Tyrant's Trap

Below the glittering monuments and verdant gardens of Meridian's capitol, the spire is built upon layers of tunnels and passageways. Hidden from the surface splendour, these rockrete mazes stretch for miles, digging deep into the planet's crust, connecting the Spire levels, from the resplendent Upper city, to the scum of the Underhive. In the depths, violence and crime are the way of life.

The air was dank with, hot steam mixing with the ubiquitous stench of oil and sewage to create a vile soup that fills the cramped tunnels. The passage itself was filled with people, adding the odour of sweat and human waste to the already choking air. With the security curfews in place, the access routes to the secure Hab blocks were quickly turning into a logistics nightmare for the relief crews. Too many refugees, not enough room. The upper habs had already been filled, and as space was swallowed up, things became desperate. Desperate people did stupid things.

And all this, it watched, with unblinking eyes.

"Look, all I'm saying is that we need some sort of motto, a regimental creed," said Remer, ducking under a low hanging pipe. The ground was covered in a two inch layer of water, dripping off the steaming pipes. "I mean, the 8th Cadian, for example. 'Mess with the Best, Die like the Rest.' That's what we need, something that'll put the fear of Terra into the cults."

"What about 'Don't Fear the Remer'?" said Vornas. "If I have to listen to you any longer I'll find a new use for these pipes. A field tracheotomy."

"I didn't know you qualified for medic work, Bor," said Remer.

"I didn't," said the larger man, "so shut up."

"Calm down, you two, we're almost to the service elevator," came Kippler's voice from up ahead. Two months of Spire patrol sounded like a vacation on paper, but in reality meant crawling through tight, enclosed spaces doing the sort of work that was usually cut out for Arbites riot teams. The heat and constant hissing of steam from the service tunnel wasn't helping things.

Kippler and Alek were leading the way. They'd done this route a dozen times over the past weeks, but it was still a maze and easy to get lost. Kippler's sense of direction was the only thing keeping them from going in circles some days. They needed a change. More importantly, they needed a rest.

Merrick was still imprisoned, and while Hurst was awake again, his physiotherapy sessions had kept him from returning to the squad any time soon. So command fell to Corporal Soras Kippler. Dealing with Remer and Vornas from a position of authority had given him new respect for how well Hurst and Merrick managed the pair. The sooner the boss was back the better.

Finally reaching the service elevator, Kippler flipped the switched and leaned against the lift's cage. It would take him days to get all the sludge out of his armor. His long las he cleaned every day, regardless of location, but even it was starting to rust from the condensation. Somehow, that hurt Kippler more than a bullet wound ever would.

Alek wasn't well. Hardly a surprise, but Soras still felt the need to ask all the same. "Feeling all right Alek?"

He was clutching his hand, curled up in a fist. "Servos in my fingers are all shot from water damage," he muttered. "they keep shorting out and zapping my hand. Hurts, bad."

"I'll say, we'll need the quartermaster to look into that."

"Feh," laughed Alek bitterly. "He'll just say the same thing he always says. 'Sorry lad, I'm all out of fingers today, maybe come back tomorrow when I've got a new head for you so you can stop asking me the same frakking question every day!'"

Kippler chuckled quietly. The elevator opened up on level 225, still in the lower sections of Capitol Spire. At least they could see the sky from here, even if it was barely a slit between the overhangs and stretched awnings covering the narrow streets. People gave the guardsmen a wide berth, either out of respect or apprehension, it didn't matter to Kippler. They left them alone and didn't cause trouble, and he had no trouble with the civvies.

"What about this? 'Emperor's Devils'?" continued Remer, "Too dark? Why not 'Dare to be Better?'"

Vornas rolled his eyes. "Remer, allow me to reiterate my last point. Shut up." The big man's fist connected with Remer's jaw, knocking the trooper flat on his back. Without stopping to offer a hand, Vornas just kept walking, leaving Remer to nurse his jaw, and his pride.

Fifteen minutes, and the line had barely moved through the checkpoint. The people were becoming agitated. It could smell their emotions as sharply as the odours that afflicted the crowd. All it had to do was manipulate them, a subtle clicking noise here, a clatter of metal there, anything that would keep them on edge. It moved around the crowd's edges, darting from shadowy alcoves and across metal gantries. Eventually, it settled on an old balcony overlooking the service tunnel.

It made sure to leave subtle hints of its presence. Nothing overt, but enough to sew further fear and anxiety amongst the humans below. Fear was in its very nature, and the proper application of the emotion could lead to a cascade of terror that would allow the thing to move freely... and take it's next victim.

Continuing through the slums, Kippler kept a sharp eye open for any trouble. Getting jumped by hive gangers was the last thing he needed after their patrol. He just wanted to get back to the billet and sleep, but Soras knew he'd be damned if he let his guard down for a second. The crowd's aversion to them was becoming a problem. Their distance meant the Daredevils were still in the open, even down here.

"Come on, let's pick it up," he said. The checkpoint wasn't far ahead. A large line filled the passageway, but their passes would let them skip ahead. Still keeping an eye open, Kippler lead the four troopers onwards, cutting a path through the throng of people.

Vikel was shaking violently. The kalma was wearing off, he was going into withdrawal. With all these people around, he didn't know how long he could last. Vikel needed to get home, he needed another stim to keep him going. The claustrophobia was returning. Sweat was running down his neck, he gripped his left hand tightly to stop the shakes. He couldn't take much more of this.

Four offworlders, Guard, were pushing through the crowd, their leader's mask covering his face with a red visor glare. They were looking right at him, he knew it. They knew that he was on the stims. They were going to take him in. Vikel started to panic. His eyes darted from left to right, looking for a way out of the crowd. He had to get out of here, it couldn't end like this.

It noticed a heightened tension in the crowd. Isolating the source, the watcher lay poised to strike. Any second now.

Vikel couldn't stop his hand from shaking. His palms were sweating heavily, but his grip tightened around the autopistol's handle. The offworlder put his hand on Vikel's shoulder, pushing him aside. Vikel snapped. "No, not like this, not like this!"

The autopistol came flying out, shots going wild as Vikel desperately tried to run. The crowd panicked, people dropping from the shots, screaming and fleeing. The people surged towards the checkpoint, jamming into the tunnel to escape the madman. In seconds, the tunnel had turned into total chaos.

Now, now was the time to strike. It leapt from its perch, claws outstretched, into the prey below.

Kippler leapt backwards when the hive man pulled the gun and started shooting. People were falling from gunshot wounds, others were screaming, fleeing from the shooter or rushing the checkpoint. The PDF officers were trying to hold the wave of people back, but hundreds of rampaging bodies were pouring over the guard rails towards the service cars. The PDF troopers began firing, vainly trying to hold back the refugees.

Kippler swiftly brought his long las to his shoulder. The gunman's head disappeared in a puff of red vapour, disintegrated by the beam. "Head's down!" he shouted. Alek, Vornas and Remer dropped into a defensive position, their guns raised.

Before he could issue another order, something big landed in the middle of the crowd. An inhuman shriek droned out the terrified screams of its victims, torn to shreds by the beast's razor sharp claws. Those further away were snatched by whip like tendrils extending from its maw. The sharp harpoons pierced a crying woman's legs, and she clawed at the ground while the was dragged back towards the monster.

"Lictor!" shouted Remer. The Daredevils began firing at the skeletal Tyranid. The las shots were absorbed by the Lictor's carapace, and the grenadiers didn't want to risk firing off explosives in the crowd. The beast chased after the stream of people fleeing past the checkpoint. Between the PDF trooper's gunfire and the narrow access route, it would be a slaughter.

"gak!" cursed Kippler. "Remer, flamer, now!" Remer nodded and set to assembling the handheld flamethrower from his kit webbing. If they could get close enough to the bug to torch it, they might force it off from the civilians.

The Lictor's claws and talons were ripping through the packed humans, feeder tendrils embedding into people's skulls repeatedly while the Tyranid fed. Like cattle herded into a slaughterhouse, they were being cut down in droves. Kippler fired more shots at the beast, trying to get its attention. He spotted something: a small, pink, fleshy patch between segments of the Lictor's bone white leg. Kippler aimed for the opening, and fired.

The shot went cleanly through the Lictor's hind leg, splattering green ichor across the ground, hissing steam as it splashed. The Tyranid shrieked, its head swiveling around to gaze at him with glowing yellow eyes. A feeder tendril shot out of its mouth. Kippler dived out of the way, the flesh hook barely missing his foot. The beast turned towards the guardsmen.

Remer finished attaching the pilot light to the flamer and hoisted the weapon up. The Lictor was limping, its right leg bleeding heavily. "Fry you son of a bitch!" he roared, dousing the monster with liquid promethium. The Lictor screeched, flailing in the burning pitch. The Tyranid collapsed to the ground, writhing in the flames. The Daredevils filled the Xeno with las fire until it stopped twitching.

As the smoke cleared, Kippler looked around in horror at the massacre. Dozens of people were dead, torn limb from limb by the Lictor's ambush. Countless more were wounded, mostly, Soras noted, from Lasgun shots fired by the PDF troopers. The troopers were found trampled to death, buried under the fleeing stampede.

Remer stood over the charred remains of the Lictor. "Where do you think it came from?" he wondered aloud.

"Probably left over from the invasion," said Vornas. "Who knows how long it's been down here? We're lucky we got it when we did."

"What's lucky about forty people being killed?" spat Kippler, picking up his long las. "Coming or not, I'm going home." He stormed off towards the service cars, not bothering to look if the other three were following. It wasn't his problem anymore. The PDF could clean up down here. Kippler and the Daredevil's had done their job.

He was silent on the ride back up to the upper level. When Alek came by later that evening to ask if he was coming down to the Bunker, he refused. He took his bath, and drank alone that night. Even when they did right, Soras always saw where they could have done more, but didn't. The Hive Fleet had been wiped out nearly three years ago, and it was still causing problems.

If the past could haunt them for that long, what hope was their against the cultists? If their job was never truly finished, what could they look forward to? Soras sat alone in his quarters, mulling over the futility of the past three years until he fell asleep. In his liquor addled dreams, he relived watching that monster tearing through the helpless people over and over, experiencing the horror in every agonizing moment.

Kippler doubted he would ever sleep well again after that day. And all there was to look forward to was the next dawn, and the next step nowhere.

The Xenobane

The great doors to the cathedral sank back into place with a muffled thud, showering the last few stragglers with the accumulated dust of centuries. The air was thick with incense, a heavy smell that thickened the air and clung to the skin like a film. The candles cast a warm glow over the cathedral's halls, a calming contrast to the harsh service lights in the billets. Gren and Flinn sat together on a filled pew, surrounded by refugees, holy men, and other soldiers, listening as the preacher continued the daily sermons.

In times of doubt, faith was often the only thing standing a man and his end. For Gren, at least, it helped to soothe his thoughts, help him forget what had happened that awful day. The blast, the noise, and then nothing. He and Flinn would have been dead as well, gone in an instant, if they hadn't stopped to talk to the Artemians. He didn't say anything, but Gren quietly appreciated the lad's company. Faces came and went, but his was constant. It helped ground Gren's perception of reality. Flinn would never know how much it meant to him.

Things were quiet now, around Angel Hive. Those bloody cogboys had managed to end years of constant skirmishes in one moment, flattening Spire Legis with nuclear weaponry. From there, fighting had become little more than a mop-up operation, taking out small, uncoordinated cells. The Hounds of Vandis were gone, at last. For the first time since the First Crusade, life on Meridian had returned to normal. The cost had been great, too many dead friends to count, but Gren felt it was time to put his demons to rest.

No major offensives, just guard duty. The fighting had moved on from the Capital. The outlying systems in the Subsector were the new fronts now. Meridian was a stable base of operations for the Imperium once again. The Forge was churning out supplies readily once again, and Capitol Spire gleamed ever golden, the extensive repairs finally showing progress. All things told, life was pretty good. The ravaged Vendoland regiments could at last rest easy. Starting with going back to Church.

Nobody ever said anything, but the missionaries attached to the Guard regiments were almost universally hated by the Vendolanders. Screaming fanatics, intent on 'inspiring' troopers to greater heroism, were constantly botching ambushes, betraying locations to enemy patrols, and generally being a nuisance. Gren much preferred the quiet seclusion of the chapel, where he could worship in peace, rather than under fire. Keeping faith and fury separate was a difficult task, but he had managed to strike a balance.

The preacher's sermon reached a particular line. "The heart of the faithful was consumed by the hunger of doubt, until all that remained was the instinct of a beast, unknowing, uncaring, and forever lost."

Strong words, thought Gren, as the service ended. He repeated the phrase over in his head on the walk back to the barracks. Flinn pulled his cloak tighter around himself, shivering. The cold winter weather blanketed the streets with a layer of snow, and fierce winds gusted down the alleys. "I find it amazing that so many brave this weather for a service," said Flinn.

"Faith is a strong motivator, lad," said Gren. "Emperor knows, it motivates me. What were you going to do before curfew?"

The boy shook his head. "I was going down to the Gulch to see the new arrivals," he said excitedly. Flinn was beaming.

"That doesn't sound very exciting. Who's coming that has you so excited?"

" It's the Cadians! Emperor blessed Cadians themselves, here in the Subsector. Remer from 4th Company was putting together a 'welcoming committee' for them, but most people just want to get a look at them."

That was interesting, thought Gren. Everyone in the Guard had heard of Cadia. Details were often vague, but the regiments that served alongside them universally considered the Cadians to be the best trained soldiers they had ever seen. They were a legend unto the Guard, as respected as the holy Space Marines themselves. They were an ideal to look up to, a shining example of humanity's finest.

