and sidled through.

Servo-skulls whizzed above the heads of civilians and military personnel flowing through the station's main concourse. Train times scrolled across screens fixed to the outside of a stone memorial housing eighty-foot-high, snarling statues embedded with implants. Holographic signs blazed on walls. An eye opened and followed me across to an advertisement for something called Setting Sun. The ad dissolved and a holographic gunsight appeared with the name Kepler beneath it. "Prismatic gunsight for you, Arvin Larn? Only from Kepler Arms."

Hairs stood erect on my neck. I skewed away from the eye. My shoulder thumped against somebody. "Ooh, steady on!"

"Sorry." I dragged my sack's strap back on to my shoulder.

"You want to watch where you're walking, boy."

Announcements boomed overhead. Steam rolled from food outlets serving bowls thick with noodles. Passengers sat on piled up cases and slept on benches. Hooded and robed Adeptus Mechanicus shambled along in a gaggle, scented fumes rising from swinging pots. I turned my head away from a pair of Orsolyan security officers with batons sheathed at their waists. Both officers, clad in full riot armour, commanded a wide berth from the comers and goers.

Revolving gates led out in to a long bay heaving with communal transport. People clung to the outside of thirty-wheeled buses and squatted on overladen roofs. Smoke gushed from exhausts. Horns honked. I hitched my sack higher on my shoulder and followed the people heading out of the station on foot. More Orsolyan security troops, armed with lasguns, guarded the station's main entrance.

Outside, stone arches ran beneath a roadway on the far side of a street overflowing with motorcycles, three-wheeled combinations, buses, flatbed transporters, and military traffic. Squatters made homes further back in the shadows. Only one vehicle sat stationary at the roadside. A naval officer wearing a peaked cap leaned against the flank of a four-door automobile painted a deep grey. He raised a hand and waved. I pointed a finger at my breast. The officer smiled and nodded.

"Sergeant Larn?"

"You 'ere for me?" I shrugged off my sack and plonked it at my feet. A few inches taller than me, the officer wore two rings on his sleeves and had a breast devoid of ribbon. He looked five or so years my senior, dark-haired and with slightly crooked teeth.

"Could well be." The lieutenant took off his cap and scratched a mole on his tall forehead. His eyes ran along the two rows of coloured ribbon on my breast.

"Peepers are up 'ere, pal." I touched my lower eyelid and dragged it down. "Bet you never saw this sorta rainbow before—hur-hur."

"Oh, er, sorry." The lieutenant's cheeks coloured. His crooked teeth showed. "Um, I didn't expect to see so much ribbon, honestly."

"Bottom row's just junk awards. Any twelve-incher can win those."

"Even one like me?" The lieutenant offered his hand.

"Err, s'not what you think…" I shook the man's hand. "You're either a four, an eight, or a twelve-inch grouper."

"Oh, rifle groupings—haha!" The lieutenant's head lurched back, his mouth wide. "I thought that had gone to a completely different place there."

"Yeah, I'm Larn by the way." I shouldered my sack. "James."

"Benedek—Ben Vantorout. D'you want to hop in?"

"What, my own car and driver?" I stepped out in to the road and got in the front passenger seat. A lorry groaned past me and hooted its horn. "Next, they'll try making me an officer again."

Ben closed his door and started up. "You were a—?"

"Yeah, I've been north o' the border..." I bundled my sack in the footwell and slumped in the seat. "Been there once."

Ben clicked his indicator and leaned over the steering wheel. "And it wasn't for you…?"

"Where d'you think I've come from?"

"…Maretuka, wasn't it?" A gap appeared in the traffic and Ben nosed out of his parking space.

"I get two years inside for rocking their boat. It's all a conspiracy, mate. Them lot with the bars and the pips trying to keep us inside their boxes. Status quo, y'know what I'm saying?"

"Who's trying to keep you inside a box?"

"The—the Crotch. You ever wondered what makes it go 'round?"

"Err… not something I'm paid to think, honestly. The buffs of being a junior officer, I guess." Ben halted the car at a red light and tapped his thumb on the wheel. "It's funny, you're only the second person I've heard call the Imperial Guard that."

I brought my knee up and hooked a hand around it. "Nah, lots of grunts call it that. Not something an office bitch would hear day-to-day."

"Um, Sergeant, I am a commissioned officer. I may only be a reservist, but you could at least show some respect for the rank." The lights turned green. Ben plunged the accelerator down and brought the car on to a highway above the rooftops. "Commander Sorge must like you if he went to all that trouble to have your sentence commuted."

