The Human Embassy, Upper Gorev District

Double doors embedded with gold leaf boomed behind Setsiba Galah-Shah and Kadri Marewica. Far above the Zalileans' heads, a silver chandelier rattled.

"Human diplomacy at its finest." Kadri undid the metal clasp at his throat and rubbed a red line circling his neck. "Unwashed, greasy bastards. Gods, it stunk in there."

"Old age hasn't dampened your sinuses, at least."

"What was that smell?"

"Scented oil in his hair."

"Does the human female find that appealing?"

"I would say the coin lining the ambassador's pocket sees to that, not the product in his hair."

"Well, you understand their kind better than I."

A bald human leaned on a stone wall overlooking the staircase. Setsiba touched Kadri's arm. "Await me outside, Kadri."

"Yes, Madam Ambassador."

Setsiba turned back and climbed up and around to the bald human loitering on the landing. "Forty-five minutes I had to spend grovelling to that Meiyee!"

Ikram spun a cigarette packet in his fingers. "You smelt the…?"

"Oh! Nothing but."

"Heh, that oil…" Ikram showed his wonky teeth. "I can tell you why. It's because the ambassador never washes his hair. None of the upper class do. They just plaster their scalps in oil and leave it at that."

"Not something you've ever had an issue with…" Setsiba braced her shoulder against a pillar and crossed her legs.

"Hah! Not since I put the gloves on, no."

"Gloves?"

"What, the nose, the teeth don't give it away at all?" Ikram tugged a trouserleg up and cocked his leg. "The enemy can claim responsibility for my legs—I'll give them that." Ikram pointed at his broken nose. "Everything above the knee, I brought on myself."

"Does it… hurt, ever?"

"Hand in hand with the gloves, came the bottle. Everything sort of went numb after that." Ikram straightened his arm and spread his fingers. "Now, I can't really feel anything."

"How did Grukan find use for an alcoholic gladiator?"

"Haha—gladiator?" Ikram raised his fists. "Boxer. Did I mention that before?"

"Er, apologies. I think you may have mentioned old-style boxing."

"Mmm. Boxer, bouncer, debt-collector, and now at the service of His Imperial Majesty's Naval Intelligence Division, and yours, madam."

"I missed politeness in there. Basic, common courtesy; one diplomat to another."

"Must have been angry at you."

"Like the eyes of the predator on the insect beneath it. We are filth to you, aren't we?"

"To most of us."

"One of my delegation causes an upset at Governor Jagoda's gathering. I throw myself before his excellency, nose to the carpet, drawers around the ankles, and buttocks presented to the Gods."

"I'd say that's more to the skill of the Zalilean ambassador than anything else. Major diplomatic incident averted thanks to you. Worth the price of one's honour, I'd say."

"Hmph." Setsiba smirked. "You should have seen the palace. The depths of depravity, the drunkenness, the debauchery your kind have fallen to, and they have the nerve to brand my kind anarchistic rakes enamoured with the bottle."

"Can't say I did. There's not a doorman alive who would admit me to such a gaggle of gentlebeings."

"More gentleman than your ambassador…" Setsiba twirled her plait around her finger. "Do you believe an individual, granted power above their station, is more likely to be seduced by corruption?"

"Ohh…" Ikram ran his fingers along the uneven skin on his nose. "That is for Grukan to say."

"And how would he say it?"

Ikram's hairless brows edged closer. Thick arms folded. "Power is the ultimate test of character."

"And you?"

"Not for an asset on my salary to say, and I like my salary."

"Come on, we're off the record here—is that how you say it? Off the record?"

"Yeah, that's how we say it."

"And how would you say it?"

"I can't. You're asking me to speak in defiance of my superior—"

"Ikram, I chose to come up here. We are not scheduled to meet for another week and a half." Setsiba turned away from Ikram. "I walk away."

"It's about a PW, Madam Ambassador."

"PW?"

"One of yours."

"Mine?" Setsiba came close to Ikram. "Tell me what you know."

Ikram cast a glance over the parapet and around Setsiba's shoulder. "Come over here." Ikram led Setsiba in to the shadow of a rotund statue in plate armour and a cloak. "I'm close with a master chief petty officer down at Genis Naval Facility, and he tells me they are keeping one—only one—foreign detainee in-house."

"Is that it?"

"It's all I have. I know that they are alive and in intensive care."

"No name, no species?"

"Nothing more."

"I need more."

"More? I'm breaking protocol—"

"—I approached you! Alive or dead, I must know. Grant us closure, Ikram. For me, and for my friend."

"Yesss… your friend." Ikram dragged the heel of his boot across the sharp edge of the statue's dais. "Your friend is of interest to us; of great interest to us."

"You may find it difficult to sway her to your interests, if that is what you seek."

"I don't want to sway her, I want you to keep her out of further trouble."

"Further trouble?"

"She has yet to become a liability to us, therefore she may still be useful as an asset."

"You know she was a Ranger? Very dangerous beings, honourable beings. Treachery to them is a deadly sin."

"We're familiar with their caste. Pass on my knowledge. Keep your friend close. I'll see you in ten days. D'you know where and when?"

"I know where and when."

"And the signal?"

"I know the signal. Convey my gratitude to Grukan, please."

"I came of my own accord." Ikram beat a flat cap against his jacket and seated it on his head. "Look out for your people, madam. There are a great many keen to see your race scapegoated for the recent bombings. Grukan will want you to keep your heads down, just until this storm passes."

"That wasn't us."

"No, of course not. It's peace you would prefer though, wouldn't you?"

"I would do anything in my power to keep the peace."

"Thank you, madam ambassador. After you, please."

"All Zalilea's gratitude to you, human." Setsiba backed away a pace, turned, and made her way to the stairs.

Rochidi Opera House, Elek District

Searchlights glared at the bulging curves of Orsolya's opera house, standing solitary in the centre of an artificial island away from the muggy heat choking Lower Gorev. Golden light glimmered on the water's surface. Soft halos surrounded white orbs nestling in the boughs of trees swaying on both sides of the footbridge. Couples and larger groups crossed the span leading to the island. One being walked alone, head down, and keeping to the shadows.

Black fur lined the edges of Izuru's hood, shadowing her cloth helmet. The large cheek-guards, fixed together, left only Izuru's eyes visible. Cloak held tight to her body, Izuru trailed the Upper Gorites over the bridge's apex and down to the botanical gardens the opera house dwelt in. Crowds gathered around a triple-tiered fountain supporting a stone Astartes with flowing hair beneath the main doors. Izuru broke away from the humans ahead of her and dropped over a wall and entered a tunnel running beneath the ramp.

Hedges at the far end of the tunnel throttled Izuru's way. A gravel path forked at another statue rising above the neatly-trimmed walls, this one with a sword in its outstretched arm. 9:45. Izuru flipped the cover of a mechanical chrono shut and tucked it away. Punctuality, human.

Around a hedge cut in the shape of an Astartes, a human swallowed in a greatcoat hovered underneath a fir tree. A shining, metal cylinder nestled in his gloved hand.

"It's me."

"Agh!" Brown liquid jumped from the cylinder and splattered the gravel. A cup fell from Ben Vantorout's hand and spilled more of the liquid over the path. "God-Emperor, you scared me!" Ben flapped his stained sleeve and scooped up his cup. "Ohhh, God-Emperor…"

"Were you followed?"

"I'm—I'm always followed. They follow everyone."

"Were you followed here?"

"Look, I was probably tailed across the bridge. I haven't seen anyone since I came here."

Izuru parted her cheek-guards and pulled them outwards. "What is that?"

"It's a vacuum flask." Ben replaced the cup and shook the covered flask. Liquid sloshed inside. "Keeps it warm. See?" Ben took the cap off and held it out.

"Alcoholic?" Izuru sniffed.

"Recaf."

Izuru jerked her head back. "Couldn't you have brought alcohol tonight? I can feel a freeze approaching."

"Ahh, that's an Orsolyan spring." Ben slipped his flask inside a pocket on his greatcoat. "It'll be another two months before the colour returns to our cheeks."

"Is that normal? A six-month-long winter?"

"Could be worse." Ben turned up his collar. "We could be living in the countryside. How do you like opera?"