Gren let out an impressed whistle. "Well, that does sound like fun. Perhaps I will come along. It isn't like I was signing up for Undercity patrol. Lead the way, lad."

"Don't you love it how 'two months confinement' can magically turn into three when you weren't looking?" said Merrick.

Hurst didn't look up from his book. "You were keeping count?"

"Wasn't anything else to do in there," muttered Merrick. "Forty two floor tiles, the left wall had a dent from a previous occupant, and the lights went out at exactly nine thirty. Meals were twice a day, seven hours apart on the dot. And they still couldn't get my release date right. I'm betting it was Connor's idea."

"Perhaps she ran out of punishments for Remer and moved onto you."

The Bunker, the Vendolander's regular pub, was relatively quiet today. The pit fights wouldn't start up until the evening, and most of the troopers on leave had gone down to the docking bay to catch a glimpse of the Cadians. Merrick and Hurst sat at their regular booth on the third level, overlooking the cage pits below. A lone servitor with scrubbers was washing the blood stains from the platform. The regularly blaring Gang-Rock music had been replaced by a tranquil piece from the Spire's artisan quarter.

Hurst set down his novel, "Really though, Gerard, I am glad to see you again. It gives me somebody to talk to while Kippler has the boys out."

Merrick took another long drink. A cold draught was heavenly after nothing but prison food. He savoured the thick lager's taste as it trickled down his throat, conjuring nostalgic feelings for a brewery on Vendoland, many years before. "Back still stiff?"

Hurst fidgeted in his seat, stretching his shoulders. "The doctor said I'd make a full recovery in time. I've got about eighty percent of my mobility back, she says. It still hurts when I strain myself, but I'll be fine."

"Mhmm," grunted Merrick, face buried in his pint. "I hope so."

Hurst spoke softly. "It wasn't your fault, Merrick."

"I know that, and I'm not blaming myself," said Merrick. "It was a bs situation to begin with. I made a call I thought was right, and I'm standing by it. It doesn't mean I can't feel bad about what happened to you, or feel a little bit responsible. You're my friend, and I watch out for my friends. I'll save my anger for the cults."

"And Remer," added Hurst with a smile. The two shared a chuckle.

"And Remer."

Merrick grabbed another ale, popping the cap off the table edge. Wadden picked up his book and flipped back to his bookmark. "The officers still haven't told me when they're letting me back on active duty, Waddy. With the lull, it could be a while before we get deployed again."

"Maybe I could get them to speed up the process," offered Hurst. "I could talk to the Captain and maybe convince him."

"Maybe," said Merrick. Captain Uther got along well enough with Hurst. They were of the same mind, career oriented professionals with a bizarre respect for paperwork. If Uther would listen to any enlisted man, it would be Waddy. He'd make RSM in no time, if he didn't get selected for a commission first.

"I was thinking," started Hurst. "I... have some pull back home. On Vendoland. It's been years, but I'm sure they would listen. I could make Uther give you your command back if I wanted. No need to ask, just tell him to do it."

"You really thing you can boss around the Captain?" laughed Merrick. "With Commissar 'I will stab you with my sword if you hurt my Lars' Connor standing behind you?"

Hurst shrugged, shifting his shoulders back and forth. He seemed unusually wary, cautiously glancing to the other patrons to make sure nobody was listening in. "Possibly. An astropathic message to my family would be all it takes."

"And who's your father? The Archduke of Dartour?" said Merrick, leaning back in his seat, arms folded behind his head. This should be good, he thought. Hurst threw up his hand in defeat, shaking his head.

"The Duke of Raiylis Principality, actually," sighed Hurst. Merrick was quiet as he processed what he was hearing. Hurst was pulling his leg, surely.

"You're... you're a blueblood?"

"Twelfth in the line of succession. Politics never interested me, so I joined up at the Founding Fields. Been enlisted ever since."

"And you never thought to tell anyone?" said Merrick incredulously. "You could have made Colonel on your name alone, and you're slumming it as a sergeant?"

"My family's status isn't important to what I want, and that type of thinking is exactly why I joined the infantry," said Hurst, shaking his head. "I want to be an officer, but I wanted to know how to fight and earn my position, rather than get in on nepotism. I needed to prove I could do it."

Merrick was shocked. He'd figured that Hurst's aristocratic angle was just a result of higher education, something few people in the Guard achieved. But an actual, honest to god noble was sitting across from him, and he'd never known. "Why leave your family though?" he asked.

Hurst's expression was hard, but unreadable. "It was a good reason, and one I'd like to keep to myself. Maybe some other time. It's a difficult subject."

"Alright, I'll let it go."

Hurst was visibly uncomfortable talking about this. "You don't seem to mind as much as I thought you would. Does it bother you, now that you know?"

"I don't see how it would make much of a difference," said Merrick, surprised. "Everyone is equal in the Guard, theoretically. You've saved my skin, I've saved yours. I'd say we're level, blueblood or no."

"Good to hear. Let's change the subject."

Merrick waggled a finger. "Uh uh, first, let's get another round. You've been holding out on me with all that royal coin of yours, Waddy."

Wadden groaned, throwing an extra Throne down on the table. "Fine."

The vast troop carrier descended into the Gulch, the unofficial name given to Capitol Spire's spaceport. Dug into the side of the spire like a metal valley, the Gulch made the carrier look like a toy as it manoeuvred further down towards the larger moorings. The ship was emblazoned with Cadia's banner, a black and gold cross atop a red background, with the Aquila emblazoned across the center. Thruster pods moved the leviathan onto the landing platform's magnetic locks, ending with a deep rattle as the ship settled into a resting position.

The platform was packed with hundreds of troopers, as well as the usual dignitaries. Despite the tremendous winds blasting through the cavern, everyone wanted to see this for themselves. The reputation of the Cadian Shocktroopers was nothing short of legendary. They were the next best thing to a Space Marine that any of the Guardsmen could hope for.

Lenham Remer was scrambling to unfold a large cloth, fighting with the cords tying the bundle together. Finally giving up, he drew his knife and sliced the cord. The cloth unraveled to reveal a banner. Remer looked adoringly at his handiwork. It might not have been a properly made flag, being patched together with hastily dyed sheets and stitched with boot laces, but he was proud of how it had turned out. Alek appraised the banner, putting on his best impersonation of an art critic. Remer pointed eagerly to the words emblazoned across the bottom.

"In Princeps Gloria?" asked Alek. "What does it mean?"

"It's High Gothic, Alek. It means 'First Glory'. I was going to with 'Death or Glory' at first, but then someone pointed out that it was the motto of the Emperor's Royal Lancers. I thought, since we're usually the first ones in, our motto should reflect that."

"I think it's spelled wrong," said Vornas bluntly.

The shaggy black haired trooper didn't seem impressed. "Can you speak High Gothic then, Bor?" snapped Remer, folding his arms.

"No more than you can, genius," said Vornas.

"So? Does it really matter? It sounds good, doesn't it?"

Kippler hissed at them. "Quiet! Here they come, it's opening. Stand straight, let's try to show a little class, alright?"

The great loading ramps of the carrier extended, exposing the cavernous hold. And out they came. Marching in perfect unison, rank upon rank of pale skinned Guardsmen disembarked from their vessel. Each soldier's green uniform had a badge on the left shoulder. 39th Cadian, 'Xenobane'. The regimental officers lead the column, never missing a step, a testament to their drilled nature. But the thing that struck the gathered crowd the most were the eyes. The Cadians all seemed to share brilliant purple eyes, almost glowing in the cold winter light.

The crowd was wild, great cheers ringing out across the assembly. Remer and Vornas lifted their banner into the air, shouting excitedly. The Cadians never broke their cadence, but it was clear that they were enjoying the attention. Small grins occasionally flashed in the marching column, even as the troopers stayed utterly silent and dedicated. The regimental band played the Cadians to a stop, marching in position before snapping to attention. The crowd's noise level dropped to a hush.

The 39th Cadian's officer cadre approached the podium set up for General Tullassar Derim and the Spire welcoming committee. Officers, adjutants, commissars, dignitaries and missionaries formed the group, nodding with respect to the new arrivals. Climbing the stairs, the Cadian commander drew his sabre, offering it handle first to General Derim.

"By order of Segmentum Ultima Command, I, Colonel Raynis Moran, present to you the 39th Cadian Shocktroopers. May our service to the Father, our Emperor, guide us that we may see a new dawn this day."

Derim took the sabre in his hand, turning it over, inspecting it. The blade was engraved with the names of former saints of the Imperial Guard, heroes of old and ideals to aspire to. At the cross guard, beginning the line of saints, was the name every guardsman knew by heart. Ollanius Pius, the Light in the Dark. A thin smile crept at Derim's mouth as he admired the craftsmanship.

Seeing the weapon fit, Derim returned the blade to Moran. "I, Brigadier General Tullassar Derim, 31st Artemian, welcome you to Meridian. Your presence here is a testament to the devotion and tenacity of the Cadians. With such news from the Eye of Terror, that you are here gives us hope. We will gladly accept your forces, Colonel."

Moran spoke plainly. "The Cadians always pay their dues, General. We go where the Emperor wills."

"Indeed, as do we all. The 85th Vendoland are the resident unit stationed here. They will show you to your billets. Colonel Crassus shall be your guide. Accommodations have been made across the upper city, I trust they will be to your liking."

Moran shook Derim's hand, but his stony expression did not change. "I am sure they will be, General, thank you. However, I need to speak with the Command Staff immediately. Colonel, I trust your men will see to the Regiment's quarters. I expect to see you at this meeting as soon as possible."

"Is it truly that serious, Colonel Moran?" asked Derim.

"It is not safe to discuss in public, General. I will meet you at your headquarters in an hour."

An army of servitors and adepts began listing off billets and organizing transportation for the Xenobane, now breaking off into individual companies. Drums playing taps marched the units off towards their rides, allowing the troop carrier's munitions and vehicles to be unloaded.

"Emperor be damned, look at the size of that thing!" exclaimed Alek. He was pointing towards the vehicle bay of the carrier. A colossal tank, bristling with more guns than he could count, rolled out onto the platform, followed by two more. The Daredevil's collective jaws dropped. The tanks were each the size of a small city block, dwarfing the Leman Russes that debarked alongside them.

The look of awe was etched into their faces even as the lead behemoth rolled immediately past them. From the top hatch, a crewman smiled down at them, clearly enjoying their childlike fascination with his ride.

"Never seen a lady like this, have you, lads?" he laughed. The man's accent was thick with rolling "Rs" and long "Os", with a gruffness matched only by his impressive beard. He tapped the side of the tank's turret. "This, gents, is the Baneblade, the Emperor's own eleven barrels of hell. Commander McTavish, at your service."

A Baneblade. Remer whistled, it certainly looked like it could live up to its name. While the tank trundled past, McTavish noticed Remer's flag. He squinted to read the text. "You spelled it wrong."

Remer deflated. "Oh," he said, clearly embarrassed.

McTavish just shook his head, grinning. "Not to worry, I wager there will be enough glory to go around. I'll be making my mark soon enough. "

"Is that a bet?" said Remer slyly, immediately perking back up. His mind was already working on calculating odds if this McTavish decided to play along. The tank commander simply winked.

"No sir, that's a promise. I'll buy the first round, and then we'll see who ends up covering the second."

The tank division continued to trundle towards the platform's end. Remer jogged alongside to keep up with McTavish. "The Bunker, nine o'clock this evening! We can go over the finer details!"

"I look forward to it, mate!" called McTavish before swiveling around in the turret. The Cadians on their way, the crowd dispersed. Vornas nudged Remer in the ribs.

"I think he's got you on this one. How exactly do you plan on beating a tank?"

Remer pushed Vornas off him. "I'll think of something, just you wait and see. First I've got to think up a new slogan..."

The Oncoming Storm

"Sergeant Merrick?"

Merrick and Hurst looked up to see the young man waiting at the end of the table, holding a letter. He was one of the liaisons between the Adeptus Arbites and the Vendolanders, marked by his service badge denoting him as military police.

"Yeah, what is it?" asked Merrick.

The aide handed him the note. "Message for you, sir. It is from Captain Talros, 12th Spire Precinct. He said he wanted to speak with you and Sergeant Hurst immediately. He didn't say what for, only that it was vital that he contact you. I wouldn't keep him waiting."

Hurst and Merrick shared a glance. What could the Arbites want with them? Merrick was just out of confinement, it wasn't as if they wanted to drag him back in. Getting up to leave, Merrick tossed a throne at the runner. "Here, have one on me."

"Thank you sir."

"Let's see what he wants, Waddy," said Merrick. Hurst pocketed his book and joined Merrick, venturing out from the warm confines of the pub to the cold, snow swept streets. It was a fifteen minute walk to the monorail terminal. Once they arrived, they could get some answers.

The Arbites Precinct was a massive, black slab that towered over the low residential habs surrounding it. Stepping off the monorail transport, Hurst and Merrick were immediately accosted by a servo-skull, laden with scanning devices and recording software. Once the biometric scan was complete, and the two Guardsmen's identities stored in the skull's databanks, the optic cluster turned green, allowing them to pass.

The Adeptus Arbites were the enforcers of Imperial Law, the galaxy spanning organization devoted to upholding the rules and regulations of the Imperium in every system under its control. They were an army unto themselves, far more suited to waging ground wars against rioting political activists and coup attempts than investigating domestic crimes. Meridian's Blue Watch police forces covered lesser crimes and local affairs, allowing the Arbites to work within the higher echelons of the Imperium.

