Night began to fall over the city like a cowl. Evening mass was called, the bells of the many great basilicas tolling the ninth hour. Even as the battle around the depot waxed and waned the city at large went about its predetermined routine with dogged denial. The fresh Praetorians fought until they weren't so fresh any more. The Orrax troopers came through their exhaustion, conserving strength where they could, more accustomed to the rigours of relentless battle. The ardour of battle made boys into men and men into corpses. The reaper watched over all with grim indifference, harvesting men and xenos with equal devoir.

To the west of the depot Darron was holed up with his platoon in a series of broken down old habs. It was a conglomeration of condemned buildings, now little more than burnt out, skeletal shells. The upper floors were more or less accessible, although the walls and floors were full of charred holes and clung precariously to the supporting structure.

As the sun dipped behind the three spires of the inner city hive stacks, the assault on his position intensified. Kroot warriors flitted through the wreck-littered street supported by the shorter and bulkier forms of human mercenaries. The Orrax occupying elevated positions started picking off those that showed too much of themselves while the men on the ground floor waited anxiously for the assault.

An inhuman roar went up. The deep throated cries of the humans were strung through with the higher pitched warbling of the kroot as they charged forward, closing the distance rapidly. Several went down as the men on the ground responded but it quickly came down to hand to hand fighting, using rifle butts, bayonets and entrenching tools.

Blood, bone and sinew painted the apertures of the building as the hard-bitten Orrax locked claws with the mercenaries. The defence was stalwart, a score or more of their enemies lay dead or bleeding before they realised that the tide of bodies wasn't slackening off.

'Fall back positions!' Darron yelled. He stomped his way up a flak board ramp to the next level and dropped to one knee behind a broken wall to cover his back. Three of his men followed him up, taking up positions at stairways and other accessible points further in. A few moments of respite followed.

The mercenaries had been presented with a choice. They could pass through unmolested and attack the depot. This would leave them with no easy line of retreat. Alternatively they could spend time and blood to winkle the Orrax troopers out of their defensive positions. Neither prospect was particularly wholesome. They chose the latter.

Two kroot warriors pounded up the ramp, rifles held loosely in gangly limbs. Darron put a burst of las through them both, sending them tumbling back into another pair behind them. They opted for more caution, sending a grenade arcing up to clatter a foot or so to Darron's left. He scooped it up quickly and tossed it back, gaining a measure of grim satisfaction with the results.

'Getting hot on the north side, sarge…' cried Dror from somewhere behind him.

'Second floor!' he replied, dropping a live tube charge at the head of the ramp as he displaced. The mercs piled up after them only to be decimated by the detonation.

The scrap on the second floor was even more ferocious. Grenades were useless, too many holes in the floor making it difficult to place them accurately. It quickly boiled down to a close range firefight that put Darron and his boys at an advantage, having had time to prepare their positions before the assault.

Mercs died as they tried to gain stairways, shot through the floors where there were gaps big enough to shoot though. Others found themselves tumbling down dead-drops just as they reached the top of a stairway, plummeting into the foundations two or three storeys below. Those that made it past these obstacles were ambushed from either side, clubbed to death or blasted from close range.

After less than seven minutes of brutal combat the mercenaries bolted, fleeing the building in disarray. Darron's bloodied squads took up defensive positions once more.

'How long can they keep this up?' asked Dror.

'I don't know but we should get a respite rotation set up, one squad off with the other two on guard, rotating every hour until we can be sure they aren't coming back.'

With heavy limbs the men and women of Orrax settled in for a long night of watchful uncertainty. Out in the darkness they could hear the crackle of distant gunfire as the enemy tested the depot's defences elsewhere.

xxx

Vaughn kept his head down over dinner. His neighbours at the long, plush dining table tried in vain to engage him in conversation. His guard was up and he replied with brief, almost curt answers only when directly addressed. He teetered on the brink of politeness, wary of plunging head first over the edge but nevertheless feeling the urge to leap.

Something was in the air. He didn't know how he knew it, but his instincts were telling him that all was not as it seemed. The veneer of hospitality in the room was less than skin deep.

After the meal his instincts were vindicated when he was drawn into a private antechamber. The Lord General was there along with Major Breton and a man in a brown leather trenchcoat that he hadn't met before and who hadn't attended the meal.