"I've… never been. I'm not sure what to expect."

"Well, it was this or a potter around an art gallery at closing time."

"I wouldn't have minded. Human or not, it's still a chance to sample a foreign culture. Few of my kin have had such opportunity."

"There's culture here." Ben plodded over to an Astartes hacked from a hedge. "Art."

"Anything unrelated to warriors?"

"Him?" Ben pointed out a slimmer shape of a human squatting in the nude with his chin resting on his fist. "You can't deny that…"

"But what is the meaning behind it?" Izuru's eyes settled on the human's genitals. "That's a very flattering image they've cut there."

"Hah! You noticed that first…" Ben's cheeks glowed.

"Ben? I'm freezing. Please, show me inside."

"Oh, as you wish." Ben cocked his arm and offered it to Izuru. "Rezin."

Arm in arm, Izuru and Ben joined the Gorites queuing outside the opera house's main doors. Human women in dresses, long gloves, shawls, and glittering jewellery hung on their partner's arms. Ben passed his flask over. Izuru shook her head.

"I have to ask…" Ben tipped his head closer to Izuru.

"Hm?"

"Will you be my companion, this evening?"

"I am not to be purchased."

"Please. You don't look a thing like my wife."

"Why not bring her along instead?"

"Ma'am, you came without urging. You don't have to be here."

"I will not be a mistress." Izuru dug her fingernails in to Ben's sleeve. "I will not. Be. A mistress."

Winged human infants, carved from marble, loomed over the great doors. A polished, golden aquila shone above an Astartes plunging a spear through the heart of a coiled serpent. Three couples ahead of Izuru and Ben, a dark-skinned, heavy-set human in a purple suit took tickets and tore off the ends before returning them to their owners.

"Be my wife."

"What? No!"

"Just for tonight." Ben brought a ticket from his pocket and held it out. Izuru reached for the ticket. Ben moved his arm away. "Deal, Madame Vantorout?"

Izuru exhaled through her mouth. "And I thought I had you around my finger, human."

"We're all human here tonight." Ben walked with Izuru up to the ticket-collector and held out the tickets. "Two tickets for Vantorout. We are in the upper circle."

The human tore the ends and handed the tickets back. "Head up the stairs and turn right. You will see the sign for the upper circle."

"Thank you."

"Enjoy the show."

The hem of Izuru's cloak dragged over a well-trodden, purple carpet covering a wide staircase rising up the opera house's throat. Uniformed humans bearing drinks on silver trays moved around guests crowding the corridors and staircase in groups chatting and laughing.

"Will anybody recognise?"

"I shouldn't think so."

"Keep your voice down." Izuru dropped her heel on Ben's toes. "I meant, does anybody know what your wife looks like?"

"No, um… Kay doesn't really go out much." Ben's thumb worked down the buttons on his greatcoat. "It's—er—hard sometimes."

"Madam?" A servant swung in Izuru's direction. Pink liquid inside crystal tilted.

"No, thank you," Ben said.

"For sir?"

"No, thank you." Ben manoeuvred Izuru away from the drinks.

"Who do you think you are, my father?"

"Ma'am, I'm not paying for you to get drunk."

"One drink!"

"It's always just one drink."

"It calms me down."

"If you're in distress, why come to me? Your own people, surely they're of a far similar mindset to you than I."

"I'm not in distress."

"You need an outlet. That's it. Not enough of the endorphins being released. How much exercise do you do on a daily basis?"

"I need not justify my day-to-day affairs to you, human—"

"Well, we're not even in the upper circle yet, and you're already out of breath—"

"I am not out of breath!" A few nearby humans turned their heads. Eyes lingered on Izuru before losing interest. Izuru clenched the fur tighter around her neck. "I am not out of breath."

"Very well, you're not out of breath."

Two floors up, black letters on a brass plaque announced that Izuru and Ben had reached the upper circle. "Now I'm…" Ben pulled open his greatcoat. "Now I'm out of breath."

"Aha!"

"Oh, wow..."

"Wow what?"

"Caught the tail-end of a smile there."

"So?"

"I've never seen you smile before."

"I'll smile at your expense." Izuru looked down at Ben's stomach. "Those ready-to-eats letting themselves be known there."

"Hah! You snarker."

"Growing up with warriors, you adopt a certain style of humour. It helps deal with the things you see."

"Oh, deadpan, is it?"

Izuru's lips stretched and her eyes narrowed. "Macabre."

The two sat down on a pair of seats in the pitch-dark upper circle far above the stage. Little specks filed along the curving seating in the stalls. Others took their places in the galleries at the sides. Ben draped his greatcoat over the back of his chair and lifted a leaflet from a pocket. Izuru undid the clasp on her cloak and bundled the material up tightly.

"Beautiful in blue."

"Hmm?"

Ben smiled over the unfolded leaflet. "You look beautiful in blue."

"You can't have met many women then…" Izuru squidged her cloak between her neck and the seat's headrest and stretched her legs out.

"The dress. It's lovely. I me—I mean it. A gift from your friends?"

"I stole it, like I stole the cloak, boots, gloves, helmet."

"You stole it?!"

"What else can one do once they have taken everything from you?" Izuru folded her arms and laid her chin on her breast. "Nought remains but a name. Even that was a lie."

"Who's taken everything from you?" Izuru bit a fingertip, pulled her glove off, and spread the three fingers on her right hand. She twisted her body away from Ben and closed her eyes.

Drums crashed. Izuru's legs kicked and she sprang up, her fist clenched. A gigantic image of a human female, mouth agape, wailed. Her eyes followed Izuru in to a curving corridor behind the upper circle. Lasfire cracked around Izuru. A spotlight swept through the arches. Black clouds spoiled a violet sky.

"Changing—mag three!" A human in torn fatigues and blackened Cadian body armour wrenched a curved magazine from an automatic rifle, dropped the empty, and dug a new magazine out of a chest pouch. Dirt covered the human's prominent nose. Greasy hair stuck to his head. "Dirty Cadian bastards!" The human wrenched a pin free from a grenade and hurled it over Izuru's head. Izuru ducked and scooted in to the arch.

"Who are you?"

"Who am I…? I'm Ben, Ben Vantorout."

"No, you're—" A spotlight illuminated the human's face. "Ben?"

On his knees, Ben moved his outstretched arm towards Izuru. "God-Emperor, I'm sorry for bringing you here. I had no idea."

"I was… I was…" Izuru peered out at the projection of the wailing woman. "Under a violet sky."

"Okay…" Ben flipped open a wallet and took a folded receipt out. "Cadia."

"What are you doing?"

"Writing down everything you remember." Ben pressed the receipt on his thigh and wrote. "Cadia."

"I don't want to remember Cadia."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me."

"I'm not—I'm not the same person I was then."

"Of course. And I'm not the same person I was before I learned to walk again. Do you know how I learned to get back up on my feet? I hadn't the strength of character to push myself upright and find my legs again. It was those around me, helping me, guiding me, carrying me along, that I owe everything to. We are nothing without our companions, our friends, our partners there at our side. Why do you think the God-Emperor gave us mouths to smile with and laugh with? So you, me and everyone else could share it. Your gods gave you that smile for a reason."

"Stop." Izuru pressed her thumb to her tear duct. "Stop."

"I didn't stop for myself when I was lying there paralysed. I won't stop for you now."

"You've a pure heart, Benedek. You are too good for me."

"Ahah! You're the one showing me up. I wish I'd worn my No.2s now."

"Show you up…? I—I don't—I don't understand."

"I think blue is your colour."

"Ah-huh. I always preferred green."

"Mmm. You're a winter."

"A winter?"

"Pale skin, dark hair. Brown, blue, grey."

"Hmph, not enough real sunlight." Izuru drew her knee up to her chin and looked out at the wailing woman. "What is she singing about?"

"A place above our plane of existence where the souls of dead heroes dwell."

Pimples spread over Izuru's arms and along her nape. "A circuit…"

"A rock in the storm, free from the woes of Man."

"Why the lament?"

"For all its purity, it's still just a legend. Our lady cries for a better time. Purer, kinder folk free from corruption and sin in a galaxy that's not trying its damndest to blow itself to hell. You slept through most of it, you work it out yourself—haha!"