Passing through the muster yard in front of the Precinct, Merrick noted each Arbiter's kit. They were clad in large black cloaks over a full body carapace. Only the lower half of their face was exposed from the armor, the mouth fixed in a perpetual scowl. Each carried a large riot shield, emblazoned with the Arbites symbol: a fist holding a balance scale embedded in a pillar. Not one said a word as they headed for the doors, the only sounds being the whine of patrol speeders and the buzz of wheeled vehicles in the distance. But they were being watched, not just by servo skulls. Merrick was sure of it. Better to be suspicious and right, then ignorant and dead.

The main lobby met the two with a warm gust of air, melting the snow that flecked their coats and bit at their skin. An entire bank of servitors awaited at the end of the room. Merrick and Hurst were pointed towards the building transit system. The tram traveled through the precinct, passing holding cells filled with malcontents. Merrick was reminded of his confinement. Compared to the conditions of the people in these cells, he realized that he had gotten off easy. They were little more than cages, packed with offenders awaiting the Judges' trials. If the Inquisition was the unseen will of the Imperium, then the Arbites were the public face. The crimes of heretics and malcontents were broadcast to the world for all to see, instilling fear into those who might emulate their crimes.

Talros's office overlooked the southern ends of Capitol Spire. Through the window, the still smoking ruins of Spire Legis could be seen, a radioactive pit all that remained. Captain Talros wore a black office uniform with red trim. His face appeared to have earned several more scars since the last time Merrick had seen him, back when the Hounds had infiltrated the Administratum complex. Food riots were still a concern, even in peacetime.

"Have a seat," said the Captain. Settling down in his own chair, Talros clasped his hands, looking darkly at the two Guardsmen. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No, thank you," said Hurst. "You wanted to see us, Captain?"

"Yes, I did." Talros presented a stack of paperwork before Hurst. "I have been assigned to investigate the incident regarding the friendly fire between the Adeptus Mechanicus and Imperial Guard forces three months prior. Normally, this would be a military matter settled within the Munitorium department, but Judge Percetus wanted his own report. When I saw your names on the file, I knew I had to speak with you.

"However, there was a slight complication, as I'm sure you are both aware. You, Merrick, were imprisoned, and Hurst was in an emergency ward for two months. I needed to speak to you both, hence why I've brought you here today."

"You have our medical records too?" asked Merrick skeptically.

Talros glared at him. "We are very thorough, Sergeant Major."

Hurst cut Merrick off before he could spit out a retort. "What do you need our help with, Officer?"

"Several things in this report do not add up in this report, particularly with regards to the Mechanicus's motivations. Think about it. By mere chance, you encounter a smuggling ring. It's not uncommon, but what it lead to is what troubles me. A sudden firefight between Mechanicus troops and Imperial Guard is reason enough for concern, but to end it all with a nuclear strike against a nearby Spire? And then Angel Forge, miraculously, starts working again. Nothing happens without a reason, and I know better than to assume these events are random coincidences. I want you to help me find the truth."

"You suspect that the Mechanicus is hiding something," surmised Wadden.

"I could have told you that," muttered Merrick.

"Indeed I do, Hurst," said Talros, pouring himself another cup. "Which is why I have enlisted your aid. You will help me in my investigation to uncover the truth behind these events. I can smell the corruption behind this incident, and I need proof."

"You can't seriously expect me to leave our squad for this," scoffed Merrick. "I'm a soldier, not a private investigator."

"Which you have made abundantly clear," snapped Talros. "I have already cleared your temporary transfer with your Regimental Command. Besides, you were not due back to active duty for another three weeks. Which gives you plenty of time to aid in my search."

"How the hell do you know when I am supposed to be back on duty?" growled Merrick. "I don't like secrets being kept from me. That usually ends with somebody dying on my watch."

"Like I said, we are very thorough. Your position as guardsmen gives me the advantage I need. There are still troops billeted at Angel Forge. If I go undercover with you two, then I stand a better chance of finding the proof we are looking for. I will garner less attention this way. It wouldn't look good to have an Arbitrator breaking down doors in broad daylight. A delicate touch is needed."

"When do we begin?" said Hurst, doing his best to make up for Merrick's abrasive attitude.

"Immediately. I will obtain supplies from the armory, meet me at landing pad C for departure in thirty minutes."

Talros stood up and left the room. In the hallway, Merrick voiced his displeasure. "This is ridiculous, Waddy. Why should we help this guy?"

"We don't seem to have much choice Merrick. He said it himself, it's already been cleared with Command. He's our new boss for the time being."

"I don't like getting thrown around from assignment to assignment like this," said Merrick bitterly.

"Well then you shouldn't have joined the Guard," said Hurst. "Look, Kippler can take care of the squad. I'm no good in a fight until my back is healed, so I might as well do something. Books can only take up so much time. You may not like it, but we're stuck in this, so stop complaining."

"Fine," said Merrick, folding his arms. "But I don't have to like it. I don't trust these guys."

"Nobody is asking you to. Come on, let's go."

The arrival of Raynis Moran and the Cadians marked an unprecedented turnout among the Command staff. Officers from every regiment in the Hive, trailing hundreds of aides and scribes, convened at the Strategic Headquarters. Whatever Moran had told General Derim, it was serious enough to warrant this grand meeting. There was an air of anticipation, tinged with dread among the congregation.

The circular room was dominated by hololithic charts mapping the entirety of Angel Hive, as well as the neighboring regions. From the speaker's dais, Colonel Moran's voice was projected throughout the hall, each chart updating to his new information. "Gentlemen, though I am thankful for the warm welcome my men and I have received, I fear that I must bring grave news. An Ork Rok is heading for Meridian as we speak."

Shock rippled through the room, people muttering to each other in hushed tones. They quickly silenced themselves as Moran continued. "Upon arrival in the Subsector, the naval convoy we were assigned to came under attack by a number of Ork vessels. Three supply ships were to follow us here. They never arrived at the second rendevous point. Before we made the Warp Jump, the ship's astropath sensed the presence of a massive anomaly. Sensor picts confirmed it to be an Ork Rok, matching our heading. We were followed."

Moran looked at Rear Admiral Zaritz, silently staring at the charts showing the disposition of Imperial Naval units operating in the Subsector. "Frankly admiral, this region of space has become a minefield for raiders, Xenos, and heretics," said Moran. "The Ork Rok could arrive at any time, and I am not confident in your ships' power to stop it from arriving."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe the word of an Astropath on such flimsy evidence?" scoffed the rear admiral. "This subsector is inundated enough with Naval ships as it is, we are more than capable of keeping our supply routes to the hinterland regions open."

Raynis didn't budge at Zaritz sleight. "I am simply giving you all this warning. The Greenskins are coming, make no mistake. A worst case scenario places their arrival here in four days. If luck and the Emperor's grace are on our side, it will be later. But we must use ever y second we can to prepare for an assault. Meridian is a prime target for the Orks, not just Angel Hive. When the Orks arrive, the entire planet will be consumed if we do not stand our ground."

"What of the Astartes?" asked one of the Corinthians. "Will the Blood Ravens aid us?"

"We cannot rely on the Astartes to turn the tide," said Tullassar, taking control of the conversation. "We are the Hammer of the Emperor, and we must trust in our own to blunt this invasion. The Space Marines have their own concerns, no doubt. If we cannot stand against the tide, then the Blood Ravens will do so alone. I am not about to make that gamble."

"The Orks are not to be underestimated, gentlemen," said Colonel Crassus of the Vendoland. Beside him stood several of his most trusted officers, including Captain Uther. Commissar Connor watched from the shadows alongside a cadre of other Commissariat officers. "The local infestations will undoubtedly join forces with this new Warboss. With their knowledge of city layouts, our fight will be that much harder."

"I concur with Crassus," said General Derim. "The Vendoland regiments have been here longer than any other. Their expertise on the layouts of the Hive will be a valuable asset in countering the Greenskins."

"Perhaps," said Crassus. " if we had not taken the brunt of our losses during that time. Less than a third of the Vendoland soldiers originally deployed here are still alive. Two regiments are in shambles, and my 85th Vendoland is dangerously undermanned. As forward scouts and reconnaissance, we can only help so much. We're line infantry at heart, sir. Our talents are wasted elsewhere."

Moran looked from Crassus to Tullassar. "The Colonel makes a strong point, General. If there was a way to consolidate the Vendoland regiments, they could form an effective spearhead unit."

"I agree," persisted Crassus. "As a heavy division, we would have enough staying power to lead an assault. Additionally, collecting our men under a unified banner would be good for morale. It would take some getting used to at first, but we fight more effectively together than split up between other units."

Tullassar stroked his chin, his face deep in thought. "The only thing that concerns me, Colonel, is the stance of the Munitorium on this endeavor. There is a reason that our regimental structure exists. If one regiment decides to go rogue, it will lack the means to effectively mount a rebellion against their former allies. What you are suggesting could potentially place too much power in the hands of the Vendolanders.

"In which case, I and others will be on hand to root out such heretical schemes in their infancy," said Connor sharply, stepping forward from the crowd. "I support this decision, if only for the fact that it will allow my charges to rebuild their squads. Too many units are at half strength, undermanned and outgunned. The Vendolanders need this. We are little more than cannon fodder otherwise."

"Then make the arrangements," said Moran. "We will need every able bodied man and woman ready to face this threat. I suggest we begin immediately."

"I'm telling you, Lenham, he has you beat. Give it up before you lose another one."

Kippler grinned at his friend's growing frustration. Remer and McTavish's contest was swinging further into the Cadian's favour with every new challenge. The night's current event was a game of darts, played with throwing knives. The bearded man flung another blade at the target board, the knife point sinking deep into the cork panel, further pinning it to the wooden wall. McTavish had landed three hits on the inner ring, while Remer had only achieved one hit, about an inch above the dart board. With the latest hit, Remer took another swig of ale, his seventh of the night.

"What I don't understand," said McTavish, "Is your lads' obsession with nicknaming everything. Dead Zone, the Gorge? Isn't it just as easy to call the Gorge a starport?"

Remer lurched over to the burly man, trying his best to look intimidating to someone a head taller than him. He prodded Grahm's barrel chest. His speech was slurred, "You want to know why we call 'em that? It's because it's fun! Why else would we do it? 'sssthe same reason why you have a motto for a regiment. Cos' iss' fun, that's why."

"And are you having fun yet, 'Lenny'"? teased Grahm. Remer was leaning into him, more for support now than pride.

"No! I'm gonna drink my week's pay away at this rate. An' don't call me Lenny. 'snot my name, an' it's not fun."

McTavish glanced over at Kippler. Soras just shrugged. With an unspoken agreement, they headed over to their booth overlooking the fighting pits. Several other Cadians had taken to the pits, carving out a slice of the competition and quickly beating down the local contenders.

The Artemians champion, "Mad Dog" Manrey, was still managing to hold his own, his maligned shape proving to be too slippery to catch. He would slide under an opponent's swing and grab a hold of his arm, pulling the man into range of his feet. Manrey fought more like an ape than a man, wild and untamed. Everything was fair game in the pits, and Manrey had practically invented a book's worth of underhanded tactics on his own.

The fighting pits were barely tolerated by Command. The arguments for stress relief and skills honing had narrowly eked out the detractors, claiming the violence promoted inter-service rivalries and grudge matches. Kippler didn't care much for the fights himself, but he wasn't about to force his opinions on the rest of the squad.

"So I expect you've seen a lot of combat," said Kippler, trying to strike up a conversation.

"Aye," said McTavish. "It's been a few years now since we were transferred off Cadia. I've lost track of how many fights we've been in. Ever hear of the Hrud?"

"No," siad Kippler, shaking his head.

"Exactly. Nobody here will remember them after what we did to those inhuman buggers. I can't wait to get my claws into the next xeno that decides he can tangle with a Baneblade."

Kippler glanced around the crowded floor. "Well, if the reports coming in from Typhon Primaris are accurate, that's shaping up to be the next big theater in the subsector. Orks, Eldar, Tyranids, you name it, they're on that planet. Makes me shiver thinking about it."

A hungry grin crossed McTavish's face. "Sounds perfect."

The night dragged on. McTavish and Remer finished their contest at thirteen drinks. Or rather, he collapsed upon finishing the thirteenth, and had to be dragged out of the center by Vornas and Alek. Kippler stayed behind to help clean up the mess Remer had left behind, and managed to skirt out into the streets just before the Blue Watch patrols started rounding up people out after curfew. His quarters were a warm welcome to the blistering cold swept streets.

Soras slept soundly that night. For once, the heady visions in his slumber were not flashes of violence, or apathy. He found comfort for a change. He didn't know why, but he embraced the calmness that had swept over him. For tonight, at least, Kippler slept in peace.

That peace would fade by the next day, when the call came.

Author's note: Apologies for the late update. I'd had this chapter 90% finished for quite a while, but as Exams came on, they took priority. So here it is.

Deep in the swirling eddies of the Warp, a massive asteroid hurdled towards Meridian. Whole sections of the craft had become unstable from the violent currents, and the metal decks shook with each wave of demonic energy. Yet somehow, this ramshackle amalgamation of rock and metal held together, either through mad science or sheer force of will. Such was the way of the Orks, and nowhere was their philosophy better represented than in their creations, such as the Rok.

Within the caverns and artificial hollows of the Rok, millions of Orks, Grotz, Snotlings, and all forms of the Greenskin ecosystem teemed. Under the dim and unreliable lights, Ork society functioned as it always had. Weapons were sharpened and loaded, and then tested on the nearest Grot. Riots and brawls happened in every corridor. The strong got stronger, and the weak were crushed underfoot, if they were too stupid to get out of the way. In the lower decks, where the warp shielding was not as powerful, the Boys fought the guaranteed Daemonic incursions as practice between systems. If something challenged an Ork to a fight, they would willingly oblige.

