'No uniforms.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

'Why?'

'Because I said so. You need another reason?'

'Uh, no, I guess not.'

'Then pass the word down.'

'Are you gonna tell us why?'

'If you can get everyone together in the next five minutes maybe I will.'

xxx

'As of this moment we are designated military police,' Corgan explained. The company commanders gathered before him murmured at that. They hadn't come here to play cops and robbers.

'I know what you're thinking,' Corgan continued. 'Believe me, I've had those thoughts myself. But we'll just have to knuckle down and make the best of the situation. Besides, I've got a plan.'

'And what's that?' asked Grein, a former Arbites warden of the Praefectorum, old school to the core.

'Never mind that for now, the less people that know the better. I'll brief you all individually as and when your part in this operation develops. For now, we're to spread out into the inner city in teams of five or six men. I'll leave the assignments to you and Wheln will allocate you all with a precinct to police. This will be your central point of contact. Iactus Company will man the barracks and provide reinforcements where necessary.'

'I thought we were coming here to fight.' Arines griped, 'I just don't get what this is all about…'

'I've been saying that to myself ever since we landed, old friend. Let's just get on with it the best we can. Biggs, I need you to come with me, I've got something special for you.'

xxx

'Greetings Major, I was told to expect you.'

The prison warden was well turned out, businesslike in his bearing. Unlike many of his breed he seemed devoid of arrogance. That was good, there was nothing that grated on Corgan's nerves more than arrogance. He held out a hand and they shared a firm handshake.

'My name is Commissioner Holden,' the warden continued. 'I'll be at your disposal for as long as you need me.'

'That's good, the paper-work alone will take hours, so I'm led to believe.'

Holden gave him a sympathetic smile.

'You have not been mislead. Fortunately we have three savants at our service, they should be able to break the back of any bureaucratic opposition we may face.'

'I like your style. By the way, these others are Lieutenant Biggs, Commander of my support company and Commissar Vaughn, my political officer.'

'I'm honoured to meet you. Now, if you'll come with me I'll escort you to the pens. This installation is quite bursting at the seams, if I'm honest. Many of our inmates are Imperial Guardsmen, I believe their incarceration to be the result of a severe drop in morale. '

'We understand the pacification isn't going well?'

'Indeed not,' Holden replied as he led them through a staged-release cage operated by the grim-looking military Arbites sitting behind an armaplas window. 'The enemy seems to find ways to undermine any military gains that are made in no time at all. As soon as progress is made they turn the situation on its head.'

'I've been briefed. If you ask me, this war hasn't been prosecuted correctly.'

'That's not something I can comment on, I'm afraid. I am but a civilian.'

'Shall we get down to business?'

'Absolutely. Now, I've received certain guidelines from your High Command regarding eligibility. The men I'm going to show you have all been incarcerated for over two years, their sentencing therefore predates the war by quite some time. All of the candidates are between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five and are physically capable. I should warn you that over sixty percent of them were listed as sociopathic during their last psych exam.'

Corgan favoured the warden with a blank look.

'I'm sorry, are you suggesting that this is a problem?'

'I'm eager to get them off my hands, Major, believe me, but I wouldn't feel I had done my duty if any of these men were to once again end up with innocent blood on their hands…'

'Just leave that to me, Commissioner. Pretty much all of my men were penal colonists from the ice mines of Orrax before they were pardoned. The others were military Arbites or prison wardens. I think we're more than qualified to keep these boys in line.'

'Indeed.'

They were coming to a broad interior vestibule lined with doors that gave onto multiple occupancy cells. Prisoners lolled against the barred doorways, hugging the bars and staring insolently out at the newcomers. Corgan and his entourage ignored them completely, the two military Arbites that Holden had brought with him moved around the room using their shock-mauls to force the men back.