"Like me? Mate, you're exactly the sort of lackey Sorge likes having around. Any danger to his career, he makes you disappear. One bark for yes, two for no. Sit, stay, rollover—that's your job."

Ben laughed. "…Makes you disappear! What do you mean, he makes you disappear?"

"Nah, you're not paid to think that." I shook a cigarette free from a packet and dropped it in my hand. "Mind if I…?"

"Er, sorry, the wife will kill me if she smells smoke in here. Sorry."

"Ehh, some things still gotta be sacred, I guess." I squeezed the packet shut and tucked it away in my breast pocket. "Mind if I break containment?" My hand settled on the window winder.

"Oh, the vents not working?" Ben twisted a dial on his dash.

Air poured in to the car from the widening gap. "Nah, got enough smoke out there." I wafted my hand in front of my face and wound the window back up. "Phwoar, they burnin' tyres or summat?"

"Bomb attacks."

"How'd Zeke get bombers under that roof?"

"No, no, terrorists. They set off bombs last night."

"Hunh. Still Zeke. Just they 'aven't got the bollocks to go toe-to-toe with us anymore." I bent my knee and pinched the skin there. "I had it good, once. Zeke and I go way back. We had an understanding then."

"Uh-huh. You left your mark on them then, Mister Intrinsic. Sixty-six per cent unit casualties, isn't it?"

I fingered the red and gold bit of ribbon on the top row; a Triple Skull. "Nah, that's the Triple Sod."

"Triple Sod?"

"Triple Skull is for two-thirds unit casualties." My finger moved along to a green ribbon next to the Skull. "Ribbon Intrinsic is for—"

A screen in the centre of Ben's dash turned green and a little receiver icon blinked. Along with it came a buzzing. "Sorry, James. Let me just…" Ben hooked a coil around his ear and worked a bead inside it. "Oh, plug this in, would you?" Ben handed me a long cable with a fat connector on the other end.

"Where do I…?"

"Er, cigarette lighter. Excuse me."

"Ooh, there's a cigarette lighter?" I flipped open a circular cover by my right knee. "Huh. Look at that."

"Calixor Hereditus Grome?" A scratchy voice wheedled from the car's onboard vox.

"Yeah-yeah, just a moment. Can you—can you plug in?"

"Is someone with—?" The voice fell silent.

"Just a colleague." Ben gave a wink and a thumbs-up. "No-no, it's alright. I can talk. I'm glad you called. I'd hoped you'd join me at the end of the week for that concert, if you'd be up for it?"

A towering smoke column enveloping a hab block caught my eye. Tiny jets blasted from fire-fighting ships hovering around the building. Many smaller smoke plumes came from lower structures around the hab. An indicator clicked, and Ben steered the car on to a spiralling slipway leading down to ground level. My neck tilted and my head came to rest on my shoulder.

"Mister Intrinsic…?" Knuckles tapped on glass. "James?"

"Yeah?" My head snapped up. Ben stood outside the passenger window. "We there yet?" I scooped up my sack and twisted the door's latch. Ben had parked inside a bare ferrocrete structure with individual bays for motor transport. Most spaces were occupied by the same four-door, grey military automobiles. Three naked Hennus lorries stood in a workshop further back and inside a cage.

"Welcome to INI; our little think-tank in Orsolya." Ben shut the door behind me and locked the car.

"I like what you've done wi' the place. Bare ferrocrete really brings out the warmth."

Outside, a very tall building still under construction surrounded a green office block with iron screens bolted to the ground and the first floor. Three muddy steps led up to a covered porch with spikes lining the top. "Hang on, I'll let us in." Ben touched a button beneath an intercom and held an ID card to a convex lense above. "Lieutenant Vantorout with Sergeant Larn. Challenge word Rungan."

The door shuddered outwards and Ben led me in to a long, narrow hallway with pale green walls leading straight to stairs and a lift at the back of the building. An inoperable drink dispenser stood alone in the hall.

"Lot of space down 'ere. What's it for?"

"I don't know." Ben held his ID to a clear panel next to the lift doors. "I'm not paid—"

"—Not paid to think that." I lifted my shoe and twisted my ankle. Little flecks of sand stuck to the sole. Can't be water they're soaking up down here.

"You tread in something?" The lift doors rumbled open.

"Nah." I stood by Ben's shoulder inside the lift. "Hereditus Grome, in't he a character from one o' them kiddie books?"