In what could be construed as the 'bridge' of the vessel, Warboss Smashface stomped around in a circle, clearly impatient. The MekBoy had shown up with some new invention, claiming it could get them where they needed to go faster. Smashface would have much rather been down roughing it up with the rest of the boys, but the Mek's idea had caught his attention. He hadn't counted on it taking so long to set up.

Smashface banged his hammer into the floor to get the tinkerer's attention. "Oi, if dis ting takes any longer the set up, I'll get yer closer to da humies just by frowing ya! Wotz taking it so long?"

"You can't rush perfectshun, Boss," grunted the Mek. "But if my here tellyporta box works, den we'z could jump right into da fight wivvout needin' dem drop ships! Ye just walk in one side, and da fightin's on the ovva side. Instint Transmishun, Boss!"

"If itz Intint Transmishun, why iz it takin' so long the set up?" said Smashface, growing increasingly angry. He idly smacked one of the Mek's Teknishin Grotz, sending the Gretchin flying into an exposed electrical coil sticking out of the Teleporter. The smell of burnt skin filled the bridge, and the fried Gretchin slid off the device into a pile of ash on the floor.

Smashface snorted. "Well, if it doesn't zap us closer to da fightin', at least we can use it fer cookin'. Still, hurry it up, before I decide the zap ya too, ya git."

"All right, all right boss, jus' a few minor tweaks... cross wiring da zappa... realign da locata... kick da grot fer messin' with da wires, and... der we go!" The rickety machine clattered to life, arcing with bolts of blue electricity as it shook like an agitated squig. The Mek dusted his hands off, looking quite pleased with himself. "Isn't she beautiful, boss? Nuffing but hard work an' a couple dead grotz to make da best tellyporta in da clan!"

Smashface still wasn't convinced. He sniffed derisively at the machine. "But does it work?" he demanded, prodding one of the tesla coils. The electrical shock made him quickly reconsider touching other parts of the device. "How do ya make it send ya where you want to go?"

"Ooh, just like dis, boss!" exclaimed the Mek, pulling up a large screen attached to the teleporter with enormous cables. Playing with an array of dials, the Mek explained the teleporter's function. "With dis here Gitfinda, we can send da boyz to da biggest fightin' spots right fast. So says I type in "humies", da Tellyporta finds da biggest clump and sends ya der! Foolproof!"

"Evah done it?" said Smashface, arms crossed. The Mek looked rather sheepish. Around him, his Grot aides slowly receded into the shadows, anticipating trouble.

"Er, well, not yet boss," admitted the Mek, hands in his pockets. "We needz a few test grotz first."

Smashface leered at the Mek, a big toothy grin forming on his huge jaw. The Grots scattered. When the Boss smiled like that, things usually ended with somebody pasted to the floor. Smashface smacked his meaty hands together menacingly. "I don't fink a Grot'z needed, Mek. I fink dat da perfect candydate iz standin' right in front'o me."

The Mek looked around, confused. "Der's no one here 'cept me, boss."

"Exactly."

Before the Mek realized what trouble he had just landed in, Smashface grabbed the scientist Ork and shoved him onto the teleport pad, locking him in the machine. "I fink dat dis' is da perfect time fer a test run! Wot do you say?"

"What?" shrieked the Mek. "Boss, I hasn't calibrated da tellyporta te work in da Warp! It's no tellin' where I'd end up if we fired dat fing in here!"

Smashface wasn't listening to the Mek's pleas. He was too focused on trying to figure out all the different dials on the console. Settling on a convincing looking combination of buttons, the Warboss hit the big red button marked "activate". The Mek's cries were drowned out by the intense whine of the teleporter, rising to full power. The Ork was enclosed in a brilliant orange light, culminating in a massive exploding burst that blinded the whole room.

Things went dark, sparks flying from circuit boards and light fixtures. The intense energy drain of the contraption had blown the deck's fuse boxes, leaving a significant portion of the ship in darkness. There was a loud clang in the blackness, and the whining machine spluttered to a stop. The Grots hiding behind the consoles produced a small emergency light.

"Zog it, lookit wots left!" exclaimed one of the Gretchins.

Shining a light on the center of the room, the Greenskins surveyed the remains of the teleporter. The pad was gone, along with a large chunk of the control console. What was still there was scorched black and mangled in a pile, mashed together like a miniature black hole had formed in the room. Smashface stood unflinching in the middle of the blast radius. He spat out one of his tusks, and turned around to face the Mek's assistants. His face was slashed with embedded shrapnel, bleeding from every cut. To the Grots, he was possibly the scariest looking thing they had ever seen in their short lives.

"So, I take it da fing won't be ready fer a while?" he said to the smaller Greenskins. "Fix it, or you lot will be da next group te go through, got it?"

"Yes, Boss, right away Boss!" said the Grots hastily, snapping off salutes. Smashface grunted, half stumbling out of the room. The Grots wandered over to the teleporter, inspecting the warped ball of metal. "Wot do you fink happened to da Mek?"

"I dunno, but I fink dat da Mek will be hoppin' mad wherever he ends up."

"Get up, we're leaving."

Lieutenant Pierce stormed down the length of the barracks, banging the butt of his lasgun on each bunk to get the troops' attention. Beryn groaned, lurching upright. Stretching his arms and heaving an exaggerated yawn, he asked, "What for, sir?"

"There's an Ork Rok inbound for Meridian," said Pierce curtly. "It was supposed to be here in a few days time, but it decided to give us a surprise welcome. Get your kits together and meet me down by the transit station in twenty minutes. Anyone dragging their heels can take it up with the commissariat. Got it?"

"Yes sir!" responded the platoon.

Beryn jumped to his feet, grabbing his battle dress from the lockers. "All right, lads, you heard the Lieutenant. Hop to!" The rest of the platoon gathered their gear and scrambled out of the barracks. The entire complex where they were billeted was bustling with activity, everywhere Beryn looked, more soldiers were spilling out onto the streets, laden with gear. Dozens of other squads soon joined them along the promenade that lead down to Angel Forge's rail station. Engineseers and other techpriests raced towards the station to help load the trains.

The Colonel's voice boomed across the PSA system, interrupting morning sermons. The Vendoland regiments housed in the Forge area were being relocated to Golgotha Spire, two hundred kilometers southeast. Beryn helped the platoon load their gear into the already stuffed boxcars, even as a small army of loading cranes lifted the regiment's armored vehicles onto several flatbed cars behind them. Kalan hopped up beside Beryn, pulling troops onto the train, already beginning to pull out of the rail yard.

The 46th Vendoland was moving out in its entirety. The five hundred survivors of the Legis disaster loaded onto six trains and pulled out of the station. The organized chaos vanished as soon as it had occurred, allowing a heavy silence to fall over the yard. As if nobody had ever been there, the train yard lay silent. But the departure had not gone unnoticed.

Three figures skulked out of a nearby alley, checking for any watching eyes. When none were found, they dashed across the promenade and forced their way into the station's service room. Merrick, Hurst and Talros crouched in the alcove below the stairs leading to the observation deck. Above, a bank of servitors aided the techpriest in organizing the Vendolander's mobilization.

Talros was dressed in the olive green uniform of the Vendoland regiments, same as Hurst and Merrick. The Arbiter's deception went even further than just the dress. He even carried himself differently. Gone was the proud, arrogant stature of a social elite, replaced with the slumped shoulders and weary scowl of a tired soldier. Talros had slid into his role as a grunt trooper like a second skin. However, that was before the sudden alarm that had robbed them of their cover. The Mechanicus would not tolerate three supposedly deserting troops wandering around the Forge after their comrades had left.

"This complicates things somewhat," whispered Talros. "We will need to apply an extra level of discretion."

"What are we looking for, exactly?" asked Merrick.

"Anything that can implicate the Mechanicus in an act of treason. Even they are not above Imperial Law, and I intend to see justice served."

Hurst peered over the lip of the stairwell, laspistol gripped tightly. The servitors paid no attention to the intruders, continuing their automated functions. The Techpriest was gone, however, and that worried Hurst. A priest could have any number of augmetics applied to aid in hearing or security, enough so that there was no chance of not being noticed during their investigation. His disappearance could be anything from moving to another station, to sounding the alarm.

The trio moved silently through the observation room, searching for any trace of the priest. The sound of emergency sirens suddenly blared throughout the Forge. The floor beneath them started to shake, and Merrick lost his balance. A loud hum filled his ears as he got to his feet. "What just happened?" he demanded.

Hurst and Talros looked out the window. "We have a new problem, gentlemen." Merrick looked to where Hurst was pointing. The sky was a hazy red film, stretching out across the entire Forge. The constant humming in his ear rippled and cracked as the red sky touched down on an array of pylon towers built into Angel Gate's defensive wall.

"They've installed a void shield," said Talros.

"And trapped us inside with them," muttered Merrick.

The train rumbled across the industrial wastes, Capitol Spire dissolving into the horizon. The 85th Vendoland had joined the armored units from Angel Forge by midday, forming a massive train convoy racing towards Golgotha. Remer struggled to keep his stomach down while the cars clattered along the rails. The morning had not been kind to him, evidenced by his pale, contorted face. "All right, new regiment slogan: Drink when you're dead, it'll hurt less," he groaned.

"That doesn't really strike me as an inspiring motto, Remer," said Kippler.

"Where's the boss and Hurst at, anyways?" asked Remer, "Doesn't this seem like the sort of thing that Connor would shoot them for missing?"

"I already told you, Captain Uther gave me command of the squad until such time as Sergeant Merrick and Sergeant Hurst are returned to active duty," explained Kippler. "It's already been cleared with regimental command."

Remer sniffed, "I must have been throwing up at the time, because I missed all of that."

"Deal with it, Remer," said Vornas, prodding the sick trooper a little harder than was necessary. Remer's stomach finally bested him, and only a swift elbow to the boxcar window saved the Daredevils from being covered in vomit. Kippler sighed, going back to cleaning his scope.

Lieutenant Jorin Hunder marched down the center aisle of the car in full dress. "All right grenadiers, we are twenty minutes out of Golgotha Spire. The staging area is to be treated as a combat environment, so I want each of you combat ready the moment we debark. Daredevil Squad, you are reporting to Major Lester for assignment. Trench Skippers, you're with me, suit up."

The wastes gave way to steadily growing structures that formed the base of Golgotha. The settlement was built atop a large hill, and, though technically labeled a Hive Spire, the center was instead formed out of a number of rounded towers surrounding a massive Imperial Shrine. Golgotha was both the holy center of Angel Hive, and its largest distribution and storage facility. The loss of such a place was an unacceptable to the Imperium.

The train station was packed with trains unloading thousands of troops and equipment. Kippler jumped off the train as it came to a halt, sprinting across the hard concrete with the rest of the squad on his heels. Major Lester was pouring over a hololith chart of Golgotha with the regiment captains. Three points of attack were marked out on the map, each covering a sector of the warehouse district.

"Ah, Corporal, you're here," said Armand. He immediately enlarged the center marker, revealing the large canal that separated the warehouse district from the main spire. "The Orks last projected point of landing was directly south of the Spire. They know our stockpiles are within the warehouses, and they won't risk destroying anything they can loot and use against us."

"So you need us to soften up the forward units and secure the entries to the Spire," said Kippler.

"Exactly," said Armand. "The Navy is providing air support, but we fully expect the Orks to strike from anywhere. The local ferals will certainly join with the attacking bands, so there's no guarantee that our rear lines will be safe. Get high, and use your vantage points to spot for the artillery."

"And the rest of the company, sir?"

"The regiment is moving as a whole, Corporal. We have been assigned to the Southeast Sector, along with the Xenobane and Garredyne Rifles. This is a take and hold mission, we hole up and let the Greenskins come to us. It's going to be hell in here, but right now it's our only option."

Another trooper jogged over to the meeting. He bore a Corporal's badge as well, but the regiment mark was from the 46th. "Corporal Mathis, reporting as you requested, sir," said the trooper, saluting to the assembled officers.

"Glad you could make it, trooper," said Lester. "Kippler, this is Beryn Mathis. By Command's orders, all Vendoland regiments have been merged to recoup losses and consolidate our people. Mathis's squad will join with yours. The Daredevils have been operating at half strength for too long. It's about time you started looking like a proper unit again."

"Understood, Major," said the two corporals in unison.

"As you were then," Kippler saluted and left to gather the squad. He ordered Mathis to do the same, and a few moments later, the newly reinforced Daredevils had assembled around the station's notice board. Ten troopers, some clad in Carapace, others merely in flak jackets, were introduced to one another. Joining the Daredevils were Donny Serrt, Kalan Garrett, Mol Lannik, Tal Rejor, Jann Tarls, and Beryn Mathis.

"I don't think we've had this many men in our unit since Typhon," said Alek, thinking back to the titanic struggle on the sickly green plateau three years earlier. The Tyranid invasion had pulled the 85th Vendoland across the subsector, responding to a simultaneous Ork Waaagh!, Hive Fleet, and Eldar incursions. It had taken a heavy toll on the Guardsmen, to the point where the 203rd Regiment, Alek and sergeant Merrick's original unit, had to be folded into the 85th, much like the other Vendolanders had done now.

"Please, don't remind me of Tyranids right now, Alek," said a still pallid Remer. "Too many legs, to many mouths, makes me shudder to think of them."