"Hunh."

"How do you do it? You're a marvel to me."

"Grunt secret." Izuru smirked. "I can't be telling."

"Were you alone on Cadia?" Ben held the pen's nub over the receipt.

Izuru rolled her eyes. "…Back on Cadia again."

"It's not going to stop. You know it's not going to stop."

"Dirty Cadian bastards."

"Dirty Cadian…" Ben's pen wiggled.

"Don't write that!" Izuru's arm shot at Ben.

"Ma'am, I'm trying to help you. Were you fighting against the Cadians or with?"

"It was… complicated. I don't want to talk about it here."

Ben handed the scribbled-over receipt to Izuru. "Then we'll take our evening elsewhere. Rezin."

"Are you sure? This was your evening. I don't want to ruin it for you."

"Well, if we leave now, we can get there before closing time. First are on me." Ben offered his arm.

"No chance." Izuru seized Ben's wrist and hauled herself up. "I pay for both."

"With Rako or snark?"

"Hah!" Izuru linked her arm through Ben's and prodded him in the side. Ben yelped and squeezed Izuru's wrist.

Arkadiusz Talan Court, Lutufeyo District

Water dripped down the tower's main stairwell, leaving a dirty puddle on the ground floor where rubbish sacks and squashed cardboard boxes were heaped. Mucky footprints followed Joe up the stairs. His soles squeaked. Somewhere, a cat yowled.

Room 554. Joe folded the yellowed Administratum parchment in to eighths. Mould grew in huge patches along the crumbling walls. Plaster fragments littered the landings leading away from the stairs. Lightbulbs hung at wonky angles. Sticky patches coated the uncarpeted floors. A door, broken off its hinges, leaned against a wall.

On the fifth floor, Joe left the stairs and headed along the landing. Wood splintered and Joe's foot dropped through a hole. "Oh, shit—" Joe wrenched his foot free and thrust his arm out and planted his hand on the wall. Thin paper flexed beneath his hand. How old is this place? A fat ball of fur skittered along old skirting boards and squeezed itself in to a hole. A long tail disappeared after it.

"Five-five-four…" Joe stopped by a door smeared in graffiti and thumped on it. A latch clicked and the door squeaked inwards. Joe drew back his arm and looked both ways down the corridor. "Hello?" Joe's fingertips applied pressure on the door. His right hand, deep inside his jacket pocket, clung to a folding knife. "Hello?"

Flies buzzed inside a lavatory just off the hab's short hall. A single shoe lay on its side on a floor strewn with newspaper. Joe lifted his foot off old articles completely covering the hallway floor. Mould had spread beneath peeling wallpaper. Cobwebs dominated the ceiling corners.

Repetitive thumping came from the hab's living area ahead of Joe. Springs creaked. "Hello?" Joe rapped a knuckle on a glazed, screen door. "Hello?" The creaking continued. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. I wondered if he was here. Do you mind if I come in?" Joe pushed on the glazing. "Whoah—!" Joe reeled back from a putrid stench filling the living area. "Mmph, God-Emperor." Hand clamped over his nose, Joe elbowed the door.

A woman, straddling a man on a sunken bed, rocked back and forth on him. Bleached hair hung in thin clumps over her eyes, bruised coated her legs, and sores ringed her mouth. A hand with black fingernails clutched one of her flat, sagging breasts.

"Good evening, Aimo. I didn't realise you were entertaining." Joe stepped around an upturned chair with only one leg. "Been a while."

"Uh?" Sunken, red-ringed eyelids split. Milky spots dotted Aimo Garst's eyes. Grey stubble grew on his jaw and muck darkened his cheeks. "Are you the boz-boz? Are you a boz-boz?"

"No, Aimo, I don't do the skag." Joe swept a half-empty ready meal packet from the room's only intact chair and swung it around and sat down.

"White Diamonds. You got any White Diamonds?"

"I was hoping I could talk to my friend on a personal matter."

The whore sat still. Her mouth dropped. "He still ain't paid me for the last time."

"Don't worry about him now. You find your clothes and we'll see about payment."

"'Ey, where you going?" Aimo's arms flailed. "Did I come by accident? What I do…?"

"You've got me now, Aimo."

Aimo dug his elbow in to the mattress and turned on his side. Chapped lips peeled back from black teeth. "Who the fuck are you? Barging in on me and my girl."

"It's Joe. Josef Herle, Combat Correspondent. Cadia, Aimo?"

The whore fitted the clasps on a pink bra, swivelled it, and tugged the straps over her shoulders. "Rako."

"How much?" Joe fished out his wallet.

"Eighty-nine for this appointment. Two-hundred and four for the last."

Two-hundred and four? Damn it, Aimo. Joe emptied his wallet on to a plastic dinner tray. "That's all I have."

The whore swiped the tray and tipped the Rako inside a gold purse. "You're fifty-one short."

"Aimo, any sticks in the biscuit tin?"

"Fuck you." Aimo squinted at Joe and fumbled with a pair of soiled, holed pants. "Barging in on me and my girl, like that…"

"She's not your girl, Aimo. We're fifty-one Rako short. We need to pay up."

"Errr, shush check the bank." Aimo gripped an iron bed-knob and hobbled across to a sink overflowing with dirty plates, bowls, and mugs. He ran his hands over wall containers. "My, err…"

"Aimo, can you…?" Joe rushed over to Aimo and took him by the shoulders. "Can't see a thing, can you?"

"I'm calling Colom." The whore stuck her head through the neck of a transparent raincape. "This is the last time I'm servicing him if he can't pay his debts."

"Oh, right. Beat on a blind man, would you? He can't see his hand in front of his face!" Joe brought Aimo back over to the bed. A wide, green stain covered the mattress. "Eurgh, stinks! How can you sleep on that?" Joe sat Aimo down and flung a filthy, creased shirt at him. "Here, get dressed."

"You payin' or what?"

"Alright, you let your ponce know the debt stands on me. Gimme a week to scrape the barrel, then send your slab 'round to Rexus Mondict, Two-hundred Sector, Lower Gorev. Room 109. We'll conclude business there."

"Three days." The whore held up three glittering fingers. "Then Colom comes 'round."

"You be on your way now, love."

"You could at least offer me a shower!" The whore flipped open a circular mirror and checked the thick paint plastered to her face. "Skagbrain."

"You be on your way now, love. Mind the floorboards outside." Squatting in front of Aimo, Joe buttoned up Aimo's shirt. His ribs showed through his thin, blotchy skin. The whore slammed the screen door behind her then banged the main door.

"I'm sorry this happened to you." Joe waved his hand in Aimo's face. "Can you see this?"

"Just colours. All blurry. Who are you again?"

"It's Joe from Photo. I covered your unit on Cadia. It was me, you, young Peter, and James that made it off Cadia."

"James, are you here?" Aimo wrenched his body around in the chair. "James…?"

"Aimo, I saw James last week. He's doing well, you'll be pleased to know."

"Are you here, James?"

"He was in Orsolya last week, Aimo." Joe clicked his fingers. "You listening, Aimo? C'mon, there's nothing wrong with your ears."

"I missed you, James."

"No-no, I'm Joe." Joe patted his breast. "I'm Joe. Those new eyes didn't do you so well then."

"Needles in my eyes." Aimo scraped an untrimmed fingernail across his eyelid. "How'd you find me?"

"Got the Administratum to thank for that. Only took me a week of chopping through their red tape—heh-heh."

"Why…?"

"Because James is worried about you, Aimo. And I'm a selfish idiot for not checking in on you sooner. I'm sorry, I've had big problems with the paper recently."

"Eurgh… sorry, I forgot to change the paper out in the hall. I put it down to soak up when I—when I can't reach the toilet."

"No, the newspaper—Chiechen!"

"I never bought Chiechen."

"Aw, forget it!" Joe flipped magazines and cut-outs out of his path. "You got any trousers you can wear?"

"Trousers?" Aimo rolled his neck. "Maybe, I… I may have a pair left. Kinda lost track after last night's sesh."

"Sesh? You weren't lighting up in here, were you? You get seven—eight years for that."

"Err, the lads come 'round. They bring their girls and we gamble and get drunk, y'know all the stuff you can do without wives or kids."

