(I) - The Mad Game

by PhantomStag458

A continuation of the novel Fifteen Hours, detailing the frontline experiences of a young soldier named Larn. During his tour across the Imperium and his struggle to keep his body and mind whole, he finds that not everything is as clear cut as good against evil. Consequently, the lines between friend and foe slowly begin to blur.

6. Chapter 6

Officio Medicae Transport, Lysades Subsector, Gothic Sector

"Stickies," I rasped. "They called them stickies."

Twice I had awoken with my skin burning and my head throbbing. Lips, cheeks, nose, and brows; all felt sore and puffy. Awakening gave me reprieve from the yammering, cackling xenos and the pair of gold eyes, slits, glowing in the darkness.

"Why?"

"I dunno." I rested the back of my hand on my forehead. "Too hot…"

"Eldar, wasn't it? S'what it says in the Primer."

"I don't know, Art, do I?"

"S'posed to look like us, I thought. Got pointy ears, like."

"Dunno, I didn't look."

"I… thought their women were s'posed to be all pretty too."

"They had guns, Art. They were shooting at us." I let out a long sigh after keeping my breath held. "Aw, that's enough. I'm done crying." Two sticky rivers, long-dried and staining my cheeks, I wiped clean with my thumb.

"D'you want to kill them all?"

"Number one."

"What's this number one thing, then?"

"Number one, this is good. Number ten. This is bad," I droned. "I'm keeping my body the way the Crotch issued it to me. They can kill me but they can't eat me. Lifers bend over and we eat the shit flowing from their pink arses. They think they can blag the war and sit it out while we get wasted for the Emperor. Dying is grunt's business and business is booming."

"Heh, maybe skip on going hand-to-hand with four-tonners, pal." Art chortled.

"So, you gonna tell me where I am… was? 'Cause I 'aven't got a clue."

"Platis. Right shithole called Platis Five, somewhere in the western end of the Gothic Sector. Can't remember what subsector. Couldn't give a shit, honestly. You said you were on Bastille or somewhere?"

"Dunno where that was either. One in a million cock-up and I'm stranded on a warty slagheap of a world with my company blown away around me."

"TS. Tough shit, pal. Sorry about your mates and all but… you know people get hurt out here. It's bound to happen sooner or later."

"You're talking like me dad now, Art. A guardsman never returns, so he says." I scrunched up the hem of my jacket. "Reckon I'm gonna make it. I put my time in, so I did. I'm – I'm gonna move on. I'll try to move on. Not weak if I need a hand holding me up, is it?"

"Nah, no way. Number ten… uhh, number one." Art snapped his fingers. "I'll get the hang of it soon. Just hope we're going the same way as the Lairs."

"Lairs?"

"Alderian Light Air Defence Regiment. I'm a gunner. What unit you say you were again?"

"Jumael Fourteenth Volunteers. I'm a draftee that got drafted by a board of lifers who got drafted by the lifers that run the war for fun and profit."

"What's this lifer thing then?"

I dragged both hands down my face, pinching the bulbous, cherry-red tip of my nose between them. "Head's killing me. Um… lifers are in love with authority and abuse it to no end. Officers are lifers mostly. Lotta noncoms too, least the rear-echelon cogitator-commandos are. Uhh… they're just cunts generally. Don't give a shit about the grunts doing the dirty. You're not a lifer, are you? Or a rear-echelon toss-arse desk-driver?"

"I tell you, James, the Lairs haven't had a pom-pom to peddle 'round for the last four weeks. Four-gun battery, yeah? We had barrel ruptures, the trains severing, or just plain running out of ammo. We've been honorary grunts. I got my special parting gift from Rankor Legion scumbags. Now I'm here. Just hope the rest of the battery got off Platis okay. What a mess."

"Kinda like the officers didn't care, eh?"

"Oh, there weren't officers on the line."

"What was you doing on Platis anyway?"

"I dunno. We just go where we're told. Wars are run by sergeants; didn't you know that?"

"Oh yeah." I nodded. "Proper leaders. Just let the officers push their little toys round the map. We'll handle things in the combat zone."

"The bondo."

"Uh?"

"The bondo; slang for combat zone."

"Hurgh. Learn something new every day, I guess."

"Oi, speaking of doing the dirty. You got a girlfriend?"

"Nah, not me. No chance."

"Good thing that. I need a wingman when we swing off on leave."

"Hold on, I'm not in your regiment."

"Well, how 'bout becoming an honorary gunner then. What else are you gonna do?"

"Am I going to get a choice, 'ere?"

"Nah." Art snorted. "You signed that away when you filled that dotted line in."

"Didn't have a choice in that, either. Got drafted, remember?"

"Aw, just take the plunge. Them stickies aren't gonna come for you in the night now you're here."

Two women, both loathing one another. One with gold eyes, one with purple. They were arguing about what to do with us.

"Trust me, mate, I'd sooner hug Mister Green than try and get off with a stickie. Not that I'm for that anyway."

"Ha-ha." Art grinned toothily. "You did go hand-to-hand with one though, didn't ya? An Ork, I mean."

"He – he – he was chasing me round a pit, I'm…" I pressed a hand to my taught gut. "Thinking back on it… I don't like it. Let's not go there, uh?"

"Sorry." Art shifted his good arm behind his head. "Got some good blokes on the batt. They'll like you. James?"

"…Oh sorry, Art, I blacked out there."

"You've not got a concussion, have you?"

"Urgh, you tell me."

"They'll sort you out, pal. Don't worry." A dull clang beneath us shook the entirety of the ship. A second, louder gong had the deck vibrate beneath us. "Just us docking," Art muttered.

"Yeah, but where?"

"Long as it's not Platis…"

The wail of a klaxon split the silence in the hold. A thin strip of white light appeared near the ceiling as the boarding ramp disengaged. My eyes, accustomed to the pitch dark of the hold, protested. Shielding them, I blinked in the dazzling light, black spots swimming in my vision. A waft of dry air entered the muggy hold, bringing out the gooseflesh. "Still in space." Art too was covering his eyes.

"Why?"

"Dunno why. D'you know how much it costs to heat a ship?"

"Err…"

"Did you think space was hot?"

"Space is hot? Wouldn't know, I've never been off-world before."

"Oh, hello…" Art propped himself up on his elbow. Black silhouettes rose from the glare. Men in khaki uniforms and Medicae patches on their sleeves. "I'll say you're in Lairs. Play along, James." The medics, moving among us, began picking up the stretcher-bound and taking them down the ramp. "If they separate us, I'll kick up a stink. Don't you worry."

Working quietly, the stretcher-bearers bore the seriously injured out first. Those grunts with drips attached or swathed in bandages. It left Art and I among the last to be picked up. "Art?" I reached out for his hand as Art's stretcher was carried away. "He's my mate," I mumbled. When my turn came, I groaned at the flare of light beating down on me. "Art?"