"Try having a nuke explode over your head," said Serrt, hefting two cases of bolter shells over his back. The bald Guardsman's face had been half burned off, replaced with the same, primitive style of augmetics that had fixed Alek's hand. An unblinking white optic stared at Remer. "I would take a thousand hive fleets over another Legis. But you wouldn't know what that feels like, would you? You look like you'd have spent that night being drunk."

"For your information, gearhead," growled Remer, "I broke both my legs that day being chased by Orks, before crashing into a barricade. I spent the night in a hospital bed."

"You broke one leg and were out of the hospital by evening," said Vornas, stepping in. "Stop trying to sugar coat it. You got off easy."

Serrt just sneered at him. "Ah yes, the 'smuggling conspiracy'. How did that turn out? You managed to stop one Deathstrike Missile from being used. Maybe if the other regiments around this damned Hive had done their jobs in the first place, perhaps none of those missiles would have ended up frying us. Sure, you just got off easy. And what about us, then? Your little Commissar bitch decides that the best way to stop a fight with the Mechanicus is to fire a frakking nuclear warhead at us! What bloody sense does that make, and why the hell should I have to take lip from a little gak like yourself?"

Beryn put a hand up to Serrt, "That's enough, Donny. You know as well as I do that we would all be dead if the Cogboys hadn't fired at Spire Legis. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Remer didn't start this fight, so calm down. Keep your anger for the Orks, not for each other, is that understood?"

Serrt's face didn't change, nor did his immediate disdain for Remer dissipate. Beryn repeated himself, more firmly. "Is that understood, private?"

"Understood, Corporal," Serrt said flatly.

"Good, now get back to work, the truck will be here shortly. We have a few hours until the Orks arrive, let's make the most of them." As he walked away, Beryn called out over his shoulder. "And if I catch either of you going at it again, I'll have you both marched in front of the Commissar, so knock it off!"

The moon Harkoven was the largest celestial body orbiting Meridian. It currently housed those remaining nobles and House Lords that had been savvy enough to flee the war torn surface of the planet in the early days of the Vandis Heresy. The luxurious lunar resorts were fortified as well as any military complex, blanketed by layers of shields and automated defense turrets. Retractable ceramite shields currently lay open, providing their wealthy benefactors with a magnificent view of the Hive World below.

Beyond the moon's resorts, extensive monitoring equipment and relay stations dotted the lunar surface. On the far side of the satellite, Admiral Zaritz's forces waited, hidden against the backdrop of stars by Harkoven's shadow. The rear admiral fidgeted on his frigate's observation deck, watching the comm systems intently for the first sign of Greenskin vessels. When they arrived, the first battle would be his. And yet, despite the arrogant show he had played at the military briefings with the Guard leaders, he privately acknowledged that he was in over his head.

Despite the ravaged nature of the subsector, Zaritz's naval presence was insufficient to effectively patrol and engage marauding vessels. Battlefleet Korianis was currently engaged in actions along its western borders, leaving Zaritz only a handful of frigate level craft to watch over his slice of the Eastern Fringe, Subsector Aurelia. A full blown Ork invasion would sweep away his ships like a flood washing away foundations.

He had witnessed Battlefleet Korianis's struggle with the Hive Fleet, and he knew that, even with the Astartes' bio-toxin, the battle had only been just won by a hair's breadth. With a force less than a tenth that size, Zaritz was expected to hold off a comparable threat, and without the aid of the Space Marines. It was all he could do to keep panic from setting in. Then, the moment arrived.

Harkoven's sensors had detected a Warp rupture in the vicinity of Meridian. The ship's astropaths quickly identified the entity as an Ork Rok, an asteroid that doubled as a dreadnought. Dozens of smaller ships had followed the great construction through the Warp, forming a formidable fleet. The cluster of frigates remained hidden, awaiting Zaritz's command to strike. Attacking a ship that large head on was tantamount to suicide. They needed to wait for the right moment.

Planet Fall

"Attention, Imperial Citizens, Xenos attack imminent," Derosa's voice boomed over loudspeakers, breaking the early morning silence. "Proceed to your nearest Hab Shelter and await further instructions. Display identity badges at all times. Report Xenos sightings without delay. Imperial Guard units are moving to intercept.

"It is the responsibility of all under the Emperor's light to report Xenos activity to the nearest authorities. Failure to do so will be deemed an act of heresy. Vigilance in these dark days will be our greatest asset. Fear not the Alien, for he is beneath you, beneath all of us. Through our iron resolve, our great cities shall be kept safe! In the Emperor's name, we shall be triumphant!"

Zaritz was losing the fight in space. The Ork fleet had raced towards Meridian, firing relentlessly at the communications satellites, fleeing ships, and any other juicy targets. But when the Rok had begun strafing Harkoven, Zaritz's composure broke. Surely they had been spotted. Rather than wait for the Orks to pass before striking the rearguard of their fleet, Zaritz panicked, thrusting his task force into direct combat with the Xenos. The Battleship Ameratus stormed forward at the head of the fleet.

The eight kilometer long warship was designed to operate alone, used in sector patrols where allocating further battleships would be a waste of resources. Bristling with lance weaponry, gun batteries and a healthy complement of attack craft, in the right hands, an Oberon could overcome most threats with minimal damage. But such determination was only provided by the officer commanding the vessel. Zaritz was not one such individual. He could not handle the feedback loop the ship was funneling into his mind, attached to the vessel's machine spirit through a series of cables connected to his skull.

His woefully outnumbered ships drove recklessly at the massive Rok, every last wing of attack craft launching at once, lances firing ceaselessly, and all batteries unleashing their volleys. Wings of Starhawk bombers streaked out from the Ameratus's hangars, tearing a path through the rickety Greenskin fighter bombers that swung about to receive them. Squadrons of Fury interceptors tangled with the Ork crafts, disregarding coordination in favor of a mindless, swirling ball of weaving and spinning starfighters.

It was utter carnage, playing out against the silent vacuum of space. Zaritz's unrelenting assault against the Orks was doing tremendous damage to the Greenskin ships, but the toll it took on his own vessels was swiftly ramping up. A formation of six Cobra Destroyers, racing around behind the Rok, were suddenly obliterated as the asteroid's defenses awakened. The large, jagged outcroppings that Zaritz had taken as mere surface details on the Rok retracted to reveal a vicious array of heavy weapons batteries. Before the Destroyers had a chance to orient their ships away from the Rok's guns, the missile salvos struck each Cobra along their spindly broadsides, pummeling their shields before snapping the ships in two in a series of brilliant, silent detonations.

Arematus suddenly found itself missing a third of its escort craft. The Battleship's shields were still holding steady from the Kroozers constant barrages, but Meridian's orbit was fast losing ground to the Greenskin pressure. Zaritz watched the massacre unfold in front of him, his eyes glazed over, staring blankly through the Battleship's transparent metal windows. Zaritz's comm officer bellowed at the admiral for orders, but he never heard the man. Zaritz sat frozen in his chair, unable to think clearly, and incapable of responding. Flying sparks ignited a series of fires across the bridge, and several crewmen rushed to extinguish the blaze.

First Officer Marhawk watched the disaster unfold, doing his best to rally the crewmen and bridge operators. Zaritz's own negligence had caused enough damage, they didn't need the rest of the vessel falling into disarray. "Back to your stations!" barked Marhawk, "You are Naval officers, act like it!"

The crew either did not hear, or did not care about Marhawk's words. Sighing, Marhawk quietly motioned to a dark figure, lurking in the shadows behind the Admiral's throne. The man nodded, casually pulling his ornate laspistol from its holster and aiming it at Zaritz head. The shot echoed across the bridge, drawing the attention of the crew. The Fleet Commissar spoke plainly. "All shall do their duty or face my judgement. Commander Marhawk, you are in command now. Do not follow in your predecessor's footsteps."

Two ratings pulled the limp body of the Vice Admiral out of the chair, now splattered with blood and brain matter. Marhawk swept the worst of the mess aside, and seated himself on the throne. The device's mechanical fixtures extended, attaching to several wire placements embedded in his cranium. Marhawk shivered with the sudden surge of energy as the couplings activated, and suddenly, his consciousness was one with the Arematus.

He could feel the ship's wounds, the deep gullies scored by direct shots from the Ork Rok's batteries. The remainder of the fleet's ships spoke to him through their captain's mental links. It was time to turn events to their favor. Marhawk remained calm, speaking through the Astropathic Relay to the other captains. "All remaining ships, pull back to the Arematus, Delta Helix Formation. Drop to Grid 17 and await my signal."

The flotilla obliged, forming up into a three layered triangle, with the Battleship taking the spear point position in the center layer. The Orks had wisely pulled back from the combined forces, instead focusing on breaching Meridian airspace. Marhawk knew he could not stop the invasion now, but he could still prevent the Orks from escaping. If the Orks wished to land, they would do so, but on the Navy's terms. They would crash the dreadnought before they let them land.

The time was right. The Orks had moved sufficiently far enough away for Marhawk's plan to unfold. The Delta Helix formation involved a multi layered spearhead that struck an individual target by circling around a target and unleashing a cascade of broadsides into the ship. The continuous motion of the maneuver made it difficult for the target to track the multiple vessels, and with the proper timing, the overlapping helixes would allow ships to cover one another with their shielding. All through the movement, the ships would endlessly pour fire into the enemy ship. The maneuver required precise timing to avoid collision at such close range, but done properly, any ship caught in the center was invariably doomed.

"All ships, engage!" roared Marhawk. The ragged fleet formed up on the Battleship, forming their three layered triangle. A squadron of Ork Kroozers fell back to intercept them, only to face a punishing volley of lance blasts that seared their cobbled together hulls, obliterating them. The Rok's short range defenses began lighting up, anti strike craft weapons and point defense batteries arcing out from the misshapen vessel. Concentrated shots from the Frigate squadrons silenced a number of guns, taking only minimal losses in return.

At the crest of the Rok, the second phase of the maneuver began. The three delta formations split off in opposing directions, circling the Ork craft and unleashing punishing fire on the Xenos. Entire decks were opened to the vacuum of space, tiny specks of Greenskins being blown into the void by the sudden decompression. Marhawk's plan was working, and the commander rewarded himself a small grin. He would be a hero for this, surely. There was nothing that could stop the organized might of the Imperium.

The Rok's defenses claimed few ships in the second engagement. The disciplined naval crews had all but stripped the vast ship of its defensive armaments, leaving it little more than a mobile hunk of metal and stone. Marhawk pushed his advantage, targeting the Rok's primary engine clusters. The Arematus's forward lance cannons disintegrated the thruster packs in a brilliant explosion. The Rok began to break apart, massive explosions rippling through the ship's superstructure.

"The rest of the fleet is breaking off, Commander!" said the now elated Comms officer. Cheers echoed across the bridge, and Marhawk breathed a sigh of relief. With their flagship gone, the remaining Ork Kroozers had scattered in confusion. It was typical of their race. With no central leadership, they would be as confused as a grox calf separated from its herd. Marhawk proudly ordered the frigates to pursue the fleeing vessels, intent on scouring the skies of anything green.

The shattered Rok drifted along Meridian's axis, occasionally sparking and bursting into flames as deck seals burst. Within the mangled innards of the largest chunk, the former Mek's Grot assistants were clawing their way through the ductwork. Snigrot, their current leader, was leading the rest of his minions deeper and deeper into the bowels of the dead ship. Kicking a floor grate open, the Grots clambered into a large antechamber, dominated by a massive coil. The device sparked with electricity, the bulb on the end arcing towards sinks in the chamber's walls.

Snigrot gave the Grots a sharp kick. "You rememba wot da mek said! If da ship evah gets too dakka'd ta fight, we'z was supposed to meet 'ere, and turn dat fing on!"

The Gretchin on the receiving end of Snigrot's foot spoke. "But wot does it do? Da Mek nevah told us!"

Snigrot gave him another kick, sending the sap yelping away. "Idiot! Da Mek wouldn't tell you lot, you'z all too dim to undastand da propa tech! Only I know how da fing works! Now turn it on!"

Somewhat reluctantly, the Grots got to work. Snigrot watched with anticipation as the coil ignited, bathing the room with blue electrical bursts. The device was working. Of all the Mek's madcap inventions, this one had to be Snigrot's favorite. Who needed a personal teleporter when you could be everywhere at once?

The third Kroozer had barely made the Warp jump by the time Arematus had finished off its two allies. The chase had taken them to the edge of Meridian's space, just beyond the moon of Forestal. Though battered and bloodied (in no small part to Zaritz's inept performance), Marhawk had managed to achieve a hard fought victory for the Imperium. The Ork forces had been driven off at the cost of many lives. But it was worth the effort. Billions more would have died if not for their sacrifice.

"Attention fleet, break off pursuit and return to Meridian orbit," announced Marhawk. There was no sense in continuing the chase. The Greenskin Kroozers would pose little threat on their own, nothing that convoy escorts could not fend off. Hauling the remains of the Rok away before their orbit decayed would be their priority. "Lieutenant, contact Meridian ATC and relay our scans of the Xenos debris."

"Aye sir," said the Comms officer. After recounting his orders to the Air Traffic Control station, the Lieutenant's face morphed into a look of horror as he listened to their response. The lieutenant looked up to Commander Marhawk, fear in his eyes.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" demanded Marhawk. "Speak!"

"It's... it's the Greenskin ship, sir," said the officer weakly. "The Rok has set a collision course for Angel Hive."

Marhawk was aghast. The Commissar looked on impassively, watching the conversation from the shadows. "Impossible, we disabled their propulsion systems! How could they possibly alter their vector?"