"Speaking of wives or kids…" Joe tossed a pair of olive grey cargo trousers, cut off at the knee, over his arm and brought them over to Aimo. "You know Esme's worried about you."

"Why the fuck she care? I'm not filling her bed, am I?"

"Watch your mouth, Aimo, you're sounding like James now." Joe fed Aimo's black feet through the trousers then slapped his knee. "Come on, lift your arse up."

"Why?"

"I'm taking you down to Vermino."

"Nah, I don't need the hostipal." Aimo jerked the trousers up to his waist and buttoned up.

"Aimo, you're squatting in a hab-block that's about to fall down, on a bed that's had God-Emperor knows what kind of disgusting substance smoked on it, you're in debt and up to lose more than your eyes."

"Nah, I'm keeping him, the old codger." Aimo patted the dark stain surrounding his groin. "Still got plenty of mileage."

"I'm not talking about your dick, Aimo. They'll break your legs and leave you crawling around here, an old cripple." Joe picked up a pair of crusted socks in his thumb and forefinger and threw them at Aimo. "Shoes, Aimo."

"Err, check the front hall."

"If I leave you alone for a second, are you still gonna be here?"

"Ehh…" Aimo burped.

"Swear down the God-Emperor?"

"Cross my arse and hope to…" Black phlegm catapulted from Aimo's mouth. His chest convulsed. He slid off the chair and curled up.

"Aimo? Aimo!" Joe flew to his knees next to Aimo. "Come on, can't be withdrawing now. Not when you've got a guest around."

"F-f-fuck you…" Froth pooled in Aimo's mouth. "You saved my life."

"Yeah, I'm not letting you drive yourself over this cliff, Aimo." Joe worked Aimo's socks over his feet and wiggled a pair of military boots on until Aimo's socks poked out of the torn toecaps. "You're not alone here."

"Urgh, R—Ral?"

"Ral's not with us Aimo. I need you to stand. Can you stand?"

"Peter?"

"Aagh, c'mon." Joe threw Aimo's arm over his shoulders and hoisted him out of the chair. "Uuup you come."

Mucus dribbled down Aimo's chin. "I mi—I missed her birthday."

"Whose birthday?"

"Rica's. She'll be two."

"Aww, got something to look forwards to then." Joe hooked his foot around the screen door and pulled it open.

"I'm a terrible father."

"Aimo, nothing can prepare you for the hell and fury of raising an infant. You and every new father sit in the same boat. All you've gotta do is ride the storm of poop and vomit out. It'll get better."

"I should've been there. They—they didn't understand. We—we—we find each other."

"Okay, you worry about that later. I've got a contact at Vermino. She'll help you out." Joe levered the front door inwards and half-dragged Aimo out on the landing. "Watch your step now."

"D'you know the way?"

"Yeah." Joe gave Aimo's hand a squeeze. "I know the way."

Lower Gorev District, 06:05

Grey light filtered through drawn curtains. A thin, light strip clicked on over a short mirror screwed to the wall above a sink. Ben, clad in vest and shorts, popped a plug in the basin and let both taps run. A wooden plaque on the wall next to the mirror said look to the person beside you and ask yourself, is their faith as strong as yours?

Ben splashed warm water on his face, wetted a towel, and dragged it around his neck. Drops edged down his forehead and clung to his eyebrows. From a small bottle, Ben popped two lozenges and swallowed them with water. He pressed his hand to the small of his back and bent over the basin.

A slim form lay buried beneath the sheets in the room's double-bed. Barefoot, Ben left the bathroom and went over to his greatcoat, hanging by a hook on the door, and felt in the inside pocket. There you are. Book in hand, Ben eased the room's sole chair over to Rezin's side. "Rezin?" Ben clasped his book and perched on the very edge of the chair. "Rezin?"

"That is not my name." Rezin's eyes remained closed. Light caught the tip of her nose. "Rzeznik."

"If I told you I liked Sorensen, would you call me that instead?"

"Mmm, too many syllables."

"How about Ben?" Ben leaned over to Rezin and kissed her cool brow. "Comes easy off the tongue." Ben's lips touched Rezin's.

Rezin pecked Ben back. "You can keep that where it belongs."

"Mm-hm. Thanks for being patient with me, ma'am."

"Ohh, I lost patience with you the minute after we met."

"I tried my best." Ben lifted shoulder-length strands of hair away from Rezin's cheek. "A bad-backed reservist won't be breaking any records."

A white hand slid out from underneath the sheets and touched Ben's knee. "Compassion and the gentle touch. I forgot their existence."

Ben lifted Rezin's maimed hand and kissed the knuckles. "I think we both did."

Rezin withdrew her hand, dug her elbow in to the bed, and propped her head up. "I wondered…"

"Wondered?"

"You're an anachronism, Ben." Rezin's lips split and curled upwards. Her eyes glinted. "A burning beacon of ancient virtue, left behind by your kind millennia ago."

"I…" Ben drew a circle around his kneecap. "My father schooled me by the belt."

Rezin's smile faded. "He knew no other means."

"My father took the military path. My uncle—my mother's brother—took the Administratum path. When I was sore and bleeding, I'd toddle over to my uncle's home, three floors down. My mother told me to go to my uncle so I wouldn't see what my father would do to her."

"How old were you?"

"I was six years' old. To me, that was normal. Took me another eight years to understand." Ben's thumb caressed the cracked book cover. He twisted the book and moved it over to Rezin. "My uncle would read to me from this until I fell asleep."

"Calixor Hereditus Grome and the Seven-headed Serpent of Asokumar. Oh, Ben…"

"She was a great mother." Ben closed the book and set it down on the sheets. "I hope your children enjoy it someday."

"Ben…" Rezin held the sheets to her breast and sat up.

Ben picked his crumpled trousers off the floor and pulled them on. "I'd like to leave in fifteen minutes."

"Why the early rise?"

"Other officers use Sasimo Avenue."

"Other officers?"

"Just one of our dirty, little secrets." Buttoning up, Ben moved to the window and put his eye to a crack in the curtains. "I don't know how you could sleep through all that drama going on out there."

"Drama?" Rezin rolled over on to her front, still gripping the sheets to her body, and plucked her dress and underwear from the floor.

"Did you hear the riots, last night?"

Rezin placed her bare back to Ben and put her feet on the floor. "I had a bad-backed reservist filling my ears with nonsense, all last night." Rezin shot a smirk over her shoulder at Ben.

"Hah!" Ben pulled the curtains tight to his head. Bare feet padded past. "There's hot if you need it."

Ten minutes later, Rezin left the bathroom wearing her stolen dress. The very faint points on her ears poked out of the damp hair clinging to her head. "Do you mind?" Rezin turned, reached behind her, and held on to halves of her dress exposing her bare back.

"Oh, of course." Ben, booted and clothed, sprang from the made-up bed and drew the halves together and fitted the clasps. "Human underwear not for you then?"

"Aha! No. No, it is not…"

"Nothing your size…?" A finger dug in to Ben's side, beneath his ribs. "Aghh!"

"Hah-hah! Scoundrel."

Ben fitted the remaining clasps, all the way up to Rezin's neck. "Do you…?"

"Go on."

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"My name is not for—"

"Now more than ever, your name means everything to me." Ben laid his hands on Rezin's shoulders and moved her around to face him. "You can still have a name, even after they've taken everything else from you."

Rezin's mouth opened, only to give out a croak. "I… I renounced the name my father gave me. The lie he bestowed upon me to ease his conscience."

"Whose do you claim now if you no longer carry your birthname?"

Rezin removed Ben's hands and swiped hair behind her ear. "Last night, you told me of the place beyond our plane of existence, the place the woman sung of." Rezin laid her hand over her heart. "My kin and I are bound to the place beyond our existence, the realm you know as the Warp. All kin harbour psyker tendencies, and for it, we suffer the whispers and murmurings of the entities dwelling in the deep places."

"Can you…?" Ben lifted a slack finger. "Can you hear them now?"

"Ben, listen to me." Rezin's hands rode up Ben's arms. "I gave my lifeforce for others on Cadia, and Cadia is where a part of me shall always remain."