The Lord General was seated in an archaic mechanical chair behind a desk littered with data slates and scrolls. He looked for all the world like a senile old dotard. Drool hung from the corner of his mouth and flecks of foam sprayed from his lips as he greeted the commissar.

'Be at ease, friend,' he crackled, gesticulating expansively in his marionette-like fashion. 'Welcome to my humble abode.'

'I was pleased to be able to accept the invitation, Lord General. The fare was incomparably superior to the rations issued to my regiment,' said Vaughn, coldly.

'Will you take brandy?' asked the Major, moving to an antique cabinet filled with expensive liquor.

'Thank you.' Vaughn accepted a crystal tumbler from the Lord General's man, swirling the deep brown liquid but not tasting it. 'Forgive my impertinence, Lord General, but may I ask the reason for my invitation?'

'I was just about to get to that point, Commissar,' Chaffed drooled, waving a spindly arm in the Major's direction. 'Major Breton?'

The Lord General's adjutant stiffened, visibly tense, it appeared that some force of will was needed to summon his words in a clear, confident tone, Vaughn wonder why that might be. Breton had been friendly and affable on their arrival and before the Lord General had deigned to grace them with his presence. Now he was cagey and struggling to hide his nerves.

'As per the Lord General's orders,' he began, businesslike on the exterior, 'the 567th was assigned to enforce martial law in the outer suburbs of Hive Trachiad between waypoints 325 and 475. Up until this morning reports had led us to believe this was going according to plan. Can you explain exactly how it was that an all out military engagement was allowed to break out in the Kella District?'

'I can only repeat what has already been detailed in our reports to command HQ, Major. The skirmish was already in full flow when our MP units in the locale responded to distress calls from the Paenar Praetorians. Major Corgan, as per his orders, assembled a force to enforce the peace, with the secondary intention of providing relief for the Praetorian wounded. It is undoudtedly this timely response that allowed the Praetorian unit to continue on mission, albeit under strength.'

'And the fracas at the fuel depot? I understand it is still going strong and that the 567th has a considerable presence…'

'You understand correctly, sir. Under the auspices of the Praetorian commanding officer the 567th has granted a certain level of aid in taking and holding the depot as they had been ordered. Sergeant Valint was of the understanding that he had not the resources left to achieve his objective, but with help he was convinced that it was possible.'

'I see. I would say that agreeing to this would put Captain Arines and the 567th well beyond the remit laid down for them by the Lord General. Would you agree?'

'Beg pardon, sir, but I would not. The enemy is dissolute and difficult to pin down. They are using guerrilla tactics well suited to the terrain. The 567th is merely doing what they have been told to do by maintaining martial law in the area surrounding the fuel depot. It just happens that this coincides with the objectives laid down for the Praetorian unit.'

'Hm!' Breton almost shrugged. Vaughn could see in his reaction that he was convinced by this logic, and yet he was obviously under orders to maintain an air of scepticism.

'I understand that Major Corgan has been listed as missing in action, would it not fall to you to lead the regiment in battle?'

'In ordinary circumstances perhaps it would, but the 567th has not been deployed as a conventional line unit. I was charged with maintaining discipline and order from the central command post. We have new recruits who will need to be broken in. I am the best qualified to do this. As for the Major, contact was lost during the morning skirmish as he went in pursuit of a mercenary unit. No body has yet been recovered and Arines decided that a search and rescue operation would stretch the regiment too thin, what with all the hostile activity in the area. Arines himself is an eminently capable man.'

'We shall see. I cannot help but call his decision making into question, but then the same already applies to Major Corgan. In all honesty this day has been a complete debacle in the Lord General's eyes.'

'I don't understand how that can be the case, sir. The 567th is pursuing an enforced peace, putting down rebels and mercenaries that have spread like a cancer throughout the district. The Praetorians have taken their objective and as yet have held stoically onto it, albeit with help. May I ask what would you have done differently?'

'I am not beholden to answer to you, Commissar,' Chaffed drawled, taking the reigns firmly in hand once more. 'But let us not quibble over today's events. Despite the loss of life we appear to have made certain gains. Instead let us steer our course in a slightly different direction. The man standing to my left is one of stature in certain Imperial circles. He has brought various things to my attention and I would like know your thoughts on them. Inquisitor Dross, would you care to take the floor?'