A desk had been placed in the centre of the room with three chairs set behind it. A bulky cogitator unit trailed a thick trunk of power and data cabling nearby, surrounded by three heavily augmented savants. Two of them were male, one tall and gangly, completely hairless and with telescopic bionics for eyes. The other was slight and dark, with tubes and cabling bulging from his scalp and running back to a heavy cogitator unit across his shoulder blades. The other was an ancient crone of a woman, almost completely augmetic. Her arms were mechadendrites ending in complex arrangements of instrumentation and where her legs would have been she was mounted on some kind of tractor unit.

Corgan nodded at them perfunctorily. They gave him the creeps. He was a man of flesh and blood and he couldn't understand anyone volunteering for such procedures as these. He could understand the need for bionics. Many of his closest friends had lost limbs fighting for the Imperial cause. They were still valuable commodities to the Imperium and as such deserved to be fixed up when they got broken. But they hadn't gone to the operating table voluntarily and that was the fundamental difference.

'Right, shall we begin?' asked Holden, gesturing toward the table. Corgan looked at it and remembered his first meeting with Commissar Draven, back on the ice-moon. That wasn't for him.

'We'll stand,' Vaughn and Biggs stepped up to flank him on either side.

'Very well, Major,' Holden replied, unperturbed. 'Sergeant, have block H opened, please.'

The Arbites put a hand to his earpiece, muttering something to the officer occupying the armaplas booth. A harsh warning bell rang as the door to block H rattled open and two more Arbites escorted the prisoners out.

The men that stepped into the vestibule were downtrodden, each and every one of them. They were broken men. Corgan could tell that from his first glance. Their garments were filthy rags, their hair matted and infested with lice. They had skin-sores and yellowed teeth. The skin hung on their bones.

They lined the men up for Corgan to inspect them. He started at one end, looking each of them up and down in turn. He glanced at Biggs and Vaughn, both were trying hard to conceal their disgust and disappointment.

Corgan returned to where they stood with Commissioner Holden, shaking his head.

'One or two of them might be worth my time, but the rest are no good,' he said. For once Holden looked taken aback. He stammered for a reply but Corgan was getting impatient. He made no attempt to moderate his volume as he lodged his protest.

'These men have been locked up without exercise for weeks. I'm no medicae but even I can tell they're malnourished. A litter of week old kittens could rip them to shreds. What good are they going to be to me?'

He turned back to face the candidates, singling one of the more pathetic one out.

'What do they call you, scum?'

'Alreich!' the man spat.

'You're pathetic, Alreich. You're all pathetic. I'm not surprised they keep you locked up. I would have thrown away the key. Call yourselves men? Do you?' He could sense them rising. He could feel their anger boiling up from within. He saw it in their eyes. He was waiting for one of them, just one, to show some semblance of having a fire in his belly. He was not surprised when it turned out to be Alreich.

The scrawny little man screamed as he leapt, his overgrown fingernails clawing for Corgan's eyes. As the man started forward two or three more dropped into a fighting stance, seeing an opportunity to vent some frustration, even if it meant getting stunned into unconsciousness.

Corgan batted Alreich aside with a roundhouse punch that laid him out cold. Another man jumped in from the side, heavier and cannier than the runt. Corgan ducked under his outstretched arms, avoiding the bear hug by slamming his shoulder into the man's midriff, forcing him back to catch his wind.

The next man went for Corgan's legs and was rewarded with a kick to the jaw that knocked several teeth loose. He clung on, though, tenacious as a terrier, while another man tackled Corgan bodily to the ground. They landed on top of Alreich. Corgan gripped the second man's biceps in both hands and forced him up, aiming his forehead at the man's nose as he brought him back down. The assailant tumbled aside to try and staunch a bleeding nose. That gave Corgan the opportunity to grab the man fastened to his legs by the greasy mop of hair and pull his head back into a painfully unnatural angle. At last the man let go and scrambled back, trying to break free of Corgan's vice-like grip. A second kick to the head laid him out next to Alreich.

Corgan dusted himself off as he regained his feet.

'I'll take those four for starters, you can put the rest back,' he said.

xxx

The Paenar Praetorians were a regiment steeped in the history of their homeworld. First founded two centuries before, their purview had always been that of preventing any outbreak of the anarchy that had previously plagued their world. After two hundred years of peace, their regiment had become more of a ceremonial tradition than a fighting unit. Their honour was the only thing keeping them going in a war they were woefully unprepared for.