"You're war-worn. Lots of warriors suffer—"

"Ben, my spirit passed through the veil. Body succumbed and was laid to rest within stone. Izuru Numerial died on Cadia."

"Izuru Numerial." Ben shrunk away and pressed his fist to his upper lip. "Izuru Numerial."

"This vessel exists on both planes." Izuru spread her limps arms. "Neither here nor there."

"Izuru, Izuru?" Ben clasped Izuru's hand in his and lifted it. "You are sad and you are lonely. That's when the whispers are loudest, aren't they?" Ben parted his hands and kissed Izuru's fingers. "When you are unhappy."

Izuru flung her arm around Ben and buried her cheek in his shoulder. "Blood flows where I walk. Grass withers and trees rot. This vessel brings nought but destruction."

"With irrepressible snark too?"

"Ohh…" Izuru rubbed Ben's back. "I know I am regarded as fair to your kind but within me resides the foulest temperament. When it awakens, I…"

"Is that your excuse for your antics between the sheets?"

"Ben!" Izuru clenched her fist and tapped it against Ben's stomach.

"Umph!" Ben's chest shook. He cupped Izuru's jaw and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Remind me of last night."

"Ma'am." Ben's mouth caught Izuru's stayed there. Izuru tilted her head and gripped Ben's neck. Ben dropped the book on the bed, slid his hand over the curve of Izuru's hip, and brought his body against Izuru's.

Maretuka Naval Base, Imperial Guard Quarter

The clattering of knives and forks and clink of cups filled the Sergeants' Mess. Sergeants, staff sergeants, colour sergeants, and warrant officers of both classes packed the benches around me. All were in their mid-twenties or older, all the way up to a fifty-something regimental sergeant major sitting alone.

Pineapple juice disintegrated the dry cereal flakes I chewed up in my mouth, leaving a stickiness in my throat. Black granules languished in a mug next to my tray. A fly skipped on to the back of my hand. I curled my forefinger and flicked it away.

"Sarn't Larn?" The Duty Sergeant tapped my shoulder. "Call for you."

I gave the Duty Sergeant a nod and carried my tray over to the hatch and left it there. Wiping the corners of my mouth with a tissue, I followed the Duty Sergeant out of the mess and went with him over to the admin department controlling the day-to-day operations of the Guard personnel housed on-base. Inside the offices, clerks and signallers manned cogitators and word-processors. Printers whirred, coughing out sheets. Smoke rose from ashtrays.

"The call came through to my machine, I can route it to the one out in the corridor if you want some privacy."

"Yeah. Ta." I left the offices and approached a lone Public Service Unit screwed to the wall. A green light blinked and it gave off a grating screech. I picked up the receiver and pressed Accept. "Sarn't Larn speaking."

"James? James!"

"Joe, is that you? What you calling the Duty Sarn't for?"

"Fuck me, if I'm transferred around again…"

"Eh-heh." I scratched my nose. "Yeah, we're on an unsecure line 'ere, Joe."

"Sorry. I've been ridden 'round the house for three quarters of an hour trying to reach you."

"Yeah? Better be some good news. I've just had the worst brew the Crotch could've boiled for me."

"I've heard the tea's not great in the Crotch. The Navy however…"

"Hah! The Navy, says he. Goodbye, Joe." I moved the receiver away from my ear.

"Er, hold on! James, you there?"

"I'm 'ere. Nah, coffee it was. Tasted like cigarettes."

"I thought you smoked…"

"Bit of an on-off relationship. I'm being a good boy, though. Got 'alf a dozen spread out across the week."

"You know, they do patches for that. Little plasters you wear on your arm. Sorts the craving out."

"So, you're a street-pusher now, Joe? Hahaha."

"Oh, when push comes to shove, I'll happily shove one up your arse."

"Tell me in bed, darling."

"Ha-ha-ha! Stop, stop, I've gotta blow my nose."

"Heh-heh." I switched the receiver to my left ear and stole a look both ways down the corridor. They'll have a field day listening to this.

"James, I found Aimo."

"Aw, lekker, Joe."

"Letter?"

"Lekker. Number one, Joe. Y'understand that, dontcha?"

"Where'd you learn that?"

"Bito' poetry I picked up in Espi. Military lingo's all poetry. Prison lingo's no different. Anyway, how is Aimo?"

"Bad, James."

"How bad?"

"I found him in a drug-addled shithouse bonking a whore carrying Emperor-knows how many diseases. Stunk to blazes and tripping his head off. He's pretty much blind. Those replacement eyes did bugger-all for him."

"You got him out though…?"

"Yeah, Aimo's at Vermino Hospital in Elek."

"Where's that?" I ripped a palm-sized piece of notepaper from a pad and pulled a pen from where it was lodged in an orifice.

"Still Orsolya. It's east of Gorev so cleaner air. When is it you can come down?"

"Hold on, what about his family?"

"They came at half six, this morning. Aimo was unconscious then."

"Who came? Wife, child? He's got a little one, hasn't he?"

"The wife and her partner came. The wife stayed most of the morning. Her partner had to go to work, I think."

"Partner?"

"Yeah. Mrs Garst's lay-in."

"Son of a bitch don't deserve her. Have they any idea what Aimo gave for them? What all of us gave."

"I know, I know. They don't understand. My girlfriend doesn't either."

"Sort of tells you who your mates are, don't it?" My chest shook. "Erm…" I dug a tissue from my pocket and blew my nose.

"Please come down. Aimo needs you."

"I want to come down."

"Please come down, James."

"I want to come down. Earliest I can do is two weeks. Two weeks, I'll be there. I'll be there, Boet."

"Do I need to ask—?"

"No. You know what it means. You're still my favourite combat correspondent."

"Thanks, James. He'll be overjoyed when I tell him you're coming."

"I'll be there." I set the receiver down and tipped my head. My shaking hand dabbed the tissue at my nose.

Frost sparkled on the wedge-shaped roofs of Tuka's blocky buildings. Drowned in dull, Navy grey, the smooth-faced complexes offered no windows, only blast shutters and a layered, bunker door bearing two bold numbers and single letter printed in white. Heavy-calibre gun barrels protruded over the parapet of anti-aircraft bastions towering above the other buildings. Guard personnel in greatcoats, woolley-pulleys, and fur caps kept to a one-way system on the streets leading between buildings. Weighed down in my padded winter jacket, I trudged along behind a herd of officers, all major or higher, yacking on without reserve.

PDF in body armour and ballistic covers guarded a double fence separating the Guard quarter with the Navy quarter. Cyberhounds and their handlers patrolled the gap between the humming fences. Once the staff officers had crossed to the other side, I handed my ID over to the Corporal of the Guard. The corporal buzzed me through and handed the ID back through the open window.

Naval personnel, swollen in parkas and greatcoats, filled the avenues on the other side of the wire. Lifeless trees sagged in ferrocrete troughs. Frost-covered Servo-skulls zipped through the crowds. Incoherent voices boomed from loudspeakers. Turbojets screamed and a thunderclap burrowed in to my ears.

Officers gathered in a queue before a banking outlet and exchanged Rako and off-world currency for Military Credit. I tacked on to the tail-end and stuffed my bare hands in my trouser pockets and tucked my chin inside the jacket's puffy collar. A Servo-skull flitted over to me and shone a red light in my eye. I squinted at the jawless skull and launched spit on the frosty ground. Horrible things.

Weak, green light came from the curving monitor embedded in the wall. Blocky, yellow letters blinked onscreen. Please insert your B2-601. I fed my ID in to the slot. Standby. Please select the amount you wish to withdraw. Smears coated the ten keys surrounding the monitor. I curled my finger and tapped the keys with my knuckle and pressed Confirm.

Hello James.

No. I tapped Cancel. No! I jabbed at the Cancel button.

Allow me. Oblong chits, all white and devoid of marking, sprayed the trough.

"Lusia!" I punched the hatch in and crammed my trouser pockets with Milcred. "Ye bloody renegade."

Black squares arranged themselves in to a face onscreen. It smiled at me. Look behind you. The Servo-skull hovered there. Care for a wet?