"I don't know sir, but nearly thirty large sections of the Rok have altered course somehow. We are too far out to intercept them."

Marhawk quickly contacted the fleet. "This is Commander Marhawk, all ships, make for Meridian at full speed! Arrange yourselves in a geosynchronous orbit directly above Angel Hive, fire support pattern Gamma. We're not out of this yet!"

The grey sky was suddenly broken by a rain of fiery meteors. Breaking through the cloud cover, dozens of kilometer long rocks and metal frames were careening towards the surface of Meridian. The Orks had somehow reset their collision course with Angel Hive, throwing the split remains of their Rok at the planet with the use of some tractor beam device. Hundreds of smaller meteors, each filled to the brim with battle ready Boyz.

At their approach, the mighty void shields protecting Capitol Spire and Angel Forge activated, blanketing the vast complexes in a layered defense impregnable to all but the most powerful weapons. Planetary defense fortresses unleashed their salvos into the sky, missile barrages and flak turrets firing ceaselessly into the shower of Xenos vessels. The Navy air force squadrons scrambled to their fighters and gunships, taking to the skies to intercept the swarms of Ork aircraft that had followed their dying Rok into the atmosphere.

Valeris Hexus leapt aboard her Thunderbolt fighter, rocketing out of the Golgotha 3 Defense Fortress's hangar. Helios Squadron formed up at a level flight three thousand meters above Temple Hill, the tallest landmark of Golgotha Spire. Calling in, Valeris rambled off her call-sign. "Helios 2, standing by."

Squadron Leader Tyrell addressed the squadron. "All right, Helios, set course for heading Argus Two Four Niner. We're flying air superiority for the ground forces over Southeast Sector Grid 11. Gun Crew 77 will provide surface fire to bottle the junkers up. We form up with the 833rd Joint Interception Wing at Grid 11. Emperor's eyes on the skies, comrades."

Helios squadron peeled to the right, towards the inland hab blocks. Four significant Xenos constructs broke the cloud cover, melting the billowing snow with the heat of re-entry. 833rd Wing assembled at the coordinates, a mixed unit with both Thunderbolt Fighters and Marauder Bombers. The Bombers would act as mobile gunships and command centers, diving into the thick of Ork airspace as bait, while the Thunderbolts would pounce on the fighters that would close in on the slow moving targets.

"Flight two, engaging!" said Valeris. Half the Helios squadron banked left after her, six fighters in a diamond formation. The Mars Pattern-47 Thunderbolts had only recently been shipped into Meridian, but Valeris already adored the updated model. An incredibly improved roll rate at low altitudes, as well as minor tweaks to the vectored pulse engines provided her a craft that not only carried enough firepower to devastate an entire armored column, but also was able to outmaneuver anything the Greenskins could throw at them.

The Marauder squadrons smashed into the Ork formations, gunners fearlessly baiting entire hordes of fighter-bombas and Jet craft after them. At 1500 feet over an industrial park, Valeris took her first shots at the invaders. Deploying her flaps, she cut her speed in two, dropping behind a Fighta making a run at her wingman, Helios 4. Davoss was struggling to shake the red painted fighter, and the flyboy had already scored several hits across the 47's rear fuselage. Valeris angled her nose just above and to the right of the Fighta, her thumb sitting on the trigger.

Davoss pulled left, the Fighta pulled right, putting him directly in Valeris's sights. She jammed the trigger down, and her fighter's nose mounted autocannons blasted the junker to smithereens. The remains of the Ork fighter fell out of the sky in flames. "Thanks for the assist, Helios 2," said Davoss, relief obvious across the Vox.

"Any time, 4," smiled Valeris. "Form up on my six."

"Roger that."

The two Thunderbolts looped back into the dogfight. Through her canopy, Valeris watched the Rok continue to descend. The three smaller bastions had struck the Golgotha itself, while the largest had smashed into Lake Aradine. Valeris sighed. Uprooting the Orks would fall to the Guard now. Until then, the sky was still too green for her liking.

The anti air batteries were effectively keeping the Ork junkers contained. Buzzing like hornets around the Navy squadrons, most were easy targets in the crowded air. Some Orks were breaking for the skyscraper canyons below to avoid the AA guns, where their fighter bombers wreaked havoc on Guard convoys moving through the city. Helios squadron regrouped, and pursued.

"Incoming, get down!" screamed the guardsmen. The Vendoland 4th company convoy broke for the cover of the buildings as a swarm of Ork fighters swept down over them, tearing up the streets with machine gun fire. Kippler dove through the doorway, shots nipping at his feet. Troopers not fast enough were cut down in the street, others still trapped in their Chimeras when the Orks strafed them again and again. The whine of Ork turbines whipped past, followed closely by the sweeping roar of Imperial engines.

The Daredevils popped their heads outside just in time to see a flight of Thunderbolts passing overhead, driving off the Orks. The Vendolanders cheered at the navy's timely arrival, pouring back out onto the streets and continuing forward. The Guard's projections had been off. The Orks had landed in the city directly, rather than to the south as they had anticipated. The 85th Vendoland was pulling back to the interior. The nearest Rok base had landed just inside the Luesan Canal, that separated the Golgotha mainland from the Luesan Island based cargo warehouses. Every second wasted was time the Orks would use to spread out across the island.

Captain Uther was at the front of the column, alongside Connor and Lieutenant Hunder. Hunder produced a handheld chart for Uther. "There are six bridges crossing the Canal along the south side, sir," he explained. "We're on the heading for the Southgate Bridge here. It is large enough to ferry the convoy across without much trouble, but Trench Skipper squad says that they have sighed heavy enemy movements on the other side of the bridge."

Uther looked over the map, analyzing the crossing in question. "Have the Trench Skippers hold tight, Jorin," said Uther. "Get Daredevil squad up here, Connor, we'll use both Grenadier teams to clear the bridge for the rest of the convoy. I'll get on the vox with Lester and see if he can send some more air support our way."

"Aye sir," said Hunder, jogging off to collect Kippler's squad.

"Something on your mind, Commissar?" asked Uther knowingly, his voice filled with fake meekness. He knew well enough when Connor was annoyed. He gave her a small smile, looking at her expectantly.

"I am concerned about your choice of units for this mission, Lars," she said bluntly. Connor was very forward with her opinions. Obfuscating things cost lives. It made her difficult to deal with at times, however. Such as now. Uther did not need an argument at the moment.

"You don't think that the Daredevils are up to it?" asked Uther. "I put Kippler in charge because I trust him to get the job done. He's the best man I have with my sergeants unavailable. He hasn't let me down yet."

"And he was also suddenly given command of an entire squad today," countered Connor. "The men from the 46th aren't used to him yet, and he isn't used to them. If this turns out to be a problem, we could very well lose both the Daredevils and the Trench Skippers."

Lars was adamant with his decision. "Both teams are going, that's final. Now, unless you plan to join them, we can get back to putting this convoy on track."

"Very well," said Connor coldly. She pulled her bolt pistol from its holster, and unsheathed her power sword, electrical sparks running along the shaft. Uther squinted. She wasn't serious was she?

"Very well what?" he said cautiously, still unsure what Connor's intention was. Would she really try to kill him over a disagreement? But instead, Connor simply walked away, still brandishing both weapons. "Connor, what are you doing?"

"Joining them," she said without looking back. "Perhaps with me around, the damage can be focused on the Orks rather than ourselves."

"Fine then, as you see fit, Commissar," spat Uther. The lack of trust stung him, but the Captain put it aside. This was no time for personal feelings to interfere with his judgement. If Connor wanted to join them, that was her decision, and, as a Commissar, he had no say over her actions.

The Daredevils ran by, lead by Jorin and Connor. Uther jumped onto the lead chimera, intent on contacting Colonel Lester for some much needed air support. The skies were filled with crisscrossing trails of smoke from crashing fighters, and the air was filled with the smell of powder discharge and rocket propellant. The smell stung at his sinuses, and with the cold winds sweeping through the streets, Lars was glad to drop into the warm confines of the troop transport. Let Elle take the bridge, he thought. She'd see he was right.

The Trench Skippers were hugging the low wall that ran along the side of the Luesan Canal. Across the bridge, Sergeant Ennis could see dozens of Greenskins moving along the streets. Behind them, trucks and mechs trundled along, smashing shops open for the Xenos to loot. Ennis's troopers had managed to get into position unnoticed over the sound of gunfire and the air battle, but moving across the bridge would be suicide without backup. So the grenadiers waited, watching for anything that could give them an edge over the Orks.

As it turned out, the edge arrived from behind the Trench Skippers. A dozen guardsmen, some dressed as grenadiers, others infantrymen, moved in quickly, running at a half crouch to Ennis's men. A familiar, if pallid looking soldier with unkempt black hair spoke. "Daredevils at your service. Who do you need blown up?"

The Price Of A Bridge

It was eerily quiet throughout the Forge. The governor's emergency declaration had abruptly broken the silence, but there was no one to listen in the abandoned streets. The only sound to be heard was the hum of the void shield as it fizzled and cracked from the occasional impact of Greenskin meteorites. Learning their lessons from the First Crusade, Angel Forge had been fortified extensively. No longer was Angel Gate the only defense, massive orbital defense cannons and redundant shield generators had been installed during the Adeptus Mechanicus's annexation of the Manufactorum. The new defenses had turned the Forge into an impregnable bastion for the Imperium, but it had the unfortunate side effect of cutting off any escape route that Arbiter Talros had planned for himself and Merrick and Hurst.

Hurst was on watch, guarding the doorway to their hideaway in an electrical shed. Inside, Merrick set his spotlamp over a diagram of the Forge produced by Talros. They were five hundred meters inside the defensive wall, near a power junction that ran cables between manufactorum Six and Seven. Each factory block was immense, with kilometers long assembly lines stretching across their expanse on the surface alone. Inside, each factory delved deep into Meridian's earth, all the way down to the Forge's core. Walking to their destination would take ages, so Talros had taken Merrick's suggestion of procuring transportation.

"The evidence we need is most likely to be kept with Magos Dolthem's personal belongings, which means that we will need to break into the Tech-Priest sanctum," explained Talros. He tapped the map, pointing to an exhaust grate symbol. "That is our way in. The heat from the vents will blur our signatures on any detection devices, and will allow us to bypass the majority of the Tech Guard's security."

"There's not a lot of room in those vents," said Merrick. "Are you sure that you can't find another way in?"

"This is our best route," insisted Talros. "I can provide breathing equipment if the conditions become too severe. It will only be a short drop, so we can rappel down. Is that clear?"

"Clear as you ever seem to be," muttered Merrick. He grabbed his autopistol and pack. "All right, let's go. All clear, Waddy?"

Hurst peered outside. He waved the other two out after finding no sign of movement. They darted through the junction, hopping from electrical pylons, and keeping low along the narrow walls that bordered it. Vaulting over the walls, they moved quickly through the back alleys, only stopping to hide from infrequent vehicle patrols. Hurst had considered grabbing a vehicle to reach their target sooner, but had decided against it, mentally slapping himself for being so stupid. The Cogboys would definitely have their routes planned out, and a jeep would only bring more unneeded attention.

One thing that nobody had counted on was the sudden surge of heat. The void shield was keeping the cold out, and the warm air rising from the Forge in. The sludge of dirty snow was quickly melting away, taking their conspicuous footprints with it. Talros led them to the Manufactorum exhaust grate. They set their rappel lines, and dropped into the darkness. Hurst pulled his mask on, switching on the night vision settings in the goggles. He reached the bottom first, detaching his line and rolling it up so nobody could follow them down. Merrick and Talros did the same, and the group moved out, the only sign of their passing being the slightly misadjusted grate panel above.

Merrick took point, leading them through the warrens of exhaust vents. Hurst felt like a rat clawing its way through a barn, careful to ensure that no step alerted the swooping owls waiting above, or, in his case, below. The Tech Guard would not hesitate to kill them to preserve their secrets. A paranoid conclusion for some. Hurst just saw it as being practical. The tunnel opened up into a large chamber dominated by a fan that blew hot exhaust through the tall shafts. Some natural light cast down from above, and Hurst deactivated his night vision.

Merrick and Talros checked the map again. "This way," said the Arbitrator. He lead them down a second passage, much larger than the first. Hurst could hear the sound of machinery hissing and whirring through the vent. The walls and floor vibrated as well, making him feel like he was within the belly of some living, mechanical beast. Their footsteps were like heartbeats, steadily thumping in the gloom.

Talros motioned for them to stop. A grated vent plate lay directly over a gantry below. They carefully pulled the plate back, and dropped down onto the walkway with a sharp rattle. Hurst immediately had his autopistol aimed down the walkway, looking for anyone who might have heard the disturbance. He peered over the side of the railings, gazing down into the abyss. They were within Angel Forge itself.

Below them, the manufactorum ran deep into the earth. Conveyor belts crisscrossed further and further downwards, endlessly churning out everything from everyday appliances to heavy war machines and transports. Everywhere through the orange haze, Hurst saw the crimson robed Techpriests and their Skitarii patrols. The cogboys worked the assembly lines, adjusting and calibrating delicate devices, too complex for the rudimentary construction drones. Oil and smoke filled the air, wafting up past the walkway and into the vents the three men had just crawled out of. The sound was deafening, any concerns that Hurst had regarding a noisy entry was drowned out by the endless whine of servos and motors.

"What is that?" whispered Merrick, pointing to one of the lines. "I've never seen a tank like that before."