"Oi, hold on, wait a minute. That's my pal there. We're on the same battery!" Art cried.

"Art?" For a moment, my eyes offered nothing then, focusing, I squinted up at the ugly strips bolted in to brackets up on the ceiling of a crowded hangar. Thick with fuel pipes, gantries, and loading docks packed with spacecraft, the hangar was host to mechanical techpriests and human ground crew, all going about their tasks. An odd taste prickled the tip of my tongue. The air itself tasted off; different from natural oxygen. Baffled in the noise, my ears picked up Art's voice. Art, in the process of being borne in a different direction to me, rocked his stretcher.

"Hey, bring me back over there to my pal." I lifted a limp finger and pointed at Art. "Hello?"

"Do we look like litter-bearers?" The stretcher-bearer behind me glared. "You will go where we take you."

"Art, they're taking me away!" I called, as loudly as my sapped lungs could muster. This commotion, as well as attracting the eyes and ears of the many other stretcher-bearers and crewman around, carried to the sharp ears of a medicae corporal, hidden from us in the shadow of a loading crane. Bulling through the gathering crowd, the corporal, dark brows over mean, squinty eyes, produced a notebook and waved it under Art's nose. I couldn't read what passed his lips, the crackle and screech of power tools made it impossible. Before long, a sergeant swooped down upon the corporal, soon sending him on his way with little more than a few words. With the medics around him silent, the sergeant bent over Art and said something, the thick line across his brow an unbroken plain of black hair; as rigid as the man wearing it.

"Bloody hell." I grinned at Art as his stretcher-bearers revised their course, bringing him alongside me. "What he say?"

"Any further disruption of my men's operation and I'll be referring you to your battery commander." Art's rosy cheeks puffed out. "Thought I was off on a trip to the commissar."

"Ain't you lucky?"

Bucked and bounced, I watched the smoky, sultry assemblage of the hangar pass me by. Priests clad in crimson robes wafted scented oils over disassembled engines, servitors, a mish-mash of man and machine, plodded around, their muscles bulging from the obscene quantities of tools and spares in their arms. Everybody worked. Not a single officer, spotless and squeaking about in leather boots, stood ready to oppress the hundreds of blue-collars – grunts – just going about their regular duties.

"Tastes funny, doesn't it?" Art said.

"Huh?" I put my chin on my breast and strained to see Art's stretcher ahead of me. "Whassat, the air?"

"Re-syke. We're taking in what these mugs are breathing out."

"Eurgh, enough o' that." I rolled my dry tongue. "So, I'm breathing lifer air?"

"No lifers here, just blokes that work for their living."

"Where…" A jab through the centre of my forehead canned all thoughts of lifers and the joys of re-syke. My cold fingers worked across my eyelids and up to my brow. "Art, I think I might need something."

"Alright, just hang on, James. It won't be long."

I saw nothing further of the ship with my hand over my face. Moments of clarity were interspersed with periods of blackness, where, a bodiless entity, I flitted from place to place, haunted by howling xenos with golden eyes and pointed ears. "Go away," I whispered.

"Impossible. Grunts don't leave their dead behind and they never leave their wounded, James."

"Art, where are you?"

"In the one next to you. Over here." My sore neck swivelled. Art waved from the infirmary bed next to mine. "Spot of luck getting two together, eh?"

Crisp, white sheets brushed my chin. In place of my cotton OGs, I wore a grey robe. A dressing was tied around my head and a strap was fastened to my wrist. A wire trailed away from it, falling down to the floor, out of sight. "Where's my – where's my clobber?" I patted the sheets around me, tossing them back and raising myself up on elbows.

"Be around here somewhere, James. Oi, lie down, you've had a right run through the mill. Lie down before you pass out again."

"Aw, shit…" The pummelling inside my skull renewed.

"Yep, that's full-on concussion that is. Must've taken the four-tonner head on. You haven't got anything else broken."

"How d'you know?"

"Medics said so. They wondered what you head-butted whilst they were stripping you."

"Eurgh." I felt around my groin.

"It's all still there." Art laughed. "Nothing much to note, I'd say…"

I let my head sink back in to the pillow. "Fuck you, Art."

"What it's gonna take to put you out then. Another lorry to the chops?"

"Ha-bleeding-ha."

"Sleep it off, son."

"Art, tell me where we are, please?"

"Nemora. A destroyer. I heard someone say it earlier."

"Earlier? How long was I out, Art?"

"An hour or two, don't know. Sleep it off now. Nothing to worry about."

Art's voice fading away, I turned my head against the pillow and shut my eyes, willing an undisturbed slumber, free from that which prowled the shadows of my mind.

---

The Gorynych, Morning Cycle, Lysades Subsector

One by one the prey dropped, each body collapsing gracefully, but always it was the puny whelp who evaded her grasp. So fragile, yet it was with a mocking ease that he danced out of Izuru's reach. Her hands found nothing but thin air, no matter how much she willed the whelp's neck to find itself within her grip. Why resist? It is futile!

A tap-tap came from outside Izuru's door, bringing her out of the light doze she contented herself with. "Enter."

"My lady." Saeros entered and bowed. "Her eminence does demand your presence in the war chamber."

"Very well. Begone." Izuru waited for Saeros to depart before slipping out of bed and dressing. What business would the so-called princess have with me at such an early hour? Izuru's breath floated in front of her as she drew her cloak over her shoulders. The turn of the cycle had yet to bring the warmth from the ship's heating to comfortable levels, such was the corsair's peculiar liking for raised temperatures. More often than not, an uncomfortable sweat broke out on her skin, where relief could only be found in the small hours when the ship's interior cooled, or under the cruel jets of scented water that gushed from grinning sculptures in the Gorynych's baths where, always alone, Izuru bore the impetus of the pirate's eyes; though all they ever did was stare.

On leaving her quarters, Izuru raised her hood, not bothering to pay Saeros a glance before taking off. "Well, youth, where is it you make your bed? Surely you do not wait hand and foot on me all hours."

"Two decks below, my lady. I am quartered with the machine-singers."

"A hand for mechanics, have you?"

"I… I mostly watch."

Clearly, I can garner nothing from you, pirate. If I seek intelligent conversation, I will look elsewhere.

At the pair of twisted, leering spectres, guarding the portal to the war chamber, two masked corsairs ushered Izuru across the threshold. Saeros was barred entry and remained behind. Arched, flowing Druchii architecture, deep blue and in places black, darkened the already dim chamber. Near the ceiling, holes akin to the spaces left by bursting bubbles observed the war table and the corsairs stood around it. Saarania, at the head, waited with Ulthyr and Derin. To the sides, the snow-haired corsair Vliss talked with the giant Dragut. Neither prince, princess, nor the two paid heed to Izuru's arrival. The sole stranger, standing alone, offered a small greeting to her, if only a brief nod. Twisted cannibalisations of our psycho-plastic, sung by sharpened talons and cruel tongues. Izuru's eyes passed across the wraithbone vaults criss-crossing the ceiling, her brows knitting closer together at the reprehensible creations of the Druchii.