I stabbed Confirm and the face faded. Care for a wet! Somebody's been converted. I thumbed my collar up and turned in to the wind. The Servo-skull bobbed along ahead of me, cutting a snaking path through the wind. A figure in a hooded, AdMech cloak huddled in a covered pathway circuiting an older, brick-built annex bulging from a sloped, military building tipped with huge dishes. The AdMech held a covered cup in one hand. Black paint glittered on fingernails.

"James." Lusia spun towards me and opened her arms. Liquid seeped from the lid. I turned my shoulder at Lusia and jerked away. "Oh, sorry. I'm a hug person—haha!" Lusia brought the cup to her lips and sucked on the leaking lid.

"You're not an orthodox follower, are you?" I hopped up on to a low wall and wiggled my backside over the cold brick. "Most people catch the grey and go all wrinkly. Now, 'ere you are, heading the other way…"

"Hmm, a compliment?" Lusia popped the cup on the wall. "Never in my centuries have I ever…"

"C'mon, you don't look over thirty." Numbness spread through my buttocks. I pushed off and hitched up my trousers. "Techno-witch."

"Ah-hah!" Lusia's thick lips split. White teeth shone. "I, er… I know something most don't."

"Is it gonna take more than ten minutes?" I whisked my cuff away from my chrono. "I've got an appointment with a Navy shrink. S'why I'm over 'ere."

"Mm—" Lusia picked up her cup and sipped. "Bimble?"

"Been picking up some of the local dialect, have you?" My nose wrinkled. I dug a cigarette out and blew on the filter. "Fancy a wet! Only the Navy calls tea that."

"Uh-huh. Love the Guardsman wit." Lusia edged away from the quivering flame on my lighter. "Are you…?"

"Aw, fine." I blew the flame out and put the lighter and fag away. "Coming?"

Four-tonne Hennus lorries flowed beneath a footbridge swathed in wire panels. Their rumbling sent a buzz through the mesh. A sign by the top of the steps read: Use other bridge for suicides.

"Commit suicide, your family falls under the prosecution case." Lusia tipped her cup up and drained the last dregs. "Not even past death does duty end."

"Even in death, they still find a way to fuck you." I snapped off a salute at a pair of passing officers. The senior of the two, a major, returned it without looking at either of us. "I hated being one of them, Lusia, I hated it. Not being human."

"How does coming back to the human race feel then?" Lusia's hood whipped in my direction. She flashed a grin.

"Not in the mood." I turned down the steps descending to ground level.

"Did you hear the story about the spigot and the Guardsman's trousers?" Lusia trotted down the steps beside me, swinging her arms.

"I'm not in the mood."

"You'll hear it, mister, whether you want to or not. I was once a steerer on a project called Veslor, and we were looking at mounting spigot mortars on ramparts as a counter-siege weapon—pop!" Lusia's finger arced through the air. "Eeeeouuw."

"Hunh, okay."

"So, our tester is manning the spigot, and as he fires, the recoil slams down against the floorboards and the force rips his trousers and underwear off and flings him over the wall backwards—oh-hoh!" Lusia thrust her neck out, her mouth wide open. "Ahh—hee—he had a hell of a time explaining to the Munitorum rep there. The only weapon capable of blowing a man's trousers off!"

"Heh. Kinda redundant though, innit?"

"You would say that, wouldn't you?" Lusia wiped at an eye. "Still makes me laugh almost as hard as seeing you fleshsacks praying to your toasters."

"One of us now though, aren't ya?"

"Only ju-ust…" Lusia peeled her jumper's sleeve back. The green cuff dragged over a spiked bracelet and revealed a circular jack in Lusia's arm. The two of us fell silent on the way through a Bootneck checkpoint.

"Don't it piss 'em off?" I said once clear of the Bootnecks.

"Piss who off, the armsmen?" Lusia split her cup and lid and dumped them in a recycle bin and a waste bin.

"The machine spirits."

"What, the scrapcode?" Lusia sucked on the base of her thumb.

"Uh, whassat?"

"I know something most don't."

"You've got that smirk on again. Should I be heading for the hills?"

"Haha! Safe travels…"

"Nah, seriously. What's this scrapcode?"

"D'you want the shorthand or the long?"

"Can it be summed up in a sentence?"

"Mm—mm."

"A word?"

"Mmm…"

"A sound?"

"Wuaargh."

"Tss-hur-hur." I brought my hand up to my nose. "Er-heh, okay." Lusia caught my eye, a lopsided grin in place. "So, about the cadets' rifles…"

"What about the cadets' rifles…?"

"Old bolt-actions wi' socket-type bayonets. These blades sit inside their sockets beneath the bore. You unscrew 'em, flip 'em over, and fix your bayonet in place. Now, what happens when you match a housed bayonet on one gun with an empty socket of another?"

"Err…" Lusia's pink cheeks bulged. Air shot from her mouth. "You've touched tips—ahahaha!"

"Lip-lock! The training lance took one look at these two idiots, brought the corporal over, he took it to the sergeant and it went all the way up to the armourer. Shoulda seen his face. Hopping mad, screaming, shouting—heh! Worst thing was, you couldn't pull the two guns apart, they were jammed solid! Completely number-sixed."

"Eh-heh…" Lusia blew her nose in a tissue. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"Nah, God no. I was a good boy. The Crotch hadn't corrupted me yet."

"Aww, don't do yourself down. Beat still, your heart does. B'dum, b'dum."

Naval personnel queued in front of an open blast door guarded by armsmen. I latched on to the queue and felt inside my jacket for my ID. "You coming in too?"

"No. No, no, I'm taking a discussion in a bit. Historiography."

"History…?"

"It's teaching you how to write history. I can talk until I'm blue in the face—don't get me started!" The queue moved forwards. Others fell in behind Lusia and me.

"You're a warm bundle of cheer, Lusia. Thanks for the laugh."

"Hmm, that was a really funny story, James. Made me laugh too."

"Why has everyone got to be so grey all the time, uh? It's misery 'round the clock on everyone's faces."

"Good job I'm around then." Lusia stuck her fist out to me. I balled my own fist and thumped it against Lusia's knuckles.

"Agh!" Lusia yanked her hand away and flapped it, grinning. "Bloody hell, James."

"That's the sweary adept I know. Keep telling jokes, yeah?"

"And you."

Bootneck sentries swiped my ID and admitted me inside Annex C05; the Officio Medicae's primary outlet at Tuka. Inside the main hall, green plants with spiky leaves exploded from pots. White-painted walls shone. Twin serpents encircled a stave tipped with the Imperial Aquila; the symbol of the Medicae. Brown smears dirtied the reflective floor. Navy and Guard personnel sat on couches at the sides of the hall. At the far end, curving, bullet-resistant partitions protected the Medicae reception. I took an empty seat on the end of a couch and dumped my jacket on the arm.

"6820-Larn. 6820-Larn to sub-level two, 457-Bauscher."

I lifted my head up from the arm and rolled my neck. Not a single person in the hall had moved. All had stayed awake.

"6820-Larn. 6820-Larn to sub-level two, 457-Bauscher."

My coat over my arm, I crossed the floor to the reception. "I'm—I'm Larn."

Behind the glass, a shaven-headed man in blue robes spoke in to a vox horn circling his neck. "6820-Larn to sub-level two, 457-Bauscher. The Emperor protects."

Bald drones surrounded me inside a lift. A thin needle crept down from Ground, to Sub-level 1, to Sub-level 2. Body odour reeked. A fly danced across a bony neck. Bloody zealots. Don't they know how to wash? I threw my shoulder through the widening doors and rushed away from the packed lift. Nameplates hugged the walls beside sliding doors. My eyes flew between plates on both sides of the corridor. Bauscher. I pressed the call button beside Bauscher's door. A locking mechanism spun and the door split down the centre. I took off my beret and tucked it through my shoulder tab.

"Lieutenant." A woman sat in front of a desk-mounted cogitator. Behind her, tiny aquarian life swam in a water tank.

"I'm not a—"

Seroni Bukharin pushed her chair away from the cogitator and spun to face me. She wore the same grey, squares-pattern uniform I did and had her hair in a tight bun, looking far more Naval officer than mercenary. "Doesn't appear that you are…"

"Ma'am." My boots snapped together.

"Huh!" Seroni snorted. "Are you taking the piss?"