"Oh, err—ahaha." Ben rubbed his chin. "Just—errr—just a silly game the wife and I play."

"Yeah?" My lip curled. "What's hers then?"

"Er, Rezin."

"Weren't Rezin a bloke?"

"That's… what she chose." Ben fiddled with his collar.

"Could've done worse, I s'pose. Good music. Haven't 'eard it in a while."

"Fourth floor. This one is for us."

"Alright." I hung behind Ben. What's got you so hot under the collar then?

Many eyes, locked on cogitator screens, flew away and latched on to me. Grey-clad men and women, trapped in vast, open space without privacy, were squidged at small desks underneath strong strip lighting. This is the brains of the operation…?

"We're upstairs." Ben crossed the room and climbed up a spiralling, iron staircase.

No lift to the fifth, all that unused space on the ground floor too. My shoes tapped on the steps. What will Sorge's lair look like then?

Office pods balanced on stilts on a brown floor with maroon stripes declaring a one-way system. Muck coated the exterior of arched, glass panels above my head. "Do you mind waiting a little please, James?" Ben indicated a pair of leather seats back-to-back with another pair. "I'll let the commander know you've arrived. Help yourself to biscuits."

I dumped my sack on the adjacent seat and slid down the cool leather. A single fly crawled inside a strip light above my head. Dead flies surrounded it. My hand, resting on my thigh, slid inside my trouser pocket and closed around a ballistic knife. Clock hands crept around. INI personnel glided around Fifth, silent, always alone.

"Sergeant Larn?" A plain-faced, female petty officer with a side-parting and a heavy jaw approached me. "Are you Sergeant Larn?"

My head remained still. "Yes."

"I'm Petty Officer Enault, Commander Sorge's secretary. If you'd follow me, please? The commander is waiting."

My fingers warming the knife's grips, I came down to the fourth floor after Sorge's secretary. Flitting eyes found me. Murmurs ceased when I passed. Silhouettes withdrew from windows and blinds flicked shut. Sorge's secretary knocked on an office door in the far corner of Fourth. Black letters on the glass read Commander R. A. C. Sorge.

"Come!"

Sorge's secretary opened the door and leaned in. "Sir, Sergeant Larn for you."

"Thank you, Lidia. Send him in, please." My thumb touched the knife's trigger.

"Sergeant?" Sorge's secretary pushed the door open. I squeezed the slack on the knife's trigger and strode past her.

"James…?" A grey-skinned, pockmarked man in naval ground crew fatigues sat behind Commander Sorge's desk. Unwashed, shoulder-length black hair hung over his blemished cheeks. An untrimmed fingernail pointed at me. "You've got a… a moustache."

"Three stripes, Mister Herle, grants the owner cultivation of extra real estate." Commander Sorge, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, leaned against a row of cabinets at the side of the office. "Hullo, James. How is that new sergeantcy treating you?"

My sack dropped to the floor and tipped over. "Letting yourself go there, Joe." I took my hand from my pocket. The knife slipped deeper inside. "How's Bootneck life doin' you?"

"Bootneck? I've just fed a column for the Victrix. Commander Sorge kindly offered some useful gen for it."

"And stole all your clothes too…?" I kicked my sack over to the chair in front of Sorge's desk and parked my backside on the smooth leather. "Yeah, I've got a moustache. Little side-project up at Tuka."

"How was your combat reorientation?" Sorge slid open a drawer and lifted a glass bottle out. "Three and a half months long enough for you?" Sorge moved over to his seat and placed the bottle at the table's edge.

"Oh, sorry, sir." Joe swept a dataslate and a sheaf of papers off the desk and leaped out of the chair.

"You're not on Bootneck payroll, Joe. Don't call him sir."

"Er-heh, well Commander Sorge is doing me a favour here." A green sheet fluttered to the floor. "Ah, damn it." Joe held the sheaf to his chest and scooped the sheet up.

"Finger, James?" Sorge held his bottle over a second glass, ready to pour.

"If I wanted that, I'd never 'ave left Espi. D'you know what goes on inside Espi, Joe?"

"Espi, the…? The holding facility up north?"

"That's Navy business, James." Gold liquid spread inside the glass. Sorge moved one across the desk to me. "Mister Herle, if you'd be so kind as to wait outside…"

"Thank you, Commander. Alright, James?" Joe shut the door behind him.

"If I'm not Navy, what am I, sir?"