The vehicle was nothing like a Leman Russ. This tank was a low, sloped beast, long where the Russ was tall. The low profile was dominated by a large, swiveled turret mounting an incredibly long gun; a vanquisher cannon. For a smaller vehicle, it managed to convey the same intimidation that the workhorse Russ flaunted, only on a much lower body. Hundreds of the vehicles were pushing down the production line, before exiting the room through the vast main doors.

"There is a massive buildup of military vehicles here," noted Talros. Hurst watched the man observe the forge. He could almost hear the quill scratching paper as Talros took mental notes. "Not just your tanks, though. Look over there, those are sentinel frames, and there, ammunition. This section of the forge was supposed to be relatively empty. What are they up to?"

"I'd say it looks rather obvious," remarked Merrick, "A huge weapons stockpile for the Mechanicus to boot us out of Angel Forge."

"I'm not making any accusations until we have solid proof in our hands," said Talros. "Come, we must find their records. There is far more progress here in repairing the manufactorum than I was lead to believe. Just another question added to the pile."

"Glad you decided to join us," said Sergeant Ennis, squad leader for the Trench Skippers. Ork activity continued to grow along the opposite side of the Luesan Canal, but nothing indicated that they had spotted the platoon hidden just across the bridge. The two squads were stretched out along the low stone wall that ran the length of the canal promenade.

Ennis was providing a sitrep for the Daredevils. "Enemy armor is moving along the roads just past the waterway. We've seen several convoys of trucks passing through behind the building on the right hand side of the bridge. That building should be our target objective. It'll give us a full view of the area and give us control of the bridge from their side."

"A sound plan, sergeant," said Lieutenant Jorin Hunder. "Kippler, take half your troops and provide covering fire. Corporal Mathis and the riflemen will follow myself and Sergeant Ennis's men on the charge."

"As will I," said Commissar Connor, speaking up. "You will not retreat from this fight, men, for there will be no need to. We will win here today, if not by our blood, than by that of those who follow in our footsteps. I don't plan on giving those other chaps the chance. Move out!"

The guardsmen quietly nodded in acknowledgement, sliding along the wall towards the bridge. There they waited, poised to jump at the call.

"Three, two, one, go! Covering fire!" shouted Kippler. Kalan and Donovan opened fire with their heavy bolter, pouring a withering hail of bullets over the canal. Half a dozen Orks were cut down instantly before the rest dove to cover. Beryn lead the charge with the 46th troopers, racing across the bridge alongside the Trench Skippers, Lieutenant Hunder, and Commissar Connor. Alek was on the vox calling for armor support, while Remer and Vornas kept the Greenskins on their toes, lobbing grenades into their cover spots.

Kippler hugged the side of the bridge's suspension anchor, popping around the corner intermittently to target the largest Orks. A Nob's head was perforated with three deadly accurate shots from his long las. The grenadier platoon had stormed halfway across the bridge almost unopposed by the disorganized Orks. But a phalanx of xenos walkers had been alerted to the incursion, and they had turned their fearsome weaponry onto the guardsmen. The gretchin machines, "Killa-Kans", were as crudely built as any greenskin vehicle; spiky, rickety contraptions that belched smoke and whined on rusted servomotors. But not to be underestimated for their outward appearance. The small walkers were deadly up close, and had enough raw armor to see themselves into melee range.

Kippler made hand motions to Remer and Vornas, directing their fire at the oncoming Kans. The Daredevils and Trench Skippers stalled on the bridge folded into the suspension cabling along either side, leaving a clean avenue for the grenade launchers. Loaded with anti vehicle krak grenades, the two guardsmen fired at the Killa Kans. Remer and Vornas slagged three of the machines between them, outright destroying two and the third catching fire in the ensuing explosions. Pressing their advantage, Kippler ordered his five rearguard men to move up to the rest of the troopers.

Ennis's Trench Skippers were as much a professional unit as the Daredevils. The sergeant pressed his men forward, delivering a punishing fusillade of hellgun and hotshot bursts downrange at the Orks. Equipped for target acquisition, his specialists forwent conventional grenade launchers for melta and plasma weaponry. Dozens of Orks were vaporized as they charged the outnumbered but not outmatched grenadiers.

Kippler reached Beryn Mathis, huddled behind one of the wrecked Kans and trading shots with the Ork gunners on the far shore. "How are we doing corporal?" shouted Kippler, "Casualties?"

"None yet sir!" replied Mathis over the deafening firefight. "A few bumps, but no losses!"

Kippler poked his head over their cover, observing the Orks. Dozens more kept arriving on the other side, disgorging from their trucks and climbing over the growing number of dead comrades. "We're sitting ducks on this bridge," said Kippler, "We've got to clear a path before we get bogged down, and the convoy will never get through. Alek, where's that armor support?"

"I'm working on it, sir!" said Alek, desperately working his vox pack between warming his metal fingers before the joints froze. Under fire, Kippler was impressed with how Alek was holding up under fire. His aim was no better, but he wasn't the same panicked youth Kippler had met three years ago. He had come into his own as an excellent vox operator and field medic.

"Well work harder," said Remer. The Orks were gaining ground, the sheer volume of Orkish fire matched only by their chanting of 'dakka dakka dakka'. The grenadiers killed many, but every second they spent putting down the green tide, the larger it grew.

"Flight one, this is Helios 1. Form up and return to base for refuelling. There's not much more we can do out here." Tyrell sounded exhausted over the vox. The Thunderbolt squadron had almost depleted their fuel in the extended dogfight. If they reached the point of no return, the only way down would be by the guns of a lucky junker. Valeris pulled her flight into formation with Tyrell's group. She had taken some flak damage across her wingspan, and she was relying on vector jets to stay airborne.

"Once everybody's groundside, I want you to get a good rest," explained Tyrell. "We're going back out as soon as repairs and refueling is complete. You'll have a few hours, make the most of them."

The sky was blackened with smoke and whispering contrails from the relentless battle among the skyscrapers. The Marauder wing had driven ferociously at the Ork base, while the Thunderbolts had tangled with the flocks of greenskin fighters wreaking havoc on the ground troops. It seemed as though the Ork vessels had been filled to the brim with the junkers, as unprecedented numbers had inundated the airspace in a short matter of time. Helios squadron had downed dozens of enemy planes, but they had barely made a dent in the Ork's air force. Without a decisive strike, Valeris expected them to face a lengthy battle of attrition to slowly whittle down the Ork forces to the last spore.

Valeris hated to leave the combat zone, but she knew better than to disagree with Tyrell. If a bandit didn't drop her plane, Tyrell's report to the Fleet Commissariat would permanently end her disobedience. So she kept in line with the rest of the squadron, looking all the worse for wear. Davoss was still airborne too, even after his close call earlier. She did a double check of her instruments to make sure a sudden change wouldn't throw her off course. One of her vector engines was struggling to maintain its thrust output. Valeris tried to cut the engine's power and compensate using the second engine. Before she got the chance, the vector engine burst into flames.

The Thunderbolt veered dangerously to the left as Valeris struggled to regain control. The other fighters banked away to avoid a collision. Inside the cockpit, the machine spirit was screaming with alarms and flashing emergency lights. A diagnosis on the dash screen told Helios 2 that the port vector engine had had a piece of shrapnel lodged in the air intake, causing the explosion. Valeris's control column was like an anchor in her hands, refusing to budge and sending the Thunderbolt into a flat spin as the second engine continued to provide thrust.

"Valeris, eject!" barked Tyrell, walking the Lieutenant through her panicked situation. "You'll only have one shot at this before you miss your grav chute's safety threshold."

"I'm trying," protested Valeris, still battling with her controls. "If I'm not upright, I might as well have a ferrosteel parachute." Setting an angle for her remaining engine, the Thunderbolt ceased it's pinwheel, and leveled out. The machine was still falling like a meteor, but Valeris had the sky above and the ground below. "All right, I think I've got it."

"Then eject now!" said Tyrell. "We'll send a search party for you, Helios 2. Hang tight."

"Just get out of here, my auspex is picking up more xenos craft."

"Good luck, Valeris," said Captain Tyrell. The rest of the squadron raced away, quickly becoming specks hidden among the snowy skies. Valeris pulled the cockpit eject. The canopy of the dying bird blasted off, filling the cockpit with blasting winds as the plane plummeted to the ground. But her seat was still embedded in the aircraft. Frantically, Valeris pulled the eject again and again, trying to get the seat's rocket booster to ignite. It never did.

"Frak!" she cursed, unable to hear herself over the gushing wind. The metal canyons between skyscrapers were coming up at an alarming rate. Increasingly desperate, Valeris set her remaining engine back to its forward thrust configuration. She tried to angle herself parallel with the street, and braced for impact.

The Killa Kans were moving into striking distance. Metal claws and saw blades tore through the carcasses of the fallen walkers, scattering the Daredevils. From the right hand side of the bridge, the Trench Skippers turned their melta guns on the machines, atomizing the gretchins inside. Two of the Trench Skippers fell to the Ork guns. Ennis began pulling his troopers back from the fight. Enraged, Commissar Connor defiantly rose from cover, firing her bolt pistol at the troopers' feet and brandishing her power sword.

"Not one step back, cowards!" she roared. Connor swung her sword to point it at the Greenskins barreling across the bridge. "All men, fix bayonets!"

She was seriously considering a charge into that? Kippler almost couldn't believe his eyes. The usually cold and reasoning Connor was ordering a direct advance into a sea of Orks. He snapped out of his disbelief, and smacked the others to do the same. "You heard her, bayonets, now!"

Lieutenant Hunder revved his chainsword. "Come on, men, for the Emperor!" The lieutenant joined the Commissar in her desperate push against the Orks. Remer and Vornas let loose one final volley of grenades before joining the rest of the platoon. Kippler grudgingly fit the long knife onto the ring socket and started running. Compensating for the extra weight, he still managed to score several lethal shots against the Orks, thinning their ranks just before lowering his weapon and thrusting into the melee.

Connor and Hunder were at the forefront, tearing apart the Orks where they stood and ducking under the large brutes' wide swings. Jann Tarls and Mol Lannik were sent flying by an axe wielding Nob. Alek, still working the Vox, nonetheless raced over to the troopers to check their injuries. Seeing that they were fine, he dragged them back behind cover and rejoined the attack.

"Kippler, Kippler!" he shouted, firing ceaselessly into the Orks while he pushed forward. "I got through to an artillery crew, number 77. They've got a clear shot along the road!"

"How long before they can fire?" said Kippler.

"I said as soon as they could," Alek said. "We've got two minutes to clear the firing zone. Do we go forward or back?"

Kippler looked ahead, where Connor was doing her best impression of a Space Marine. She had hacked a bloody path through the Ork brutes, and the Trench Skippers had capitalized on the opening. "We go where the Commissar demands, Alek. We make for the building."

"Aye, corporal," said Alek. The Daredevils thrust through the break in the Ork phalanx, joining the platoon's final push. Zapping hellgun fire erupted all around Alek and Kippler, wiping away the Orks. Ork reinforcements had trickled to a halt, and the remaining Greenskins were faltering. Ennis's men had shattered the Killa Kan charge with precision melta shots and bombs. But for their bravery, the Trench Skippers had taken the brunt of the Ork's wrath. Five troopers lay dead, torn apart by Ork guns or hacked to bits by their axes.

Kippler kept a level head through the grueling fight, only firing when he was guaranteed a kill. Forty five seconds later, the Orks had been pushed off the bridge, but it was the longest forty five seconds Kippler had ever endured. The bridge covered in dead Orks, the grenadiers rushed their objective building as more of the xenos forces regrouped.

"Go, go! Get inside!" shouted Lieutenant Hunder. A distant rumble throbbed at the edge of hearing. Kippler looked back across the bridge. In the far distance, up Temple Hill, he saw a series of flashes, followed shortly by more bangs. The artillery was raining down on them. He raced for the house.

Vornas hastily strapped a shaped charge onto the front entrance, and primed the explosive. Pressing into the wall, the grenadiers set off the bomb, blasting the door inwards. They swarmed inside, firing back at the Orks still out in the streets before delving further inside. The first shells began to strike. The pavement erupted in fiery blasts that threw chunks of asphalt skyward and incinerated anything left in the open. The ground shook and the world was deafened by the continuing destruction.

Then, the building was hit. Kippler was thrown like a ragdoll against the wall, which promptly collapsed in a huge crack. The whole world went black, the crashing noise was deafening, and Kippler found himself being twisted painfully by the crushing rock. The destruction lasted for ages, it seemed, until finally, things settled. The basilisks fell silent, and a strange quiet fell across the ruined structure. Kippler couldn't move anything but his neck, which he craned awkwardly to try and look around. He was fairly certain he was upside down by the blood rushing to his head.

Shapes began moving in the rubble. Somebody groaned nearby. "Vornas? Borik, is that you?" asked Kippler. He tried to twist his neck in the direction of the sound.

"Aye, Kip, it's me," replied Vornas. Vornas sat up, shaking off the mountain of rubble that coated his armor. "If Alek is still alive, I'm gonna kill him for this."

"I'll keep that in mind, you ass," sniped Alek from somewhere out of sight. "Are you alright, Corporal?"

Kippler tried to move again, but the rocks didn't budge. He gave up and sighed. "No, I'm stuck. I don't think anything's broken though, help me get out."

Alek and Vornas pried the heavy masonry off of Kippler until he was able to move his arms and pull himself out of the wreckage. The three moved among the room, helping free their entombed comrades until they were all free. Almost everyone, Kippler observed. "Where's Remer?"

"He was the last one through the door, after me," said Vornas. "I didn't see him after that blast."