"I didn't—I didn't… I—I had no idea, ma'am."

"Of course, you didn't. Come on, stand at ease. I'm not your OC."

"You're an officer, ma'am. I'm not."

"I'm also not Hanin Bauscher." Seroni flicked over the name plaque on her desk. "In case you wondered what the H stood for."

"Hoped it was Hardcore, to be honest, ma'am."

"Hah!" Seroni scratched at her ear and moved side to side on her chair. "Oh, stow the ma'am bullshit too. I pulled your appointment."

"Why?"

"Do you want to sit?" Seroni moved a bowl of nuts across her desk.

"Err…" I waved the bowl away.

"Sorry. Are you allergic?"

"Naw, just don't like eatin' out of a superior's hand, is all. Makes me worry I'm slidin' in to your pocket, Commander."

"Sorge…?"

"Still Sorge, yeah."

"He's had you all this time?"

"I done nick-time. Just under two years for annoying him. Weren't convinced I did the wrong thing though. I wanted to save lives, not toss them out of airlocks like our dear, old commander."

"James…" Seroni's fingernails tapped the table's surface. "Can I call you James?"

"Mm, sure."

"Hanin Bauscher is the consequence of my testimonial against Sorge and the Obrist. I'm guessing Sorge didn't let that out…?"

My fingers dug in to the creaking arms of the chair. "You testified against your own commanding officer? That's a death sentence!"

"I wasn't bound by Imperial Guard or Navy regulations—I could damn-well do what I pleased." Seroni tilted her chair backwards and turned in a slow circle. "The case was dismissed due to lack of evidence, lack of witnesses."

"Er, I could have—"

"—Not from prison."

"No, no, no, I had evidence somewhere. I—I—I recorded it on a—a voice capturing thing. A Cyvox!" I clicked my fingers again and again. "It belonged to—"

"—Trabant Ulman?"

"And he's…?"

"My last contact in Urgraf."

"So, why didn't he bring the recording forward?"

Seroni picked at her nails. "Loyalty. They're a family, James."

"You're talking 'bout loyalty, Commander Hanin Bauscher."

"The Obrist doesn't take betrayal with measured understanding."

"I know. My friend lost someone close to her 'cause the Obrist wouldn't let go. Now, Urgraf's roaming Orsolya with their list of names. They whack anybody on it, military or civvie."

"How are those bridges coming along, James? Remember two years ago, I asked you to build bridges?"

"Burned 'em. I burned them all."

"Angry, still?"

"Down with the melancholia."

"And what's brought you down?"

I pulled one foot up and tucked it under me. It began jiggling. "Can I call you Seroni?"

"I think we did agree on that one…"

"Er, yeah." I brushed my fingernail down the side of my nose. "Seroni, I don't think there's enough love in the world. I mean, I come out of Espi and there's people locked in cages – just people."

"Criminals?"

"D'you know that?"

"No, I speculated."

"Can we leave speculation?"

"Alright. Can I ask a question then?"

"Yeah, go on."

"Those you're close to. Any contact with them?"

"Joe."

"How was he?"

"Poor shape. Sorge has him in his pocket."

"Anyone else?"

"Aimo."

"How is he?"

"Worse. I—I'm done talking about that."

"What about your own family?"

"My—my own family?"

"You've not sent a message to them?"

"…How? How do I do that?"

"The Adeptus Mechanicus has machines for broadcasting long-range communiqués. You'll need to book a slot to use a machine. Give maybe a week in advance. It'll allow you to send a message out. Give a few weeks for a reply. It's distant-dependant and also dependant on Warp currents."

"I—I dunno…"

"Let them know you're alright?"

"Well… I don't want 'em all worried-like. If they've made their peace…"

"And if not?" A telecommunicator on Seroni's desk buzzed.

"D'you want me to…?" I stuck a thumb over my shoulder.

"No, no." Seroni picked up the receiver. "457-Bauscher speaking."

I propped my elbow on the arm of the chair and scratched at an old scar on the side of my head. Lusia could. Could she?

"Direct from the Chirurgeon General? I see. No, I'm not doubting him. Well, I've never had one happen in my lifetime. Er, what does happen anyway?"

Wheels squeaked beneath me. I got up and went around to the tank. Bloated, striped animals spilled from a wrecked ship embedded in the shingle. A fatter, spotty animal drifted. Spikes lengthened. My fingers danced across the glass. A solitary animal, dull blue, flitted over and followed my hand.

"Thanks. I'll mark it in my calendar." Seroni wedged the receiver between her shoulder and ear and reached for her keyboard. "Yes, you too. The Emperor protects." Seroni's door buzzed. She replaced the receiver and hit a button beneath her desk. "Come in!"

"Hanin!" A Medicae officer rolled in carrying a corked bottle. "Never—never in our lifetime!"

"Praise the God-Emperor and pass the tumblers!" Another officer came in clutching glasses. "A crusade! A crusade!"

"Ma'am." I seated my beret and picked up my jacket. "Thank you for your time."

"Sergeant?" Seroni unlocked a drawer, reached inside, and brought out two glasses.

"Ma'am?"

"Send that message." Seroni smiled at me. "That's an order."

"Ma'am."

More Medicae staff poured in to Seroni's office, laughing and bearing bottles and accompanying tumblers. A cork popped behind me. The subsequent cheer pursued me out of the office and all the way down the corridor.

INI HQ, Elek District

Crusade Indomitus! The headline, covering two-thirds of the Imperator Victrix's front page, shouted up at Richard Sorge from his office desk.

"D'you think this could be a recruitment drive, Richard?" Innes Barakat took a sip from a mug balancing on his knee.

"Don't know what to think, to be honest, Innes." Sorge sipped from his own mug. "Indomitus Crusade…"

"What happens?"

"Hm?"

"What happens? Does this mean a change in our mission? I've never had a crusade kick off in my lifetime."

"None of us have."

"We should think of our own people. What this will mean for them."

"Let's stay within our own bubbles for now, Innes. The admiral will likely head an O-group tomorrow morning. We'll find out our new mission parameters then."

"Ah, yes, sorry to change the subject, Richard. Varna is back on-world and I wondered whether you'd like to accompany us to dinner, this evening?"

"So kind of you to offer, Innes. I must prepare the orders for tomorrow. Speeches must be made to the troops too!"

"Yes, yes of course."

"Give Varna my best, won't you?"

"Oh, course, of course!"

"Nicer when it's just the two of you. Forget you've got a boss like me—haha!"

"Yes, very good, Richard. Many thanks for the brew-up. I know I shan't be sleeping a wink tonight now."

"Well, Varna-dependant, I'd assume." Sorge tapped his nose.

"Ah-hahaha!" Barakat took his cap and spun it on his fingertip. "And now floweth the sacra."

"Goodnight, Innes."

"Goodnight, Richard."

Sorge let Barakat's footsteps recede before he opened his intercom. "Lidia, is Lieutenant Vantorout in his office?"

"Sir, Lieutenant Vantorout is still in his office."

"And Lieutenant Commander Barakat. Let me know when he clocks out."

"Sir. Lieutenant Commander Barakat has just entered the lift. He will clock out in approximately forty-five seconds—now."

"Thank you, Lidia. In forty seconds, I'd like you to run off two copies of the Vantorout file. Keep one in your Classified file and bring the other to me."

"Sir."

Lidia knocked on Sorge's door and entered holding three sheets of green paper. "Sir, the Vantorout file, as requested."

"Thank you, Lidia. I'd like Serge to deliver my car to the boneyard in Lutu, and ask them to prepare a squad for my arrival too. I'll see you in the morning for the Orders Group. Goodnight."

"Sir, goodnight." Lidia stepped outside and closed the door.

Ah, Ben. Sorge wet a finger and parted the sheets. Been making good use of 453 Avenue Sasimo, I see. Now, what have you to say in your defence?

Sorge hung around in the unlit main corridor on Third, keeping an eye on the thin crack of light beneath Ben's door. At just gone eight, the office door opened and Ben stepped out carrying his greatcoat and wearing a shoulder bag. Sorge backed around the corner and retreated up the stairwell to Fourth. A lock snicked. Soles slapped the polished floor and passed the lift by.