'Yes, of course,' said the brown-coated man, bursting into quick, efficient motion as he moved to the desk and took up a dataslate. He fixed a pair of optics to the bridge of his nose and held the slate at arm's length as he scanned the contents.

'I would like to ask you a few questions, Commissar, about your commanding officer and certain events that may or may not have transpired on the non-compliant world of Fered Roathi IV some four years ago.'

Dross paused for effect, letting the import of his words sink in. Vaughn felt beads of cold sweat spring up on his temples. Fered Roathi was Pandora's Box for the 567th. There was no telling what you might find if you asked too many questions. For Vaughn it was the crucible that had moulded him into the man he was. But very little of what had happened in that war would stand up to a determined interrogation.

'After the initial assault on Pelloris Ridge,' Dross continued, speaking in curt, clipped tones and sounding as though he were addressing a court room, 'and the clandestine operations undertaken by various elements of the penal battalion, there commenced a period of occupation preceding the final assault on the Administratum complex. Is this correct?'

'Yes, sir. We spent several weeks consolidating our position whilst simultaneously trying to contain the enemy forces within the complex itself.'

'I see. At this time, Major Corgan had been promoted from within the ranks of the penitent to Centurion.' He made this statement sound like a question. Vaughn stayed silent.

'This in itself seems strange to me, despite his "heroic" deeds. But to note that he was subsequently elevated to regimental commander in time for the final assault seems incredible.'

'It was a singular turn of events, Inquisitor.'

'Let me rephrase, Commissar, in order to make plain the scale of my incredulity; I would not, in a million years, give any credence to the rumour that such a man could advance so quickly through the ranks as evidenced by these reports.'

Another pregnant pause. Vaughn stood and sweated, feeling like he was being interrogated.

'This scepticism led me to dig a little deeper into the archives. I have to say that what I discovered disturbed me greatly. This,' he waved another data slate in Vaughn's direction, 'was sealed by Inquisitorial mandate, the signature belongs to none other than Inquisitor Armenio himself, an influential member of the Ordos who I believe was ultimately involved in the purging of the Administratum complex. It contains detailed information on the investigation centred around a flurry of deaths within the Fifth Legion. These deaths followed hot on the heels of Major Corgan's initial promotion to Centurion. I'm sure you remember, Commissar, after all you were the one that headed up the investigation?'

'I do remember. I was initially charged with investigating the suspicious death of Centurion Halwin. This led me to make certain assumptions and possible connections to other deaths amongst the regimental elite. Unfortunately there was never any concrete proof in order to arrive at a conviction.'

'Indeed. There were suspects, however?'

'Yes, sir.'

'The prime suspect was none other than Major Corgan himself, was he not? How did you arrive at this dissemination?'

'Initially through the fact that he benefited from each of these deaths. He was able to provide alibis for all of them, but none were what I'd call watertight.'

'I find it hard to believe that a reliable scapegoat was ruled out in such a matter. Surely someone had to be called to task?'

'You must understand, Inquisitor. Many of the men we took from Orrax were killers; Guard deserters, murderers, gangers from all the hive worlds of the segmentum. The more suspicious deaths could have been put down to any number of these shady types. The other deaths, despite my suspicions, could just as easily have been mere coincidence, being brought about by their own internecine politics or the machinations of the enemy.'

'Happy coincidence for our man Corgan, wouldn't you say?'

'Without doubt. But I must say that since his advancement I have never found him wanting. Nor have I once had cause to engage in summary execution since his ascension. He is not a good man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I have come to believe that he is a great man. You will not find a single trooper within the 567th that would disagree.'

'That is very charming, Commissar Vaughn. How do the men of your regiment feel about the very real possibility that this morning he deserted from the Imperial Guard to further pursue his own inexplicable ends?'

'That's preposterous…'

'Hardly,' Dross sneered, tossing the data slate back onto the desk with a derisory motion. 'His record speaks for itself. Even before his internment on Orrax he proved himself to have an ingenious, self-serving criminal intellect. When his illegal interests on Necromunda were threatened by a legitimate Guild concern he did nothing less than incite a turf war that could have sent Hive Primus itself spiralling into anarchy. It is by fortune alone that he was captured, and should he not have been executed for his crimes. Of course, so why was he spared?'