Saarania flicked her wrist, launching a bubble of light at Izuru, who reached out and caught the object in her left hand without pause. "Does rising early disagree with you?" Saarania's tongue ran across her lower lip. "Shall we hold this meeting in your quarters perhaps?"

Ulthyr pawed at Saarania's arm. "Can civility take precedence over early-morning barbs?" he whispered. Saarania's eyebrows jumped, one of them arching sharply. Flicking outwards from between her teeth, Saarania started.

"Your pardon, your eminence. Can introductions take precedence over Void Dragon affairs?" Izuru stopped beside the stranger. "Ranger," she said.

"Wayforger," the stranger replied, a faint smile appearing. Where the other corsairs possessed braids and topknots, the wayforger had opted for a simple headband to keep his hair out of the way.

Needless flair for a simple scout.

"Maess," the stranger added quietly.

"Maess," Saarania spoke louder, making a gesture with her arm. "My best scout and marksman, quite ready to place a challenge to your name, Ranger."

"Oh, no…" Maess glanced at Saarania. Her eyes flashed for a second before returning to their normal colour. It silenced Maess.

"Does that which inhabits your hand not interest you?"

Izuru released the orb from her clutch. Leaping up, to eye level, the orb expanded, becoming a tiny planet. Continents separated by oceans and divided by mountain ranges and deserts turned as the planet rotated on its axis. Paragraphs of information appeared beside the planet. At the head was the name: Grendel. Eleven thick segments, giving detail of the planet's population, distance from its star, Imperial classification, rotation and orbital period, diameter, climate; even the annual tithe Grendel was supposed to deliver to its Imperial masters, all of it Izuru read. It was only the recent events detailed in the final paragraph, more a footnote, that drew her attention.

"Take time to study the—"

"When do I leave?" Izuru's fist clenched around the planet and tossed it back to Saarania. Maess's lips twitched. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked down at the deck.

"Study the planet in detail. Further information will be provided after your insertion." Saarania made to bowl the compacted planet back at Izuru.

Ulthyr's hand shot out and took her arm. "The mission, your eminence."

"Further information will be provided after their insertion, my prince." Saarania bit back. "Ranger, you will prepare for immediate departure. Your steward, the felarch, and the wayforger will accompany you."

"For what purpose?"

"Are you questioning her eminence?" Vliss's oily voice flowed from the darkness.

Dragut grunted and thumped his chest. "You die for that, whore."

"Observation or surgical strike, your eminence?" Maess voice rose over the snarl Izuru gave. "The wayforger would prepare accordingly."

"Observation. No direct action," Saarania said. "Unless authorised. The felarch has overall command and answers to me directly. That is all."

Dismissed, Izuru left the war room, picking up Saeros on the way out. "Greetings, Ranger," Maess said from behind. "Our commander speaks too highly of me. I assure you, I would not go so far as to compare my marksmanship to that of a ranger."

"Leave her, Wayforger. You will find no pleasantries," Derin said.

"My lady, where are we bound?" Saeros asked.

"To Grendel for reasons I cannot fathom." Izuru replied with a shake of her head.

"Did the princess not say?"

"She said nothing on the mission, let alone the civil war that has gripped the planet for the past two years."

"Civil war?"

"Brother-to-sister, husband-to-wife, parents-to-offspring. Ideological differences split households and place the humans at each other's throats."

"But-but humans are surely united under their god-emperor as one. Why does strife grip Grendel?"

"Saeros, not all humans follow their deity. Some wish for liberty, as to choose one's beliefs is prohibited in the Human Empire. Their church enforces it mercilessly."

"Are there other gods?"

"No. For them there is only the Emperor."

"But they must understand that their so-called Emperor cannot have lived for so long whilst enthroned."

"Such is the power their church wields. It is complete and total, Saeros. It is their way of enforcing law. Put the fear of imprisonment and torture in to society and your dominance is infinite. They believe the lies that are fed and ask for more."

"A society of drones."

"Yes. Constrained by religion, the humans stagnate."

"While we rise once more."

Izuru frowned. "Seek not to dominate as we once did. If you know your history, Saeros, you will understand the consequences of unbridled power. Tell me, how often do employ your mind as a weapon?"

"As little as I can, my lady."

Very good. "I let my long rifle speak for me. My knife express my opinions. My hands pass judgement. Do you know why?"

"I do not, my lady."

"Though each of our minds possesses the strength to break bodies and subjugate wills, it was our doing so, our committing the sin of sloth, that invoked the downfall of our empire. In our gluttony, lust and greed we forgot all. And in one deafening scream, we sealed our fate. Let our strength not fail us a second time."

"But why do you abstain, my lady?"

"Discipline, Saeros. Discipline and patience. It is all very well employing your mind to perform all for you, but you find your arms and legs weaken slowly. You grow soft and slack when so dependant on your mind you are. Though our race has always maintained their psyker's connection, to neglect the body in favour of the mind conjures up an image of such laziness that letting the body loosen… well it is just unthinkable. Do you not find the physical effort more rewarding?"

"I…" Saeros left the syllable hanging.

Izuru peered back over shoulder at Derin and Maess. Both had theirs heads together, with neither paying attention to her. "I can provide a regime, ranger-style, for you to adhere to. Would this corsair accept this ranger's tutelage?" Izuru offered Saeros her hand. "Well?"

Like water in a sinkhole, the colour in Saeros's face drained. Wet, blinking eyes looked down at the proffered hand. The words left him. All he gave in return was a limp hand that reached out and took Izuru's forearm.

Tightening, Izuru's fingers shook Saeros's arm. "Shake free of the petty raider's shroud and embrace a warrior's ways. Now come, let us prepare for Grendel."

Nine minutes earlier…

The crawlspaces and tight network of passages hidden above the war chamber and criss-crossing the entire ship played host to not only echoes but to two very small beings listening in to the adults. "Mother!" Korsarro Numerial gasped. "Ilic, mother."

"Be careful, brother." Ilic gathered a bunch of his brother's robes in his hand to stop him from tumbling out of the opening and down to the floor below. "The big one is down there with them."

"White-head scares me more than the beast."

"Hush, I cannot hear what they say." Both boys listened. Korsarro clutched at Ilic when their mother received the balled-up planet. "She wants mother to go away."

"Why?"

"So mother cannot find us and take us home."

"Mmm, I don't want them to hurt mother."

"Mother is too clever. The princess would not hurt her unless mother is no longer useful to her."

"Mother." Ilic reached out towards his mother. Her raised voice was cut off by a corsair addressing the princess. Both the beast and white-head had provoked her in nasty voices. "What is whore. Why do they call her that?"