"Well, you've been back on Guard payroll for the past three and a half months." Sorge tapped his fingertips together. "The paperwork processing to demob you from the Guard and re-enlist you in the Navy would take – at minimum – another eight months."

"Something as little as that takes eight months? Why not just take me on as an OR-5?"

"We can't. We're a naval organisation."

"So, what did you bring me 'ere for? That's six hours, coming down from Tuka. It's no joke."

"For a one-to-one. I want to help you re-rail your career, James. But I have to know the direction you wish to take. Your flash training – Advanced Marksmanship. Does being a simple designated marksman fulfill your needs? What benefit will shooting qualifications lend you in civilian life?"

I scratched a thin scar on my forehead. "You kept tabs?"

"Now and again. We like to know what our people are up to."

"Not your people though, am I?"

"If you are willing to wait eight months…"

"Nah, number ten. I've got nothing there if I'm driving a desk."

"Very well." Sorge opened a drawer in his desk and produced a sealed folder. "This should be all you need to know." Sorge unwound a string holding the blank cover shut and passed the folder across. He took the untouched glass and poured it in to his own and tipped it back.

Personnel with two or more tours' worth of combat experience wanted for Combat Advisory Placement with Haven Home Divisions.

I closed the folder and dropped it on the desk. "Dunno why I'm reading this. You've already made your mind up, haven't you?"

"Page four, James." A flame snicked on Sorge's lighter.

"Another dotted line…?" I thumbed through the document.

"Yours is with the Ninth Division. They're mostly thirty-five-overs. Some your age, allergies, illnesses keeping them from regular service. The administration would like the PDF delivered a collective kick up their backsides, in the event the enemy puts troops on the continent. You'll be part of a four-man mentorship team. All Cadia veterans, so you should have some common ground."

"What about those terrorists Ben mentioned?" A pen rolled towards the table edge and fell in to my hand.

"I shouldn't worry about them. Their interests are is purely civilian targets."

"Not paid to ponder why, am I?" I uncapped the pen and scribbled my signature on the dotted line. "Do I get any grace before I'm fannying with the twelve-inchers?"

"Four weeks for the paperwork to process. Until then, you will return to Maretuka and resume your normal duties."

"Now?" I dropped the document on Sorge's ashtray. Sorge lifted it clear and flicked the ash off.

"Not my concern. He's a friend of yours outside, isn't he?"

"You know that like you know all my answers. You know where I'm going in Orsolya and who I'm seeing."

"It's not just you, James. We watch everyone. I am watched, as is Admiral Curzon himself." Sorge split the seal on a fresh cigarette packet.

"You smoke cigars, sir."

"For you." A packet of Safo's Gold-bands landed in front of me. "Enjoy the rest of your furlough."

"Ta." I tucked the Gold-bands inside a breast pocket.

"I've let Mister Vantorout know his is at your disposal today."

"A junior officer driving an NCO around? Don't seem right to me, sir."

"I disagree. Do you know why?"

"No."

"It's because of that shield on your arm, and on the arms of all Cadia veterans. Vantorout should be saluting you."

"I dunno about that…" My eyes fell to my knees. "If that's all, sir…?" I reached for my sack.

"You and Susannah didn't work out then?"

The knife warmed my thigh. "Enjoy your drink, sir." I hoisted my sack over my shoulder.

"I know a kindly madame if you need company tonight, James."

"Why don't you enjoy your drink, sir?" I plunged the door handle down and shoved my shoulder against the glass.

"Hey." Joe sprang from a bench outside Sorge's office, papers spilling from his lap. A pen dropped from his mouth. My sack hit the floor and I barrelled at Joe, threw my arm around his neck and wrenched him down. "Urgh, James!" Joe pummelled at my chest and brought his foot down on my shoe.

"Hur-hur-hur." I dragged my knuckles across Joe's greasy scalp and swung him around in my headlock.

"Agh—ow! C'mon then!" Joe hooked his foot around mine. "Ahaha—"

"Yeah—heah! 'Ave it…" My elbow smacked a spare water container sitting atop a dispenser. "Aw, shit—!" The fat bottle toppled over and thunked upon the floor.

"Er—Sergeant?" Sorge's secretary peered over a partition. The water container rolled in a lazy curve and stopped against bound cables running from a floor socket. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I—AGH!" Joe brought his foot down on my heel and my foot slipped from my shoe. "Ye twatter!"

Sorge's secretary sunk from view. "Sergeant, I can have Commander Sorge out here if needs be."