Lieutenant Hale's column had been given orders to secure a fuel depot on the outskirts of the inner city. He was honour bound to commit himself to the objective, even though he knew the venture was a suicide run.

And so they marched in prim lines alongside two flatbed trucks carrying ammo and supplies to keep them fighting for six months. If their eyes flicked from window to window as they passed down the street, it was only out of a sense of self-preservation.

xxx

Arines and his team had made their headquarters in an abandoned apartment on the ground floor of a run down tenement building. The penthouse apartment made an excellent OP, even if it was unsuitable for bedding down in. It gave him a favourable aspect over a three-block radius and an eagle's eye view of the Paenar column passing along the street below him.

'What the hell is this?'

He called Paddy across from his position at the other side of the building. The vox operator shook his head in confusion.

'We weren't told about an expedition coming through here,' he said, needlessly.

'Call it in. I'm pretty sure HiComm forgot to tell us about this little foray. When you've told HQ, get Shopal on the horn. I want him to move in this direction, keeping an eye open for hostiles.'

Paddy went to work.

'I can't raise Shopal, boss.'

'Never mind, then. I suggest you prime your weapon, I expect it'll be needed fairly soon.'

xxx

Shopal was a shining example of how best to blend in with a civilian population. Kerns and Hassan did well to follow his example. As they'd entered the dingy back street dive bar barely an eyebrow had flickered. Before long Shopal and Kerns were involved in a big game of universal five card stud while Hassan lounged at the bar.

The neighbourhood was rough and tough, the residents brash and loud mouthed. Shopal fit in like a treat, quickly establishing himself on first name terms with the friendlier players. Of course, the fistful of creds he brought to the table didn't hurt any.

As they played he kept one eye on Hassan, whose job it was to observe the other patrons and see if he could spot any that looked out of place. The other eye took in the characteristics of the men around the table. One or two of them seemed a little too flush to be locals. This wasn't the kind of area where people had a lot of money to throw around.

'Come on, Greg, it's your bet!'

'Take it easy, I'm thinking.'

Hassan had caught his attention, nodding towards a man in the back of the bar, talking on a telegraph landline. His coat bulged suspiciously. He put the receiver down and turned around. He had the face of a man who'd seen everything the galaxy had to throw at him. He came over and whispered something in the ear of one of the men still at the table.

This player was one of the wealthy ones, a surly fellow who hadn't spoken much. He still had a stake in the hand they were playing. Shopal immediately knew what his next bid would be.

'I'll call and raise… double the stake!'

A round of gasps went round the table. It was a bold move. He was either bluffing big time, or he'd been playing a coy game up to that point.

'I'm out,' Kerns tossed in his cards. That left Shopal head to head with Surly. The man glanced at Shopal's remaining chips, surmising that there was no way he could raise it any further.

'I'll call your bet! Let's see 'em!' he growled.

Shopal grinned and laid his cards out, holding his arms up in surrender. He had nothing.

'Guess you showed me who's boss, eh?'

Surly just scooped up his winnings and left the table to a chorus of moans. He followed his friend towards the door, scooping up a bundle wrapped in his coat as he went. Three more toughs fell in behind them. Shopal caught the glimpse of a compact sub MG and he knew they'd stumbled onto something.

'Well, that's me more or less cleaned out, fellas.' He stood up, tossing a handful of credit chips down. 'Have a few drinks on me anyway and I'll see you another time.'

The locals had really warmed to Shopal by now, with his affable charm and generous nature. He'd won them over, hearts and minds. You never knew when that sort of thing was going to come in useful.

The Orrax men moved out into the street just in time to see the suspicious quintet rounding a corner further down.

Shopal took his bead from his pocket and looped it over his ear.

'Hey Paddy, you hearing me?'

…

'Yeah, we got a situation here…'

…

'Hey, I was indisposed, wasn't I?'