"Ssh, come away, brother." Korsarro drew Ilic in to a hug and stared over Ilic's shoulder at his mother departing the chamber with corsairs. The nasty corsairs are not joining mother. Thank the Phoenix King. Korsarro smiled. "Quick now. Hurry back to our room before the evil princess finds out." Together the twins scooted up through the black branches, diving inside the hollow strands. Squeezing their thin bodies, the network granted them the caged freedom of the Gorynych's secret passages, where only they could venture. "Does she know?" Ilic had once wondered aloud whilst the two were alone.

"She knows. The princess is not a fool."

"Then why let us roam free?"

"How would she stop us?"

"Shackle us, like she shackled mother."

"But she does not want us as prisoners. She wants children of her own."

"So why can't she make children?" The boys were stumped at that. "How does one make children?"

The pacing of the guards circuiting the corridors outside the princess's quarters brought Korsarro and Ilic to a halt. "Wait." Korsarro counted the seconds in his head. By now he knew the number, route and positioning of all the guards near to the princess's quarters. If only we could let mother know. Not a single branch of the tunnels led inside, giving Ilic and Korsarro only one way in and out.

"They are changing over," Korsarro muttered. "With me, Ilic." The twins wriggled out of the floor-level tunnel and skipped across the polished floor to the sealed portal. Thank you, mother. Korsarro's fingers found the tiny panel in the wall and opened it with a fingernail, exposing the fibre-thin, hair-like strands. Ilic, his eyes peering around the corner, watched for the return of the guards.

"Yes!" Korsarro stifled a squeak. "Come, brother."

The twins shot through the princess's solar and back to their own room. Ilic kicked away a tome when he passed it, scattering scrolls across the floor, mixing in with the toys given to them by the princess. "A curse upon her for trying to turn us against mother. Mother will punish the wicked princess for this." Once safely back in their beds, Korsarro turned to Ilic. "Mother will return for us. She will come back and take us home."

"But what if she does not?"

"Then we will go to her. I vow to escape this cage and seek out our mother."

"Together." Ilic stretched out his arm and took his brother's hand. "Together again."

---

Officio Medicae Transport Nemora – two weeks later

"…past conflicts have been marked by bloody clashes between pro-Imperial and secess… secessionist paramilitary factions," Art read, his eyes narrowing.

"Aww, give it a rest, Art." I yanked the pillow out from under my head and squashed it against my face.

"S'important bumpf this." Art waved the booklet on the planet Grendel at me. "How else we gonna pass the time."

"I've had two weeks of this," I groaned.

"Yeah, your face don't look like a plum no more. Maybe you won't scare all the lumpy-jumpers off." Art shoved back his chair and tossed the booklet in my lap. "Tell you what, I'll go find a wheelchair and cart you round. See what the lads make of you."

None of the doctors made comment on the gunner driving a wheelchair through the infirmary. All were too busy with the other casualties that had made it off Platis. Some bore thick castes on arms or legs, sometimes both. Others were bound head-to-foot with dressings, with only pin-prick holes to let them breathe. Directly above me, panels of lights glared down on to my bed. At times, dirty servo-skulls bobbed up and down the aisle, periodically scanning the conditions of the convalescents. I learned to ignore the beady eyes and the irritating whine each one made.

"What's a lumpy-jumper?" I asked once Art returned with the wheelchair and pushed it between the beds, near enough for me to climb in.

"Oh, WGs, women guardsmen. Well, I s'pose it can be from any branch really. Doesn't matter." Art backed out of the gap between the beds and steered me towards the exit. "See, I like a bint in uniform." Art's voice lowered. "I swear they choose the tightest clobber. Showing it all off, see." Art turned in the direction of a female surgeon reseating an IV drip. "Heh-heh, see what she thinks of your mug."

"Art!" I jiggled the wheelchair. "Don't."

"If she don't scarper then you're right thereabouts." Art laughed.

"I can walk y'know. I'll bloody stand and dosh you out."

"Perfect." Art swerved away from the woman, who still had her back to us.

"Art, I swear…"

"Oh, they're gonna love you."

Art made a left out of the infirmary. "Course 'cause the nice thing is, I'm not gonna be stopped by any sod with stripes. I'm just another stretcher case taking his mate for a sightsee."

Not a single curve or rounded surface could be seen in Nemora's corridors and accessways. Nothing adorned the blocky, unrefined surfaces. Everything was stark and utilitarian, provided at the expense of comfort. "Bit grim this, innit?" I rubbed at my forearms. "Could turn the heating up at bit too."

"Ehh, cheap swine these boaters. Budget's worse than ours prob'ly." Art tittered. "Dunno how they're gonna pay for our lost guns. Might be on a permanent grunt detail on Grendel."

"I haven't got a clue how to work a pom-pom."

"Good, you'll fit right in then. Sing dumb and no one will know you ain't in Lairs." Art jostled the wheelchair, pivoting it to avoid running down an officer who had just stepped out of a lift in front of us. "S'cuse me, sir, it's got a mind of its own."

"I beg your pardon, Guardsman." A lean, dark woman in the stone-grey tunic of the Imperial Navy side-stepped in front of me. "Stand at attention. Are you authorised to exercise this man?"

"Erm…" Art's boots leapt together. I adopted an altogether lax posture, my eyes falling away to a point in the bulkhead at roughly thigh level. To seal the ruse, I let my jaw hang slack. "He's my mate, ma'am. I was going to introduce him to the rest of my battery. He's a replacement, see."

"Gunner?"

"Gunner Drow, ma'am."

"And you?" the Navy officer looked down at me. In the corner of my eye, the pair of brown eyes underneath the leather sweatband of the officer's beret poked holes in my thin façade. "Commander." The officer backed away from me, becoming interested in the newcomer behind me.

"Uh-oh." Art manoeuvred me to the side of the corridor. I had a split-second's glance at another officer, this one with golden epaulettes on his shoulders and in the company of two armsmen, before Art turned me away. "Let's go."

"Belay that, Guardsman. The lieutenant did not dismiss you," said the commander. "Hello, lieutenant. These lowlifes giving you trouble?"

"If attempted assault with a seated convalescent counts as trouble, sir…" The lieutenant saluted.

The commander chuckled and returned the salute. "I say, what is the seated guardsman's problem? I will not have mentally-deranged lunatics carted freely about my ship. Tell him to get his chin up. He's a soldier of the Emperor. Be proud!"

"I haven't quite worked out his issue, sir. I'm sure it was a simple concussion. He will come 'round." The lieutenant dug in to a bulging breast pocket and produced a cigar. "Are you on duty, Commander?"

"Just a moment." The commander rounded on Art. "Name."

"Um, I'm Gunner Drow, sir. This is Gunner Larn. He's a new replacement for B Battery, sir. Was supposed to join us on Platis, sir. Poor lad got hit by a lorry. He's a bit knocked about still, sir."