My shoe flapping, I hopped over to the partition and laid my arms on it. "Nah, PO, we're battle-buddies. It's all number one—Aw!" Joe's fingernail flicked across my ear. "Joe!"

"If there is something I can assist you with, Sergeant…?" The secretary's eyes roved around her cogitator's screen. "Otherwise, Lieutenant Vantorout is waiting for you downstairs."

"Who's that?" Joe retrieved his papers from the floor and tucked them and his dataslate beneath his arm.

"Yeah, I'm in Orsolya, looking up the wife of a friend o' mine, 'cept I don't know where she lives."

"Well, without the wife's IIS, I can't really do much…"

"IIS?"

"Individual Identification Serial, James," Joe said.

"You're best heading down to the Halls of the Administratum in Lower Gorev."

"Number ten. It's bureaucracy one-oh-one at the Halls, James. We'll be there for days."

"I can have Commander Sorge out 'ere if needs be, PO."

The secretary's fingers settled on her keyboard. "Sergeant…"

"Listen…" I dove into my sack and laid a little wooden horseman on top of the partition. "He was one of my best friends. I was there when he…" I shied away from the partition and pinched my nasal bridge. "He made me p—promise to…"

"James?" Joe laid a hand on my shoulder. "Please, ma'am. We just want some closure. Not all of us forgot Cadia."

"We-ell…" The secretary lifted a headset from a hook and keyed a telecommunicator on her desk. "I'm close with a senior scribe at the Halls. Let me put a call out. Do you mind waiting?"

Three quarters of an hour later, Ben, Joe, and I left the lift on the office's ground floor. "Didn't take much convincing, did she?" I smirked.

"Well, you fooled me!"

"Had my sarn't's face on, didn't I? Anyway, how's Aimo doing, Joe? Don't mind invading his bunker, do ya?"

"Aimo…?" Joe fell behind Ben and I.

"Yeah, Aimo Garst, Joe. It was you, me, Aimo, Peter what made it off Cadia." I ticked the names on my fingers. "Us four. Tell me you know where Aimo and Peter are."

Ben seated his cap on his head. "Err, I'll go and start her up."

"Joe…?" I spread my arms. "Come on, Scribe, you was s'posed to take care of Peter. He's fif—seventeen years' old, for God's sake. No family or nunnit!"

"Can we do this outside, James?" Joe pointed at the ceiling and mouthed, "ears on us."

Outside the INI building, Joe and I slogged through the mud over to the motor pool. "Nah, I was out of order there, Joe. Weren't lekker laying in to you 'cause of Peter. I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry I lost control of things. I couldn't support Peter living with me and the missus. Aimo had his own wife and his little one so he couldn't do much on his end. They came and took Peter away about fourteen months ago. No contact since."

"Who, who came?" I vaulted a low wall and squeezed past a parked staff car.

"…Men, men from the planetary government. Forms filled out and signed. Receipts all 'round." Joe sidled along the far side of the car.

"Nothing you could've done."

"I cried after they took Peter away. My girlfriend didn't understand why."

"She couldn't. She weren't there."

"Now, I'm blacklisted and in this guy's debt." Joe flicked mud up a ferrocrete support.

"Yeah, snuggle up inside his pocket with me." I planted my arms on the warm roof of Ben's car. "So. Aimo?"

"Last contact I had was four months ago." Joe leaned on the opposite side of the roof. "We thought you weren't coming back. You were an officer; you weren't human anymore."

"That's your excuse?"

"Look, I know where his family lives—"

"His family? Where's Aimo at then?"

"There was a fight. Aimo didn't come home."

My forehead touched the edge of the roof. "God-Emperor, Joe." My hands clasped and shook.

"I'm sorry, James."

"Get in." I threw my sack in the back seat and got in next to Ben.

"James—"

"Get in." I slammed my door. Springs creaked.

"Where do you want to go, James?" Ben reversed out of his space and brought the car's nose around.

"Hungry, Joe?"

"Growling."

"Breakfast, Ben. Know a place?"

Ben's eyes jumped to his mirror and settled on Joe, splayed in the back and scowling. "I do."

Thick steam clouds reared above a bare metal surface where clumps of pink, curling meat and vegetables sizzled. Flat slices dug beneath the ingredients and turned them over, revealing their lightly-browned exterior. Two muscled, tattooed arms gripped the slices. The arms poked out of a sleeveless, white jacket coated in muck. A stiff, spiked mohawk, dyed purple covered a bald head coated in scars. Screws held a curving plate to the chef's crown.