He always takes the lift. Sorge tiptoed down to the corner and peered around. Ben's feet clapped away down the stairs. Damn it. Sorge tapped the button. Come on, you old thing. The lift rumbled down to Third and clunked open. Sorge slipped inside and hammered the ground floor button.

Ben's back had just slipped out of the door by the time the lift doors opened on the ground floor. Don't make me run, boy. Sorge's fingers settled on the clasp of his holster and popped it. He caught up with Ben at the motor pool. Ben's door stood open and his bag lay on the passenger's side.

"Still working late, my lad?" Sorge rested his arm on the roof and leaned down. "Never seen such fine work ethic."

"Oh, yes, sir." Ben twisted the dial for his onboard heater. "Took me by surprise, this crusade business. I suppose it's only going to get busier now."

"Absolutely. We'll all be seeing the admiral, first-thing tomorrow. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." Ben reached for his door handle. Sorge thrust his knee out.

"Ben, my car appears to have developed faults again. Be a good chap and make room for me, would you?"

"Er, of course, sir." Ben slung his bag and coat in the back.

"First class." Sorge hopped in to the passenger's seat and shut his door. "Don't mind if I crank the heater up a little. I'm losing my toes."

The Siluvi bumped out of INI's compound and rolled through the construction site. "Turn right, up here, Ben," Sorge said.

"Sir." Ben turned on to a two-lane road and accelerated east towards Lutu.

"Tell me about 453 Avenue Sasimo."

"453. Do you mean the hotel, sir? I thought everybody in the building knew about it."

"Answer please, Ben."

"I know it."

"Yes?"

"I've used it."

"As have many with the Emperor's Commission."

"Oh, sir, if I've overstepped—"

"Ben, your conduct thus far has been befitting an officer of his Imperial Majesty's Naval Intelligence Division."

"Befitting?! I've cheated on my wife with a—"

"Er, keep left here. With a…?"

"With a—a…" Ben swallowed. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "With a—a female xenos, sir."

"And does she love you?"

"God-Emperor, could you tell? We made love, we laughed, we cried, I—I—I don't know how else to spin it. She's sad, she's lonely, and she's battle-worn."

"Battle-worn is an invention of the abhuman and the corrupted."

"I think you're wrong, sir."

"Xenos do not suffer the mental degradation our minds fall prey to. What they do, is lie."

"Sir, she's of confused heritage."

"What on Grukan does that mean?"

"Mixed blood—her—her Eldar lineage distorted by interspecies breeding. Something like that, sir. I didn't want to press her. Not after her ordeal in Lutu."

"I do."

"Do what, sir?"

"I do want you to press her, to squeeze every last little morsel out of that slant-eared body and rinse her dry."

"Sir, I don't think you understand—"

"Ben, she entered your bed because I allowed it."

"And when she fell in to my lap, that morning, did you allow that too, sir?"

"We exploit. We consolidate and we apply. If I have to apply you, to bed her, to wean intelligence then I am happy to let your old chap do the rest of the work."

"Sir, she'll kill me if she suspects subterfuge. The Lutu murders I read about. It was her."

"We are aware."

"I'm not sure I want to continue, sir. I'd prefer regular duties over this spying nonsense."

"See the turn-off for the boneyard? Take it."

"Sir." Ben clicked his indicator.

"You're going to stay. You're going to keep laughing and crying with your new mistress until we tell you to stop. Your clandestine meetings shall proceed as planned. Wine her, dine her, make love to her night and day. That is an order, Lieutenant."

Deep inside Lutufeyo, steep refuse mountains walled the Siluvi in. Curving claws on the end of articulated arms dug in to the peaks and ripped streaming chunks away. Giant caterpillar tracks ground rubbish in to dust.

"Turn right here, Ben."

Spotlights mounted on four-wheeled carriages bathed a tall, earthen bank in white light. Twelve figures in bright blue fatigues stood before a trench dug beneath the bank. Dried blood and bruises covered bowed, shaven heads. Armsmen formed a firing line outside the searchlights' radius.

"Engine off, Ben." Ben killed the engine and removed the keys. "Keys." Sorge pocketed Ben's keys and opened his door. "Outside."

Worn-in stone crunched underneath the officers' shoes. Machinery roared in the distance. Sorge brought a bright red cloth from his breast pocket and passed it to Ben. Ben's wary eyes fell on the cloth. "Who are they?"

"The men await your order."

"What did they do?"

"You are the commander now." Sorge shoved the cloth in to Ben's hand and closed his fingers around it. "Loud and clear instructions. No emotion, no hesitation."

Ben opened his hand. The cloth fluttered to the ground. Sorge stooped and beat dirt from the cloth. "Corporal of the Guard?"

"Sir!" An Armsman pivoted, marched over, and saluted.

"Bring the trolley."

"Sir!" The corporal slapped two men on the shoulder and bounded away from the firing line.

"Let's just…" Sorge took Ben by the arm and walked him back towards the Siluvi. "I am happy to let this melding of foreign flesh proceed as long it is in the Bureau's best interests. Give her your all and send her words to me, however frugal their significance." Sorge let go of Ben's arm and faced him squarely. "Do you want to go where young James went?"

"Oh, you knew. You knew!"

"Course I bloody knew—I put him there for his own good!" Sorge jabbed his thumb at his chest.

"Is this how we treat our veterans?"

"Not one word on veterans, when you—" Sorge flung the halves of Ben's greatcoat apart, exposing the breast bare of ribbon. "Have never even set foot in the field. How dare you speak of veterans!"

Wheels squeaked. The three Armsmen dragged a twenty-millimetre autocannon fitted to a carriage past Sorge and Ben.

"Your conduct as an officer is disgraceful." Ben buttoned his greatcoat. "I'm ashamed that you think this is acceptable."

Sorge balled the red cloth and thrust it at Ben's chest. Sorge fell in behind Ben and walked behind him up to the firing line. A flared muzzle pointed at the prisoners. An Armsman sat in the gunner's seat and gripped the traverse and elevation wheels. Another Armsman fitted a box of cartridges in to the chunky receiver and nodded at the corporal. The corporal trotted over to Sorge and saluted.

"The lieutenant commands here." Sorge backed up a step.

"Sir." The corporal directed his salute at Ben. "Flak detachment ready."

Ben returned the salute and brought the cloth up to his breast. The corporal about-faced and marched back to the autocannon. Sorge leaned over to Ben's shoulder. "I'll know if you look away."

Ben's shaking hand lifted the cloth to head-height and let it fly. Sorge twisted two plugs in to his ears and laid his hand on his holstered Kondrat. Dust swept across the stooped figures. The gunner placed his eye-lense to the sight. The cloth whipped downward and Ben stuffed his fingers in his ears.

The gunner depressed the pedal. Thunderclaps punched at Sorge's heart and jarred his teeth. Steaming shell casings spat from the weapon. Cracks echoed around the boneyard. The gunner worked the traverse, the seat shaking beneath him. Sorge's eyes flicked over to Ben. Ben's jaw was stretched to its widest, pulling his lips away from his teeth. His eyes, nothing more than slits, wept.

Propellant curled from the autocannon's muzzle. Thick, pink vapor gathered around the bank. Tiny white scraps fluttered in the air. The gunner lifted his foot and removed his eye from the sight. Shining brass piled at Ben's feet. Sorge gave a nod to the corporal and dug in to his pocket and brought out a box of cigars.

The firing line advanced to the trench, their boots squelching. Lasgun muzzles lowered and sprayed the trench, working up and down. Sorge lit a gold-banded cigar, clamped it between his teeth, and passed another to Ben. Ben's limp fingers took the cigar and raised it to his mouth. Sorge held his hand around the dancing flame and lit Ben's cigar.

Sorge's own Siluvi idled beside Ben's car. Sporadic lasfire split the night air. Sorge unlocked Ben's car, brought his bag out, opened it on the bonnet, and removed the three-page file. He clicked a pen and passed it to Ben. Ben's cigar drooped. His glazed eyes passed through the dotted line at the foot of the sheet and he left a vague scribble there. Sorge replaced the file, snapped his bag shut, and got inside the back seat of his car. The hunched-over figure in grey receded in the rear window until only the glowing end of the cigar remained. The pinprick then fell and died.