"Well, see this man is fit for duty as soon possible, Gunner. No thank you, Lieutenant, I am on duty still. Perhaps at noon. Good day to you."

"Twat." Art murmured at the commander's back. "Certified lifer."

"What was that, Gunner?" The lieutenant loomed over him once more. "I caught the tail end as I was heading off."

"Nothing, Lieutenant Pripinec." Art grinned. "We'll get out your way now."

"Do I know you, Gunner?" Lieutenant Pripinec moved in front of me again.

"Well you don't so much know us, ma'am…"

"Hmm." Pripinec leant towards me. "It is a good act. You do it very well, young man."

I set my head straight and looked the officer in the eye. "What if it weren't an act, ma'am?"

Pripinec smiled. "I might have to take your name then. Did I hear it just now?"

"Can't remember. Got my head smashed in by a lorry, ma'am."

"Uhh, sorry for wastin' your time, ma'am." Art pulled me backwards. "I'll be more careful."

"Yes, of course you will, Gunner Drow. Lairs?"

"…Yes, ma'am. Battery B."

"Well, what a coincidence. I don't remember Lairs receiving any replacements at all on Platis."

How does she know that? Behind me, Art's hand tightened on the wheelchair's grips. "Not my area ma'am. I'm just a grunt."

Pripinec's voice softened. "There'll be no need to investigate this, will there, young man?"

"No, ma'am."

"Not you. You."

I shook my head. "Sometimes it's best to leave it right alone, ma'am. D'you feel safer like that?"

Pripinec swooped down, her hands upon her hips. "You've a cheek. Who is your commanding officer?"

"Don't rightly know, ma'am. I'm in limbo."

"Shall we resume this conversation when we reach Grendel?"

"I'd prefer not, ma'am."

Pripinec glanced at Art. "You owe me a favour now, young man. I won't run you in, so you two owe me."

What favour. What's she on about?

"Off you go." Pripinec winked as Art wheeled me away.

She knows! I squirmed in the seat. "Art, she knows I'm a deserter."

"You're not a deserter. What sort of talk is that?"

"I'm missing in action. Nobody knows 'cause nobody's bothered to check on one little rifle company. What happens now that I turn up alive and kicking? They'll mark me as a deserter and hang me."

"No-one's gonna care, James. Why not just start afresh? I mean this has gotta be far better than sleeping in a mud hole or going hand-to-hand with Orks. You've got a lucky star hanging over you. Just live with it." Art ruffled the back of my head. "Chin up. Let's go find the lads."

"Did you really know that officer?"

"Aha! Little trick we liked to play on her back at the old base on Platis."

"What was that?"

"Nah, important question is: can we do it again on Grendel?"

No idea what you're on about, mate. But I'm damn sure it's not good-humoured.

Makeshift billets for the battered grunts recovered from Platis comprised of nothing more than bunks, stacked three on top of each other, in holds normally reserved for shipping crates. It's them again. The brown-skinned grunts in the same green, brown, and khaki jackets sat in their own corner of the hold. Why are they wearing their berets the wrong way round? "Joparr Drop-troops," Art said.

"Huh?"

"Paratroopers."

"Got their covers on wrong."

"Hooh, better not let 'em hear you say that, James. It's just their tradition. If I cared, I'd be just as stumped as you. We leave 'em alone. Our lot's over here." Curious eyes peered out from racks as we passed. Why am I still in this chair? I can walk fine. I fidgeted.

"Whack up a nice cuppa tea, lads. Got a visitor," Art announced to a tight-knit gang of five grunts, spread out over two bunks, each the lowest in their rack. Two of the five were of a dark complexion and the rest were pale, albeit rosy-cheeked. Not one wore the same article of clothing. A mixture of olive-grey, khaki, stone-grey and camouflaged items were hanging on crude washing lines fixed between the bunks. Sleeves bore patches of a motley assortment of units. The covers too didn't appear to conform to any sort of uniformity. There were berets, each one a different colour, crap-caps, bonnets, side-caps, and head-scarves. This was to say nothing of the grunts themselves. All were long due a shave and a haircut. Cigarettes, if not in mouths, were stuffed behind ears. Money littered a stakes game being played out on the deck. Sweat ran down from unwashed hair. Tattoos reared on bare arms bulging with muscles.

"Wenrok." Art tapped the nearest grunt, lying on his bunk. "'Ello, old friend."

Wenrok rolled the magazine he was engrossed in and jabbed back at Art. "Old friend!" he scoffed.

"Wenrok's our lance bombardier; gun layer, line." Art then pointed out the three squatting over the money. "Samuel, gun layer, elevation. Kerris, loader and firer. Wyrig, ammo supply." None of the four registered any interest in me. The last man Art introduced stood up from his bunk and moved through the middle of the game, heedless of the gunner's objections. "Wouldn't forget about you, Bombardier, now would I?" Art laughed. "James, this is the deputy to our number one, St—"

"Stazak." A shaven-headed grunt tipped his wonky nose downwards, the sweat following until it dripped from the tip. "I can't tell what it is I'm even looking at. Drow, why've you brought us a runt?"

"'Ave a heart, Stazak, he's just come from Platis, like us."

Stazak was joined by Wenrok and, shortly after, Samuel, Kerris, and Wyrig. "Take his wheels, lads," Stazak said. "Let's see him crawl his way out of here."

I kicked the wheelchair back and jumped up, tearing off the bandage from my head. "Oof!" Art received the rogue wheelchair and stumbled back.

"Oh, oh, oh, lookit this." Samuel leered. "Feeling better now, you little rat?"

"Dangle him upside down by his ankles!" Wyrig spat.

"Alright, back in your cages." Stazak seized the back of their necks and shoved them away. "Kerris, count me in next round. Drow, you want to explain what I'm seeing?"

"Wh—I was hoping the sarn't would be 'round to get him settled, Bomb," Art stammered.

"Who's him and why's he settling here?" Stazak planted a boot on the edge of the wheelchair, steadying it. "Drow?"

"I'm – I'm gonna go speak to the sarn't."

"He's whooping it up with the other noncoms. I've gotta nursemaid you horny grunts. Who is that?"

"James Larn." I moved out of the shadows towards Stazak. "I'm gonna be joining your battery. Look at me please, Bombardier."

"You cheeky bastard. You're not joining anything till the sarn't has his word. How fucking dare you," Stazak said, never once raising his voice. "How 'bout I put you back in that wheelchair?"

"Orks tried putting me in a wheelchair once, Bombardier. I got better." I met Stazak's eye. "You ever been hand-to-hand with Mister Green?"

Wenrok guffawed. "He's got some liquid shit dribbling out of his mouth, this one!"

"That ain't no shit," Art said. "James got zipped in the back by an Ork shoota. He's got a scar and everything."