"Number thirteen! Twenty-one point five Rako." The chef deposited the cooked ingredients inside three bowls filled with a pale-yellow sauce and set them on the worktop in front of us. A little sign with the number thirteen lay by my elbow.

"Err…" Ben dug in his trouser pocket. "James, d'you have much Rako on you?"

"You eat free," the chef said to me.

"Special case, is it?" Joe fished inside his own pockets.

"Must've missed that shield on your arm, greasy—ahh no, I didn't." The chef wiped his hands on a rag.

"Twenty-one point five…?" Ben's palm shunted the Rako pile over the worktop.

"Never understand that…" I broke two wooden sticks in half and prodded at my noodles.

"Green is 'alf, blue is one, yellow five, purple ten, orange twenty, and gold is fifty." Fat lips peeled back from gold teeth. "Enjoy your rahmen."

Rah-men? I stirred the noodles. Green leaves and thin sprouts bobbed to the surface. "Oi, bureaucracy one-oh-one." I elbowed Joe.

"Hur-hur." Joe plucked a curving, pink crustacean from his bowl with his sticks. "Both sticks, James."

"Jam these up your nose, in a minute."

Ben leaned backwards. "I thought that was the Cadian Shield."

"Don't remember." I slurped a long noodle up. Sauce clung to my chin.

"You don't remember Cadia?"

"Oi!" Joe jabbed his elbow at Ben's side. "I don't remember either."

"Er, sorry." Ben hunched over his bowl. "I didn't mean to..."

"Nah, you're alright, Ben." I tapped a stick on the rim of my bowl and stared at the rising steam. You're alright.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Vapor from a fire-fighting Valkyrie cascaded on to Ben's windshield. Armoured vehicles in blocky, grey camouflage rolled past in the opposite lane. "I thought Zeke had returned. Trying to bomb Orsolya back to the Tech Age." Joe clasped a tissue around his nose and blew. "Urgh, s'cuse me…"

"Sorry I missed the party."

"You wouldn't be if you'd seen the streets after Zeke left."

"Why?"

"You ever heard of VOCs gas?"

"No."

Ben held up a half-face respirator by its strap. "That's classified, Joe."

"The papers had a field day. I was different then. I would've done anything – committed murder even – if I'd grabbed those picts of the victims and published them on the street. Get my name in the bigwigs' ears."

"You didn't…?"

"…I did as I was told. Ran a story about the wages of manufactorum workers increasing by three per cent." Joe twirled his arm. "We circulate the same twenty-thirty stories, everything the big sheets don't serve. Ninety per cent of ours is bull. I tell the truth, my name lands in the black." Joe thumped the back of his head against the headrest.

"Sorge like his lie." I dropped a Gold-band in to my hand and passed it back to Joe.

"James."

"Fuck it—take the lot." I tossed the whole packet in to the back seats. "I'd rather you smoked his than I did. Done enough sucking off the Navy, I 'ave."

"Joe? Rexus Mondict, was it?" Ben braked and pulled off the road. "Here on the right."

"Good one, Bootneck." Joe hopped out and closed the door.

"Oi!" I wound down my window. "Find our family, Joe. They're all we've got. I can't do it myself."

Joe grinned and flicked his arm. The Gold-bands sailed through the window and bounced off my chest. "Never again."

"Still my favourite combat correspondent."

"G'luck, James!" Joe stayed outside Rexus Mondict until Ben turned the corner at the far end of the street.

"Still catching up on those two years then?"

"Yeah, looks like it." I planted an elbow on the door panel and plonked my head in my hand.

"I had a year out too."

"Aw, sorry, must've missed you up in Espi."

"I had a year out learning to walk again after a crash I was in." Ben smiled. "Everything was different after that. I—I saw people differently, and they saw me differently too."

"Zeke?" I frowned at Ben and looked him up and down.

"Catastrophic mechanical failure of all onboard systems. Hmph—I had the fortune of boarding the only transport whose machine spirit rolled out of bed the wrong way that day."

"How bad was it?"

"Seventy injured, life-threatening to sprains. I had three shattered disks. There's enough metal in my back to send every detector in Orsolya haywire."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I had three weeks on my back."

"Oh?"

"Yeah…" I rubbed the base of my neck. "It was a long time ago. Sorted itself out though. I meant, I know how it feels, not able to move under your own steam."

"Well, that's the extent of my combat experience, I'm afraid." Ben glanced across. "Now, I'm paling in your shadow, Mister Intrinsic."