…

'Rubbing shoulders with the enemy, that's what!'

…

'That's right and we've marked five tangos, looks like they're inbound on your position. We'll follow them in and neutralise. Out!'

He turned to his partners.

'It looks like we've got work to do, boys!'

xxx

They were expecting it, but it was still a surprise when it came. Three Praetorians were punched off their feet with bullet holes in their pristine uniforms.

They'd trained for this, three men grabbed the wounded and dragged them between the trucks while the rest of the platoon formed a neat square around the transports. The front rank knelt, firing at random into shadowy alcoves and alleyways, while the second rank fired over their heads. The third rank concentrated on the elevated positions, putting out windows and stitching the buildings on either side with concentrated las.

The enemy was invisible as always, their weapons suppressed. There was no flash and crack to give away their positions.

Lieutenant Hale dove for cover, pulling his vox man with him so that he could report the attack and request a full withdrawal.

He was denied.

Standing, he walked the line, bellowing hollow encouragement at his men.

'Protect the transports!' he cried. But he didn't really know why. His tactical understanding was nonexistent. He supposed it was the military tradition of the Praetorians had somehow bred the instinct to protect into him. He didn't know what else to do.

His men began to die.

xxx

Arines and Paddy moved cautiously out into the recessed loading dock on the ground floor of their building. It hadn't been used in decades so the alley outside was cluttered with detritus, abandoned dumpsters and piles of rubble. The drains steamed, putting up a curtain of concealment as they crept out into the alley.

Paddy covered the right while Arines went left, his keen battle senses picking up the faint sound of silenced auto rifles somewhere up ahead. The other direction was clear for the time being. Paddy took the rearguard as they made their way towards the source of the sound.

Two men crouched behind a long, low brick wall, firing short, controlled bursts towards the Praetorians further up the road. Arines took them down quickly and efficiently, their blood staining the wall.

The Orrax moved up, examining the bodies from the safety of hard cover. They were almost certainly mercenaries. Their weapons were advanced, their body-armour light but durable. Their outer clothing was civilian in nature. They were here to blend in.

'Police those weapons. We need to be in that building over there,' Arines pointed, indicating a three storey structure one block up. He'd noted a distinct lack of windows from up in the OP. It was one of several prime ambush points he'd identified since their arrival.

These Paenar must be dumber than Grox not to have a scouting screen.

xxx

The quintet split up two ways as they made their final approach. Two of them broke into a hab block to gain elevation while the other three filtered into the wreckage and rubble at ground level. Undetected, Shopal sent Hassan and Kerns after the three and followed the others into the building.

The ground floor hallway was strewn with rubbish, children's toys, broken and discarded, fluttering news-pulp fliers and less identifiable grime. The sounds of life reached out to him, a woman's voice answered by a petulant child, the blare of a radiogram. Doors swung ajar revealing narrow cross-sections of civilian life, battered furniture and bare floorboards, the prone form of a passed out sop junkie.

Shopal made his way towards the stairs. Just passing through.

The stairwell was like a thousand others he'd experienced. The thick glass blocks let in a grimy, yellowed light. The smell of stale urine assaulted his nostrils.

The stairs themselves were strewn with glass. It looked deliberate, an early warning system or just a deterrent to slow him down. He cautiously swept the shards out of his way, careful not to make too much noise as he ascended.

The first floor up wouldn't have given them a good enough vantage so he kept going. The second floor was densely populated. There were too many people in the halls for them to have chosen this floor. He kept on, sweeping the third floor carefully but finding nothing. As he made his way up to the fourth he heard the faint but familiar phut-phut-phutting of a silenced automatic rifle.

He was close.

He slid along the wall into the corridor, checked the doors carefully as he went. Most were locked, others let onto empty rooms full of broken furniture. He continued on, getting closer.

As he drew level with the next doorway he felt a tugging on his boot. Looking down he saw that he'd snagged a trip wire. The metallic weave was looped over the toe of his boot. If he pulled back, there was a chance he'd break the circuit.

'Aw, shit!'