"Bollocks, he's had two weeks to fill your headgear with little lies, Drow." Wyrig balled up a sweat-stained, stinking sock and hurled it at me. Ignoring the sock patting against my chest, I turned my back on the gunners and pulled the medical robe up, baring my buttocks, lower back, and the scar.

"Aw, put it away, ye pimply little prick!" Wyrig growled.

"You wanna smack there?" Samuel snapped. "You're sure asking for one."

"Shuddup, Samuel. And you, Wyrig." Stazak's voice turned cold. "How long, Larn?"

"Bombardier?"

"How long were you out of action for?"

"'Bout a month, Bombardier. Couldn't feel my legs."

"He crawled hundreds of yards out of no-man's land, Bombardier. If that's not double-hard, I dunno what is," Art said.

"Pah." Kerris shook his head. "You joining us this round or what, Bomb?"

"Ehh, shove over, Sam." Wyrig poked at Samuel with his toe.

Drow leant between the iron bars of the bunk Wenrok lay on. "Oi, Buns is aboard."

"Buns?" Wenrok dropped his magazine.

"Shit." The game froze.

"Larn got a wink out of her."

"Naw bollocks to that." Wenrok grunted.

"Why?" Stazak, perched on the bunk opposite Wenrok, edged forwards.

"The commander – the commander – came trotting by looking for grunts to shaft. James is in a wheelchair so he's sitting…" Art's head lolled to one side. "Like this." He let his tongue poke out of his mouth. "Acting all corrupted, like he's a heretic or some shit."

"The Crotch issued you a working tongue, didn't they?" Stazak said to me.

"He bought it, she didn't." I shrugged, still standing in the aisle between bunks.

"Thought she was gonna run us both in, honestly." Art piped up, patting a thin patch of unoccupied bunk for me to sit on next to him. "Must have found it funny-like."

"Buns?" I strained to remember the officer's face, and how she wore her hair underneath her cap "Why Buns?"

"Art giggled. "Nothin' to do with her hair, mate."

"Damn-straight." Kerris mimed a fist pumping horizontally. "Any time, any place."

"Didn't think she had a thing for young meat," Wenrok muttered. "Well I'd fuck him, that's for sure."

"Wenrok, play nice." Stazak shot Wenrok a look. "You want to avoid another session in the latrines, don't you?" Wenrok murmured darkly and hid himself behind his magazine.

"Stazak keeps these thugs on the straight-and-narrow, James. They're harmless, long as they've got something to do. Here." Art passed me the lit cigarette Stazak had given him. "Rolling anything, Bomb?"

"Not on this tub, Drow. You bet your hairy arse the stick-man's gonna be coming down on you like a tonne of bricks if he catches the tiniest whiff of smack in the hold."

"Yeah but did the stick-man get off Platis?"

"Course he did, all the officers did. Officers look out for number one. And look, all you sods lazing about… don't you get too used to it 'cause the minute we reach Grendel we're back to square-bashing and button-polishing. No more of this squatting."

"Why we heading to Grendel anyway?" I nudged Art. "Something about a civil war you mentioned?"

"Lemme ask the general, I'm sure he'll be happy to fill us in." Art snorted. "We weren't even sure what we was doing on Platis, James. How 'bout you on Bastille?"

"Nah. Didn't 'ave a clue. Just trying to make it through the day." I shook my head. My numb toes brushed trails of dirt along the deck. Making fists, I wiggled them. A right warm crowd I've fallen in with now. What would you do if you were here, Bull? I dangled my feet, taking drag after drag of Art's cigarette. Chits and money changed hands in the bucket-load and too frequently for me to follow. "Are they just passin' money back and forth. What's the rules?"

"Honestly, I dunno. The wampum's flying 'round too quick. Oi, where d'you grab so much of this, Wiry?"

"CQMS."

"Oh, that explains it. Thought you'd robbed a bank."

"Yeah, we—"

A stentorian voice cut the dividing proceeds in half. "Look lively!"

"Oi, officer incoming. Sarn't's with him." Stazak hissed. "On your feet!" A hushed silence took over the hold, punctuated by the sharp snap of bedsprings and the slap of bare feet and boots upon the deck. Two officers, one wearing stripes, the other with pips on his shoulders moved along the aisle two rows down from us. Both wore crisp OG fatigues, buffed leather boots, and short woollen puttees, their uniform a near mirror of my own. Their heads were obscured by the bunks.

"Shit, Sarn't's taking a rupert 'round the batteries for a meet-and-greet," Art prodded the nearest pile of cash. "Let's get rid o' the wampum before he sees it."

"Act like it's nothing," Stazak said out of the corner of his mouth. "You move and I'll bring the sarn't over. Larn, get out of that wheelchair. There's nothing wrong with you." At attention, I waited with the rest of the gunners for the battery sergeant to bring the new officer around.

"Hello there. I'm Lieutenant Ahern, your new battery commander. Which one of you men is Sergeant Reimer's deputy?" The lieutenant's clipped tones rankled me.

Behind him, the sergeant spoke. "That'll be Bombardier Stazak, sir, the NCO standing on the immediate right of Gunner Drow."

"And who is Gunner Drow?"

"The other rank to the right of the man in the medical robe whose name I do not know, sir."

"Good morning, Bombardier, and you men. Um, Sergeant, how many men are on your battery?"

"Seven, sir, including their sergeant. Bombardier Stazak, Lance Bombardier Wenrok, Gunners Samuel, Kerris, Wyrig, and Drow."

Lieutenant Ahern's eyes fell on me. "Alright, Guardsman, you know my name. Tell me yours." Sergeant Reimer muttered something inaudible to the officer, causing him to change his mind. "If you'd follow me, Guardsman."

"Luck, James." Art touched my arm.

"With the lieutenant now, Guardsman." The sergeant stepped to one side and followed at my heels out of the stifling hold. Head hung, I quailed under the combined stares of the NCO and battery commander once out in the cooler companionway.

"The lieutenant did not permit you to stand easy, Guardsman."

This is ridiculous. My legs met one another. Glued to the iron deck, the feeling was fast draining from my feet.

"At ease," Ahern said. My hands disappeared behind my back; my right hand gripping my left wrist. "Name, rank, and number."

"Err, J-James Larn. Arvin James Larn," I stuttered, my face flushing. "Erm… private. Eight one five seven six eight two zero… sir."

"Are you Alderian Light Air Defence Regiment?"

"No, sir. I – I met Gunner Drow on Platis…"

"Your regiment?"

"Um, Jumael Fourteenth Volunteers, sir."

"Sergeant?"

"No regiment I've ever heard of, sir."

"Take his number, Sergeant."

"Sir." Reimer scribbled my name and number on a notepad. "Noted."

"For now, stay in the infirmary, Private. Somebody will be along to collect you."