"Not where you want to be. If you're paling in mine, I'm paling in Sorge's."

"Why?"

"He's a snake! One arm shaking your hand, the other holding a knife behind his back. God, I wish you'd seen Henna-Morata."

"Commander Sorge is my superior officer, James."

"Oh, officer and a gentleman does what he wants, does he? The commission don't make him right."

"The commission bestowed upon him by the God-Emperor of Mankind."

"Ah, yeah, I found the God-Emperor in Espi. Said a little prayer, morning and evening. Never asked for forgiveness. Only thanked Him for redacting my commission. Didn't belong to me."

"Who did it belong to then?"

I loosened the drawstring on my sack and brought out the little wooden horseman. "His. He earned it the hard way, the honest way." My thumb caressed the initials C.A.S. on the base. "Now, he's coming home."

Forty-five, forty-seven, forty-nine… My footsteps echoed around an enclosed tunnel clinging to a smaller apartment building. Fifty-one. I dug inside my pocket and brought out the folded piece of notepaper Sorge's secretary had given me. Fifty-one, Zengoro Gardens.

A square button poked out beneath an intercom next to Fifty-one's door. I tapped the button and leaned close to the intercom. "Er… hello? Anyone at home?"

"Hello?" A woman replied.

"Er, Mrs Semirechye? I'm with Naval Intelligence, here on behalf of Admiral Curzon. I'd like to ask you a few questions…"

"Um, okay." The intercom clicked.

"Come on, come on." I swept my beret off my head and stuffed through my shoulderboard. Ilona Savage, not Semirechye damn it. I plunged my hand through the neck of my sack and pulled out the wooden horseman. Seals parted and a heavy door groaned. A thin, white hand pulled the door inwards.

"Ilona Savage?" I caught a brief glimpse of a red-haired woman six inches shorter than I was, green-eyed and with her hair cut very short. "This is yours, ma'am." Ilona flung the door shut in my face. Air ruffled my hair. "Ilona." I banged my palm on the door. "ILONA!"

A door slammed shut further down the row. Barks rolled along the tunnel. Somewhere, music wheedled from a vox. I flung a look up and down the tunnel and hammered on Ilona's door.

"Stop that hammering!" A resident, five doors down, heaved tied-up rubbish bags out of his front door. "You want to show some respect, Guardsman? She's a widow." The rubbish bags swung past me. "Go on. Off with you!"

I noticed a thin slit in the wall beside Ilona's door with the number 51 on it. Could I…? I pulled on my sleeve and ran my thumb over the thin, metal shield. Unbuttoning my jacket, I worked the point of my ballistic knife beneath the edge and sliced through the threading. I'm sorry, Ilona. I slotted the shield through the mail slot and heard it clatter at the bottom.

"Everything alright?" Ben said when I returned to the car.

"I'm done."

"You're done?"

"I'm done here."

"Alright." Ben started up. "Karavartis?"

"Please." I bundled my sweater against the window and rested my head there.

"How do you do it?"

"Mm?"

"Sleep like that."

"Sleep where you can, when you can." My shoulder squidged the sweater tighter. "Guess old habits die hard."

Ben awoke me outside the station. "Eurgh… hmm-hmm." I fed my sweater inside my sack and opened the door.

"Your train's leaving in forty minutes." Ben closed the door behind me. "I couldn't help checking."

"'Ere…" I picked Rako sticks from my trouser pocket and pushed them at Ben. "Food, fuel, inconveniencing you…"

"No, I can't take that. You've barely enough to get back to Maretuka as is."

"Sorry you've got Sorge on your back. Just don't let him ride you in to the ground. Y'know, once he's finished with you, he'll hang you out to dry on meathooks."

"I'll take that chance. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Sergeant." Ben saluted me.

"Sir." I re-seated my beret. "Hold on, I salute you, not the other way 'round."

"Well done."

"Bit late for that but thanks, I guess." I returned Ben's salute and offered my hand. "Goodbye, Ben."

A giant clock suspended between the stone giants standing in the heart of the concourse struck 11:40. New departure times shuffled across the screens. 12:12 for Maretuka. I tugged my cuff back from my chrono. New arrivals and departures streamed around me.

"The eleven-forty for Marewica Dockyards will shortly be departing."

"Report any suspicious activity to your nearest O-SEC officer. The enemy is nearer than you think."

