I regain consciousness to the sound of a woman's agonized scream. I slowly open my eyes, squinting against the sodium-white glare of the overhead lumens. I am stripped of my armor and strapped to an operating table within the Vicarious Atonement's confined apothecarion, my thoughts sluggish due to the potent pain-inhibitors Andlar has injected into my bloodstream. I wonder groggily why a woman is screaming so close by – then I remember: the interior bay of the Thunderhawk is crammed to capacity with liberated slaves, mostly women and children, being ferried from the labyrinthine mining systems of Slaughterhouse III to our battle-barge, the Daughter of Tempests. I am also being evacuated, too badly mauled by the power-claws of an ork mekboy to remain with my squad. Ashamed by my combat-ineffectiveness I drift towards the darkness again, seeking respite in the temporary forgetfulness of drug-induced oblivion.

The woman screams again, a long drawn-out wail of pain. I force my eyes open a second time and look to my right. A makeshift privacy curtain has been hung between me and the wounded human, sparing me the sight of more mortal misery. She sounds as if she is dying. She likely is. The orks did not take kindly to the mass slave uprising our assault forces instigated upon making planetfall. When Andlar returns to my side I will chastise him for not giving her the Emperor's Mercy; at this point it is nothing short of deliberate cruelty to allow her suffering to continue – yet the young Calix is such a persistent, hopeful soul, always fighting to save as many lives as he possibly can, regardless of the odds.

"Yes, that's it, Crinni – keep going; it's almost out. Come, just one more...one more good push…"

Andlar's voice is both encouraging and commanding and the woman cries out as if she is being torn open. Then she falls silent. The scent of fresh blood fills the apothecarion. Andlar curses aloud, then starts murmuring under his breath, speaking softly to someone who does not respond. I am glad I am not a Sanguinary Priest. It takes a Lamenter with exceptional mental and spiritual fortitude to endure being continuously immersed in dead and dying battle-brothers. Tending to the injuries of unenhanced humans is an additional burden many within the Calix Brotherhood willingly assume – though their efforts at preserving the fragile lives of the mortals under their care often come to grief.

Then I hear a new cry. It is not the woman. And suddenly I understand. Andlar gives a boyish whoop of delight and rips aside the privacy curtain separating us. The Sanguinary Priest has removed his gauntlets and his bare hands are brightly crimsoned with blood. With a smile more radiant than Sol itself he holds out a wailing baby cradled in the cupped palm of one oversized hand.

"She's breathing!" he announces triumphantly, his eyes filled with wonder and relief, "I got her to breathe! Look, brother – she's perfect! Isn't she perfect? Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the whole world?"

Beaming, Andlar presents the girl-child to me, as proud as any father. The newborn's miniscule body is slick and glistening with birthing fluids and her mother's own lifeblood. Her skin is pink and she possesses a full head of dark brown hair. I can see no visible defects or mutations. She smells fresh and clean and vibrant – a brand-new being overflowing with pure life, unsullied by the war and traumas of an uncaring galaxy. I nod and make an enthusiastic gargling noise I hope will adequately convey my agreement with my brother's sentiments. My lower jaw is missing, along with most of my tongue. The girl continues to cry lustily, testifying to a pair of strong, well-developed lungs.

Is she hungry? I sign to Andlar in battle-cant with my remaining hand. The Calix frowns, uncertain. "I'm not sure. Do babies need to drink milk right after they are born?"

How should I know? You're the Apothecary! I sign back in exasperation. Andlar shrugs his pauldrons, at a complete loss. "I'm as much in dark as you are. I was not schooled in the arts of midwifery."

Maybe she is cold. You should wrap her in something.

"Ah, yes – good idea." Without hesitation Andlar tears the decorative linen loincloth from around his waist and spreads it out across my chest. "Hold still, brother," he commands needlessly as he gingerly lays the crying newborn down on top of me. "You will be warm soon, little one," he promises the distraught infant as he begins to carefully wrap her up as if she were the most sacred of Chapter relics. "Brother Andlar will make you as snug and comfy as the Emperor Himself upon His blessed Throne."

I choke out a laugh. I don't think the Emperor is 'snug' or 'comfy' on the Golden Throne, Andlar.

"It's a figure of speech, you dolt," the Calix snaps as he finishes swaddling the still-screaming newborn. "Hush, now – you should stop crying and go to sleep or something; there's no need to fret, Brother Imarich will take good care of you while I'm gone."

What? No! I don't know anything about babies! I protest, alarmed. Andlar grins in amusement. "I'm just going to see if any of the female slaves can provide me with additional information; relax, brother. I shall return soon."

He leaves the apothecarion before I can object further; with great care I place my good hand protectively over the small helpless human resting on my chest. Even through the layers of fabric I can feel her single heartbeat pulsing steadily alongside my own. I shall cherish you always, little sister… I vow to her silently as the darkness beckons and I close my eyes once more.