"Yes, sir." My shoulders sank.

"Attention."

"Stand easy." Ahern turned on his heel and trotted up the stairs, the clatter of the sergeant's boots in tow. Long after the clack of rubberised soles on iron had faded, I stood still, listening. Now what's going to happen to me? I leant my head against the rough bulkhead and closed my eyes.

---

"A bad liar, sir. I've no doubt about that. Mind the step there."

"Hypothetical, Sergeant?" Ahern ducked through a bulkhead door leading along to the quarters sectioned off for officers, picking his feet up before he tripped over.

"He's worse at being honest than he is at telling tall ones, sir."

"I think I can sympathise with the poor lad, Sergeant. We're both new boys."

"Not a good idea making connections with the men outside of your duties as battery commander, sir, if you'd take your sergeant's advice."

"Taken and appreciated, Sergeant." Ahern returned a salute from a passing naval rating. "I'll talk to A Branch and see if the regiment was due replacements. Bit chaotic leaving Platis, I understand?"

"Proceedings were fairly orderly, as far as the withdrawal went, sir. I can only speak for the battery, though. Have you met the others sergeants yet?"

"I haven't, Sergeant."

"You'll get to know them over the next few days, sir."

"I have a few concerns I would like to bring up…"

"Q Branch will issue new uniforms once the regiment's stores have been restocked, sir. You have first-class NCOs—"

"The guns, Sergeant."

"Best guess, weeks to months before Lairs receives all twenty-four guns. That does not count replacement parts and ammunition, sir. Q Branch might be able to provide more details. I only look after my crew."

Ahern nodded. "I see. Well, thank you for the tour, Sergeant." Both NCO and officer had reached the bulkhead that led in to officer's country. Ahern's bags had been placed near the door, ready for him to take.

"Sir." Reimer took the offered hand and shook. "I'll be in the sergeant's billet if you have any further questions. Shall I detail an OR to assist you?"

"No, no thank you. I'll take it, Sergeant."

"Sir." Reimer about-faced and marched off.

An OR to assist me? Ahern stared down at his OG kitbag and holdall, a private purchase, and wondered. That poor lad looked quite the lost sheep. I might request him as an orderly and give him the role of platoon runner, if such a placement exists on the battery. Ahern looked up at the opening of the bulkhead door. "If you wouldn't mind…" he indicated his bags to a young, dark-haired woman in a boiler suit and soft cap. On the return from an errand perhaps? "My bags will need seeing to my quarters," Ahern said when the grubby rating hesitated a second before stooping to gather up his bags and following him back through the accessway. A muffled snort given by one of a pair of subalterns chatting together turned Ahern's head. That's a funny look that man gave me. Ahern checked down his front. I'm not unzipped an I? No stains, nothing unbuttoned. "Excuse me, lieutenant, I'm looking for the billets." Ahern stopped by a staff officer with red tabs on his collar and an unlit pipe in his mouth. "I'm Alderian Light Air Defence Regiment, Battery B." The staff officer's pipe, jammed between his teeth, broke in half. His hand snapped up to his brow, where he held it rigidly. Aren't we of equal rank? Ahern returned the salute.

"The signs mounted on the bulkhead wall will point you towards the billets." The staff officer's eyes flickered sideways to the rating whose lips remained sealed. "They are coloured-coded. Blue for billets…" The lieutenant trailed off, salvaged what remained of his pipe, and hurried past Ahern.

"What's biting him?" Ahern noticed a nearby plaque that gave the layout of the surroundings and examined it. Leaning against the wall beside the plaque, two second lieutenants, both Infantry, ceased their conversation. Ahern paid no notice to the other officers, bristling when one of them suppressed a laugh. Really, what is the matter? Ahern played out the map in his head and, sooner rather than later, found his way in to the billet one deck below him. Ah, a shared billet. Not what I expected.

Bunks, arranged in a corner, held two of the other three officers Ahern now shared a billet with. The third, knelt over his unzipped kitbag in the centre of the room, stood up in alarm. "Ma'am."

Ma'am? Ahern's bags thumped down. Oh, merciful Emperor… Ahern's cheeks reddened as the rating unzipped her boiler suit and removed her arms from the sleeves. Strike me down in shame! Ahern stared at the naval attire the woman was wearing underneath. On her shoulders were boards decorated with gold and riding upon the bulging tunic was a single row of coloured ribbon; combat awards.

"I take it we understand one another, Second Lieutenant?" The woman fixed Ahern with an icy glare and folded her arms.

"Perfectly, ma'am." Ahern's hands, warm with sweat, clenched tightly behind his back. A full lieutenant. She outranks me! "I can only offer my sincerest apologies for my mistake. I have yet to find my feet."

"May I have the room, gentlemen?" The three subalterns scarpered without a word.

"Now, a name please."

"Uh, Luka Ahern, ma'am."

"Battery B, was it? I think I met two of yours earlier…"

"I can only apologise for my men's misconduct," Ahern said quickly. "The fault lay with me. I assumed you were returning from running an errand. Let me buy you—"

"You will most certainly be the one buying the drinks, Lieutenant." The woman pulled the upper half of her boiler suit in to place and tugged her arms through the sleeves. "This will not go on record, I assure you."

"Thank you, ma'am. Again, I apologise."

"Just one thing…" The woman did up her zip and tucked her collar away. "I ran in to two of yours earlier, at least I thought they were yours."

"Oh, the boy." Ahern bit the inside of his lip. "I hadn't the foggiest where he came from honestly. I was going to check with A Branch after seeing my kit to the billet."

"Drow and Larn, was it?"

"I assume so, ma'am. One of the gun commanders was showing me around the crews just now."

"The boy in the medical robe. Wheelchair-bound?"

"He was on his feet when I saw him. Seemed able-bodied if you ask me."

"What I recall was that he was hit by a lorry on Platis. That was what he told me."

"A lorry?" Ahern's brows shot up. "Throne, I had no idea."

The woman shook her head. "It's irrelevant now, anyway. Could you… off the record, perhaps write Larn and Drow up for extra duties they will perform for me in their spare time?"

"And what is the nature of these extra duties?" Ahern said slowly. "Anything illegal I…"

"No, no, just courier work."

"Oh."

"Certain amenities not normally available to servicemen and women…" The woman pulled a pair of pilot's gloves, part leather and cotton, from her back pocket. "…Would be desirable."

You want my men running black market errands for you? Ahern balked. The nerve of it! "Why, certainly, I could do that, ma'am." Ahern shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Might I ask your name?"

"Pripinec." She tugged on her gloves. "Amelia Pripinec. Though, right now it is Lieutenant Pripinec or ma'am. Does that make sense, Lieutenant?"

"Perfectly, ma'am."

Pripinec moved past Ahern towards the door. "Please, do not make attempts to hunt me down as a predator would. When I am ready, I will find you. Good morning."