Magazines lined shelves. Glass bottles sat inside ice boxes. I shoved a Rako stick inside a dispenser and tapped a keypad. A can thunked on the floor. I shoved my hand inside the machine and brought out the can. Outside the store, an old newspaper lay on a bench. I slung my sack on the bench and swivelled the Victrix issue around. The Macragge administration denies xenos involvement in the Lord Commander's ascension to the throne.

I broke the seal and raised the hissing can to my lips. Crowds flowed back and forth in the reflection. A lone figure stood facing in my direction. I lowered the can, tucked the newspaper beneath my arm, and slung my sack. The figure followed.

Abhumans, crouched around bins in a gap between stores, shambled over and circled me. The runts hopped up and down yipping. I dug out Rako and threw it in the air. Shrieks broke out. Abhuman and human alike tumbled for the Rako. I strode away from the scrambling bodies. Two O-SEC ran past me, brandishing their shock batons. Whistles blew.

I barged through a swinging door with a restricted sign, climbed stairs, and rounded a corner. My hand closed around the ballistic knife and drew it. Knife held to my side, I flattened myself to the wall. Feet slapped upon the stairs.

"Quiet, quiet, quiet!" I lunged at the figure, swung it around by the arm, and drove it at the opposite wall. "Not a sound." I touched the knifepoint to a neck. "Tell me." Teeth bared, I twisted the knife. "Tell me…"

Wide brown eyes blinked. A dark-haired woman in a black watch cap, hooded sweater, and a brown leather jacket shivered. "You've grown." Her jaw quivered.

"Shuddup. Don't look—DON'T LOOK AT ME!" I pattered along the woman's arms and yanked down her jacket's zip.

"James—James, please."

"Shuddup." I wrenched the woman around and ran my hand around her waistline.

"James, I'm unarmed—"

"Don't fuck with me!" I yanked down her hood and pressed the flat to the woman's cheek.

"Please. Just let me…" The woman reached inside her sweater. "Please. No gun, no knife, I swear."

"What?" An Admech medallion hung from the end of a gold chain. I lurched away from the woman and dragged the back of my hand over my mouth. "God-Emperor. God-Emperor strike me down."

"Omnissiah preserve you." The woman's hand settled on her thudding chest. "I hope he finds you well."

Two covered cups sat on a bare metal table between the woman and I. High partitions separated us from the cantina's other denizens. I sat, hands tightly clasped, my head bowed. The woman opposite me, brown-haired and olive-skinned, laid a leather-backed ID next to her cup and slid it over. "It was hard for me."

Riya Alghalyoun. The ID was registered to Haven.

"Your real name?"

A second, a third, and a fourth ID, all foreign, slid across the table. "To you, I will always be Lusia."

"I don't know your face."

"It was… hard for me." Lusia passed a black and white pict over. The same woman crouched with her arms around two children, grinning and ear to ear. "Every time I reupload, a little more of them fades."

"How many times?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen." I pinched the hair on my upper lip. "God-damn…"

"Helena and Diego." Lusia turned the pict over and showed me the names. "Their names are all I have left."

"No-no-no, I don't—I don't recognise you." I pushed the pict and the IDs back.

"The—the Archmagos—"

"Archmagos?"

"For my continued service. A new body, a new life." Lusia swept the picts and the IDs back inside her satchel. "Thank you for hearing me."

"Tell me you recognise this." I placed the wooden horseman on the table.

Lusia's hands flew over her mouth. "God-Emperor, James. Does his family know?"

"She wouldn't… she wouldn't..." My chest convulsed. A lump rising in my throat, I swallowed and tipped my head down. "She wouldn't take it back." Mucus snorted in my nostrils. I clenched my hands in my lap and rocked. "I was s'posed to bring him home but she wouldn't take it." I dug my nails in to my scalp and scraped them through. "I left him up that tower. I had to bring him home."

"James." Lusia drew my hand down to the table. "James, I am so glad I saw you in the crowd. Thank you for telling me all this. Brave." Lusia squeezed my hand and beamed. "Brave."

"Thank—thank you. Thank you." Phlegm rose in my throat. I coughed in to my sleeve. "Eurgh… you're—you're very beautiful."

"That's very kind of you, James. I'm on the twelve-twelve. Are you…?"

"Yeah…" I sucked air through my chattering teeth. "Yeah."

"Breathe in. One, two, three. Breathe, James. Breeeathe…" Lusia laid a packet of tissues on the table and moved it across. "Breathe."

I rested my brow in my hand. My shoulders shook. Mucus ran down from my nose. Bright tracks gleamed on my cheeks. "I can't… I can't…"