Dross had no intentions of waiting for an answer.

'I'll tell you why… the judge that presided over his case was bought off. Corgan had already planned for the eventuality and had, through his own shadowy machinations, managed to put a very influential law-man in his very pocket.

'I'll not speak at any length of the murderous time he spent on Orrax, suffice it to say that a number of corpses were put at his feet.

'And then, when he signed up for the penal legions and was shipped to his inevitable doom on Fered Roathi he manage to slip fate once again. He was brought to the courts martial accused of gross negligence during the assault on Pelloris Ridge and it is my opinion that he was only acquitted by dint of incompetence on the prosecution's part. And you! You yourself were pressed into defending this ignoble man, whom you would later come to suspect of the multiple murders of his entire command cadre!'

Dross walked the floor with a passion as he laid down his diatribe, gesticulating wildly with his arms and going red in the face with sheer outrage. Vaughn felt himself shrinking into his great-coat. Suddenly his peaked cap felt three sizes too big. He couldn't think for long enough to wonder where this summation was headed, but he knew that there was a bar of lead settling in his stomach.

'I put it to you, Commissar,' Dross continued, his tones coming down to less fervent levels, 'that it was none other than Draven himself, afflicted by some sycophantic urge to play along with this man's subterfuge, that suppressed the findings of your investigation into the deaths of his superior officers. Armenio was his cohort in this, accessory to the gross injustice that has been perpetrated…'

'I refute that statement, Inquisitor. Commissar-General Draven is an upright man…'

'Do not speak to me of Draven, Commissar. He is now and has always been wreathed in corruption! There can be no denying it!'

Vaughn clenched his jaw. So much of what the Inquisitor was saying had the ring of truth to it and yet the import of what he was saying would have far reaching consequences that would bring a great many influential men down in disgrace. Vaughn had always suspected Corgan of orchestrating those deaths, perhaps even perpetrating them himself. He always was the hands-on type. And yes, it had rankled when Draven had called the young bloodhound-Vaughn off his scent, but since that day he had seen Corgan – with all his flaws – lead the 567th with stoic good sense and unstinting bravery.

And to insult Draven! Oh, the very man that had imparted to Vaughn everything he held to be true and right in the Imperium,… that was calling Vaughn himself into question. If the mighty Raven was corrupt, then Vaughn must, by his very association, be complicit in that corruption.

He felt himself reach a crossroads. It was so sudden that for a moment he could have sworn the floor had been swept from beneath his feet.

'All is not lost, Commissar Vaughn,' Dross breathed, soft as goose-down. He fixed his blood-shot eyes on the younger man with an intense, proprietary expression. 'You are not lost to us yet, my boy…'

Vaughn was faced with what might prove to be the most difficult choice of his adult life. Either road might lead to salvation, but neither was without its own perils. And for the first time since finding out about Corgan's disappearance, he began to think it might not be such a bad thing.

xxx

The darkness brought a morbid kind of peace down upon the Kella District, the reaper's black cloak drawn across the expanses of the sky.

The fuel depot remained in Imperial hands. The mercenaries had broken and faded into the adjacent neighbourhood. It had not been achieve bloodlessly. The cost was high.

Lita had been shipped back to HQ minus a foot. As if that wasn't bad enough her second, Loeval, was dead, his entire squad listed as missing. Frocar had tried to move up into the ground she had won but they were forced back by snipers, barely managing to get Lita's surviving troopers clear.

Darron had taken significant losses as well, fighting a close-quarters battle throughout the broken ruins to the west. But the Praetorians had borne the brunt of the fighting, backed up by a severely under-strength Cerberus Company. Valint maintained command and he wore it well, bolstering his men and the men that had joined him with Woltz's timely arrival and subsequent untimely lapse into unconsciousness.

At midnight the tankers arrived. Those few pumps that were still operable and deemed safe to use were put to work replenishing the Imperial Guard's waning fuel supplies.

Today it was victory. Tomorrow was destined to be just another day in the Guard!