"Good morning, ma'am." Ahern remained rooted until the solid clunk of the bulkhead shutting behind allowed him reprieve. "Oh my god…" He gasped, slick hands flying up to his face. "Day one. Day-bloody-one…"

---

Nemora, five days later

Declared fit, the infirmary discharged me, splitting headache and all, with the clothes on my back and an order to report to Bay Four, no questions. Down in the humid swirl of bipedal power-loaders, flashing lights, and wail of alarms, I approached the first officer I saw. It was Ahern.

"Sir?" I called out, raising my hand to salute Ahern.

"Sorry?" Ahern spun around, lunged at me and pulled me out of the path of a clanking loader that was backing out of a canyon of shipping crates. "Whoa! Watch yourself down here, Larn. How are you? Are you back to one-hundred per cent?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're on the battery now?"

"I don't know, sir. Some lifer came 'round and told me I was s'posed to go down to Bay Four. He didn't say anything about who I was reporting to."

"Some who?" Ahern looked puzzled.

"What are we doing down here, sir?" I flinched at the shriek of an alarm.

"Loading detail. The Tetrarch's over there." Ahern pointed through the narrow gaps between the shipping crates at the single lander taking up a good portion of the hangar's length. On both flanks of the fat beast's body, loading ramps took the weight of OG-clad grunts carrying crates aboard.

"In't that the Navy 's job, sir?" I wrinkled my nose. "All I can see are us lot doing the labour. Why can't them stompers carry the good aboard?"

"I'm just as much in the dark as you are, Larn. I just wish they'd let us know in advance, is all. Drow and the others should be over there somewhere."

"Am I in their section – uh, crew, sir? I thought there was too many…"

"You count yourself lucky you weren't posted away to a replacement depot, Larn. You're staying with us just until official papers come through. But, since you're only one man, and the establishment is made up of trillions, that might take a very long time. Right, over you go."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, remember to keep the questions to a minimum, alright? There's a good lad."

He seems alright. Does such a thing as a good-natured officer exist? On the way over to the Tetrarch, I took care to keep out of the paths of the power-loaders, not that it was in any way possible to mistake them for something benign; all were bright yellow and each footfall was a giant hammer blow upon the deck, rattling the Crotch-issue bones inside my body. There they are. I smiled and waved at Art at the same time he turned his back, busying himself with the other grunts in the gun crew. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Is this all of us? A power-loader with a shipping container in its claws marched in front of me and began to pivot in my direction. Can he see me? I scuttled to the right, in-between one of the steel canyons. Without pause, the power-loader dumped the crate at the opening, leaving me only one way out. Thanks for that. I flung a rude gesture his way and peeped through a crack at the Tetrarch. "Hey, are you…?" I trailed off, the words leaving me. Four armed grunts in full gear, body armour, hard cover and all, slunk past the far end of the canyon. Did they hear me? I flattened myself against the steel wall. None of the four glanced in my direction, all flitted past without a word. Why are they armed? My hair standing on end, I hurried after the four, my heart jiggling. Oh my god… I gaped as the four burst out from between a family of crates and unloaded their lasguns on the entire platoon. "ART!" I wailed, tearing after the four traitors, who were spraying in all directions. I picked out the closest grunt to me and swung my fist in to the back of his head. Knocked forwards, the grunt's grip on his weapon slackened. I gathered up the lasgun and turned it on the three murderers, letting fly from the hip. What the…? None of the three fell. A noise came from the weapon – the usual whizz-crack a Triplex gave – but nothing else. Oblivious to their cohort's 'death', the three fled, leaving the entire battery lying flat on their faces and me the only one standing. I jumped at the sound of a whistle being blown. The blower, an officer in firmly creased khaki fatigues, trotted out of hiding. Ahern, at the commotion, ran up and began haranguing the officer, who cut him off curtly. "Lieutenant, your entire platoon has just been killed at the cost of one of my men. We now have the lander and all its cargo." The officer wrote something upon the clipboard he carried.

"I – what? What the hell's going on here?" Ahern cried. "Why wasn't I informed you were staging some silly wargame?"

"Silly wargame? No game, this is an advanced combat tactical exercise – will you please order that man with the Triplex R-One-Niner to lie down, he is dead."

"Well, surely he is the only survivor, Lieutenant. None of your men bothered to take him in to account, and he killed one of yours too."

"Alright, that's enough." The officer gestured at me with his pencil. "Hand him his weapon back there, Guardsman."

"Oi, get up." I poked the grunt's soft belly with my toe. "Get up, ye tit."

One hand massaging the back of his head, the grunt swiped the noisemaker from me and hobbled away.

"Alright, Lieutenant, ninety-six per cent of your platoon has just been wiped out with you and the new platoon sergeant there the only survivors."

New platoon sergeant?

"I'm sorry, can I have a word with you, Lieutenant." Ahern took the office by the shoulder and moved away with him. "B Battery, continue as you were ordered."

The gunners picked themselves up. Art alone made over to me and gave me a hug. "Good one coming up behind them twats, mate. Really roasted them there."

"Yeah. Yeah…"

"What's all this stuff that's gotta go to Grendel anyway. Why'd they need it so important?" Wenrok, shooting me with an evil glare, kicked one of the wooden crates. The side panel, poorly nailed in place, fell off. Flat bags with folded plastic sheets inside fell on to the deck.

"Thought it was food or ammo…" Kerris tore open one of the bags with his teeth. "What's this?"

"Sleeping bag?" Wyrig sniffed at the crisp green material.

"It's got a zip here." Samuel played with the zip. "You can get inside it."

"It's not a—"

"Shuddup, runt, nobody asked you over 'ere," Wyrig spat. "Oi, everyone, he's not fucking Lairs. He's an outsider."

A bark of outrage shut Wyrig off before he could get too revved up. Sergeant Reimer stormed in to view. "Who opened that shipping crate?"

"He did." Samuel hurled the open packet at me. "He did. The outsider did." Everybody nodded, except Art.

"Nice try." Reimer snapped his fingers. "Those are bodybags. If you shut one of your number out, you cannot count on him to save your life in combat. You will be the one that is zipped up and shipped home in it. Emperor help you if you find yourself next to him when under fire. Now pick them all up and pack them all up. These are all going to Grendel, yes. Now, gunner and private, you are all going to Grendel. No questions. I want these all done before eleven-hundred hours." Reimer glanced at the chrono hanging from a buttonhole. "That is ninety-four minutes from now. Get cracking."

"Sorry 'bout this, James," Art muttered to me when the other gunners were out of earshot. "I had no idea."

"Well, neither did I. Just didn't want anyone to die, that's all."

"Glad you were here – glad you are here I mean."

"Not a nice feeling though…"

"Feeling of what?" Art stooped behind a crate and waited for me to find purchase on the opposite end.

"Being an outsider."