"Check the hallway," ordered Connor, "or what's left of it." The grenadiers carefully picked their way across the room. The building had mercifully only taken a single shell in the exchange, but there was no sense in abandoning caution. The roof might still be up, but the foundations might have been shaken severely, and any misjudged step could cause a wall or floor to give away. The entire corner of the building had been taken out, exposing the guardsmen to the cold winter air. Had Kippler not been wearing his armor, he would have been killed instantly. Mathis's troops, in their simpler flak jackets, were definitely worse off than the true grenadiers.

The hallway was utterly gone. A huge fissure was all that remained where it once was, filled with shattered rockrete as hundreds of tonnes from the building above crashed into the ground. The sinkhole was beginning to settle, with a thin blanket of snow already blanketing the debris. Kippler looked down the hole with an empty look on his face, his eyes unblinking. His gaze had caught a slight glint; red blood shimmering, splattered across a sheet of metal in an unreachable corner down the hole.

Vornas was already hooking his rappel line into the floor. Kippler looked at him blankly. "What are you doing, Borik?"

"I'm going to get him out, what the hell does it look like?" he growled back at Kippler. Vornas glared at Kippler, a reproachful look etched across his burned face. He jumped off the side of the fissure, sliding down the rope. Commissar Connor swooped down and snatched the line before Vornas could descend any further. "Get off, you bitch, unless you're coming down here to help me!"

"Anything we pull out of there we will be returning to the A.F.H in several bags, private," said Connor, somewhat more harshly than Kippler usually knew her for. "We have our objective, now we hold it until the convoy arrives. One dead trooper is not enough reason to deny a strategic position."

"Vornas, listen to me. We have to go," Kippler said. He offered Vornas his hand. "Please."

Vornas swatted his hand aside, pulling himself out of the pit. Kippler felt the pure resentment radiating from the huge man as he shouldered past without so much as glancing at him. Lieutenant Hunder watched the exchange hesitantly, until Vornas left the room to secure the rest of the building with Ennis's remaining soldiers. "Corporal? Are you alright?"

"What? Oh, yes. I'm fine, sir," Kippler said, eventually. He looked around, realizing that he, Alek and Hunder were the only ones in the hallway. Beryn had taken the rest of the squad to clear the road for the rest of the company. Kippler could hear their engines coming steadily up the street. "Alek, get on the vox to command, tell them we've secured the building. And... give them the casualties."

Alek suddenly looked like the frightened, unsteady youth again. His hands trembled while he worked the vox caster, and his voice cracked as he read out the report. "The objective was taken, sir. Casualties: five soldiers from Trench Skipper squad. Daredevils: one."

Guilt and Anger

The Imperial Guard had surged into Golgotha Spire intent on breaking the Orks apart before they could consolidate their landing sites. To an extent, they were successful. Four of the strategically valuable bridges linking the dockyards and storage facilities to the mainland had been secured in the first day of fighting, with only minimal losses for the Imperium. The remaining two had been subject to the fiercest fighting of the day, resulting in one bridge's destruction by Greenskin saboteurs, and the other still hotly contested. Southgate Bridge was effectively cleansed in a matter of hours, as the Vendoland, Xenobane and Garredyne forces has swept across into Ork territory, courtesy of the 4th Grenadiers. By all accounts, the first day of the Green Winter Campaign had been a resounding success.

But not for Soras, or for any of the grenadier platoon. Six men dead was a tally for some, but for them, they were six friends that wouldn't be going home again. Their deaths lay heavily on the troopers' consciences, a bitter reminder that, for all their training and experience, even veterans could fall as easily as raw guardsmen. Kippler sat atop a terraced roof, listening to the bells from Temple Hill ringing in the night sky while a light snow fell. Kippler began unraveling a roll of cloth from his pack. It was Remer's homemade banner for the regiment, poor Gothic grammar and all. He really had used bootlaces for the stitching.

Two pillars adorned with eagles, one blindfolded, flanked the central emblem. Remer had chosen a large, furry animal for their symbol. Kippler recognized it as an Ursidae, an unusual beast from other worlds he'd only read about. Most Guard units that had seen them simply called the beast a bear. Remer's bear riding Space Marines, Kippler remembered that conversation. Across the bottom of the green flag, the slogan was written. "First Glory".

"First Glory to you then, Lenham Remer," said Soras quietly. He set the flag aside, unable to look at it anymore. Instead, he did what he always did when he needed to focus. He began stripping his rifle. At least that was something he knew he couldn't fail at.

"These are the men?" asked Colonel Crassus. Arrayed in front of him were fifty Planetary Defense Force soldiers, stripped down to their undershirts and coated in oil and grime. Even in the bitter cold, Crassus could see the sweat evaporating from their skin, and each looked like he had spent time in a furnace rather than manning an artillery battery.

"Gun crew seventy-seven, Colonel," said Battery Commander Hullen. The large man puffed out his chest with pride for the recognition of his leadership. A compliment from the Imperial Guard was as great an honor as the commander could achieve. Crassus let Hullen bask in his ego stroking, he wasn't here for the commander. He was here to see the crew themselves. "We are a joint anti-air and ground support unit. No doubt you were impressed by my performance today."

"Yes..." muttered Crassus, trailing off. He walked the breadth of the crew, eyeing the militiamen. Intimidated, several of them straightened up as he passed. "You men have helped win us a great victory today. Take pride in that. With your aid, we were able to secure a vital lynchpin in our supply lines to the battlefront. I am here to personally congratulate you for your timely assistance, and I shall be placing a commendation for your unit." Crassus clapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them to ward off the cold. "The Emperor thanks you this day. Moreover, I thank you."

Crew 77 snapped to attention, saluting. Crassus was impressed with their discipline. Perhaps there was more to Hullen than his paunch. "Thank you sir!" they shouted. Crassus returned the salute, and walked back to the half-track, waiting to pick him up. The Colonel pulled back the canvas and climbed into the truck's rear, where Major Lester was waiting for him.

"Did you find anything up there?" asked Crassus. If his hunch was correct, they had just gained a valuable asset.

Armand nodded. "You were right, Ertrand, the site is perfect. 77 Battery lies along Temple Hill's Fourth Rampart, right in the corner where the wall begins to curve. Their guns overlook the whole street across Luesan Island. It's got an unprecedented firing arc that we can use. They can provide fire almost anywhere within our sector."

"Good work," said Crassus, huddling up in his heavy cloak. "Send a vox operator over there first thing in the morning. I want a direct line between 77 and Command, is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir. I'll send Murtonn, he won't let us down."

"Then we have nothing more to discuss," Crassus said. "Driver, take us home." The engine growled to life, and the half-track skidded along the still falling snow towards headquarters. The complex sat at the base of Temple hill, a sprawling series of management offices that the Guard had appropriated from protesting nobles. Crassus and Lester passed through the security checkpoints on their way to their billet. The Major bid Crassus good night, leaving him to his study.

The austere room left little to indicate anyone had even been there. Crassus only personal belongings were in a suitcase nestled in the corner. He decided now might be the only time to unpack what little he owned. A set of civilian clothes, a journal, and a small box. Crassus set the box on the desk and opened the lid, revealing an autopistol, the grip inlaid with silverwork. He looked at the weapon longingly. It had been a gift from his uncle, a metal craftsman back on Vendoland. Thinking back, he realized that it had been nearly twenty years since he had been home, and it would probably be another twenty before he would get another chance.

Crassus threw his winter cloak over the desk chair and eased himself into the chair, reclining back as far as the springs would allow. Enjoy the small moments, he taught himself. After a long, draining day, any comfort was a luxury. He glanced idly over to the stack of files and reports awaiting his signature. No matter how short lived they may be.

Gren stared down the Ratling cook opposite the mess table. "I'm not eating that until it stops moving," he snarled, pointing at the quivering pile of stew mounding his plate. The abhuman was insisting that the local wildlife was edible, only adding to Gren's disgust.

"Honest now chum, have you ever tried eating a Meridian Granite Borer?" asked the cook, his voice as greasy as his apron. "I've tasted it m'self an' nothing's wrong with me. Ask any of us, it's eatable."

Gren loomed over the table, towering over the halfwit midget. "Maybe for you, if you had stomach acid that would give a Space Marine a run for his money, but not for me. Give me a bowl that isn't slightly alive."

The Ratling raised his arms, expressing defeat. "Fine, soldier boy, have it your way." The cook slopped a new plate of food for Gren. "Enjoy," he said, deadpan. Gren just sneered at the runt and walked off. It had been a long day, and a ratling giving him lip wasn't helping.

A group of spectators had been watching the altercation from a distance. A few even called out some encouragement to Gren, but most watched in anticipation. Since 11th and 7th had been folded into one, several guardsmen had come to hear the stories about Old Gren. Some said he had snapped after losing most of his squadmates near the end of the Vandis heresy. Others told stories of how the young lad who followed him around was his handler, as if he was some animal. Those that knew Gren told these gossipers to shut up, or they might get to know him a little too well.

The rapid advance after the Vendolanders had cleared the bridge had brought the worst urban combat had to offer with it. With the Orks digging in, every building had become a fortress. Gren's platoon had been tasked with clearing a food rations depot in the Hab blocks, which now served as the mess hall he and Flinn sat in. The fight had lasted nearly four hours before the Orks had fallen back, taking most of the supplies along with them. The rancid stench of the company cook's stew only mildly blocked out the smell the Greenskins left behind.

"Cheer up, man," said one of the new boys as Gren seated himself along the table. "It's better to have the 'abbies' watch our food than watch our backs. And he's not that bad a cook, once you get round his ingredients."

Gren just grunted angrily. "So you think having some little freak poison you with a smile on his face is better than throwing him out against the Orks with the rest of us?" Gren shook his head. "I don't know how you can live with an abhuman like that. Just get some chef from the reserve company and be done with him."

"So I take it you don't trust the abbies then?" asked the trooper. Gren simply gave him a look that said 'you are an idiot for asking that.'

"Didn't I just finish saying that? No, I don't trust abhumans. I don't trust anyone."

"Corporal? May I have a word?" Kippler looked up from his rifle to see Captain Uther standing at the access door to the rooftop. Kippler nodded reluctantly, and Uther stepped forward. He offered Kippler a warm mug. "The ratlings aren't the most reliable chefs, I know. This is from my personal stock."

"Something you needed, captain?" asked Kippler, taking a sip from the steaming cup.

"Just a talk, Corporal. I've spoken with Commissar Connor, she gave me the action report on your success today. She... also told me of your casualties. I am sorry about Remer."

"There's nothing I could have done, sir," said Kippler flatly. "Artillery doesn't discriminate. It's just the feeling of helplessness that I am troubled by. There was nothing I could have done as I see it now. But what if I had done differently? Would I have been able to save him?"

Lars shrugged. "That's not for me to say. You made the call, and you must live with it. Soldiers die, Soras. If you try to save everyone, you end of getting them all killed. You need to move past that if you are to lead. And right now, your men need a leader. Connor told me about the trouble you had with your second grenadier, Vornas. Mend that damage now before it spreads."

"Yes sir."

Captain Uther got up to leave. "I'm counting on you, Soras, don't let me down. When you are ready, I have a list of replacement candidates for your squad. I have no doubt you will make a smart decision."

Half embedded in the bottom of Lake Aradine, a large section of the Ork rok rose out of the water like a jagged island. Even as the haphazard construct continued to fill with water, the Orks still persisted in their efforts to keep the ship running in a semi functional manner. In his newly made chambers near the top, Warboss Smashface convened with his Nobz. "Right, dis meetin' is come to orda now!" barked Smashface. "Dat means shut yer yap and listen! Now, where are we?"

"Well, boss, we're in a lake," said one of the Nobz. Smashface lived up to his name, leaving the Nob to pick himself up off the floor.

"I know dat, you idiot! I mean, where are we on da map? You know, dat fing dat I found dat brought us here in da first place? Mek, bring dat fing out 'ere and show us where we are!"

The new Mekboy, somewhat rapidly promoted after his predecessor's involuntary accident, nervously shuffled forward, holding a hololith chart in his hands. He set the chart on the ground, letting the assembled Nobz look over the three dimensional display. "It says 'ere boss, dat we're on Meridian, capital of da Subsecta Aurelia. Says dat we've come down on da Angel Hive, in particular, Golgotha spire."

Smashface looked at the map with a greedy gleam in his beady eyes. "Golgoffa? Now dats a propa Orky name, isn't it boyz?" The Nobz nodded in agreement with the Warboss. "Wot do you know about dis Golgoffa, Mek?" he asked.

"Well, da chart here says dat most o' da boyz managed to land on, well, land. We'z got most o' da city covered, Boss, wiv plenty o' loot already. Da humies are on da north side, but we'z got da island and da south ends covered. Looks like a huge crumpin' Waaagh! If I ever saw one!"

"Of course it's a Waaagh! you git! I coulda told ya dat," said Smashface. He pondered for a moment. "Err, how are we supposed to get to da fightin'? Da Tellyporta's busted up."

The Mek scratched his head, thinking. The Nobz put their collective thoughts together, and came up empty. Orks were made for fighting and winning, not for planning and scheming (except for those weird Blood Axe boys). The collaborative thought process lasted several minutes, a spark of genius occurred. The New Mek snapped his meaty fingers. "I've got it boss!" he exclaimed. "'Ere's wot we do!"

Alek rushed between cots of wounded soldiers, helping where he could. The chief field medic for the company, a thickset man named Yoren, was wheeling another shrapnel victim into the medical station. The Orks had mercifully avoided striking the Hab block's hospital. Whether because of its lack of value in their minds, or if they wished to find better opponents than dying men, Alek didn't care. He was too busy checking triage tags and directing incoming wounded to ancilliary wards.

There were few civilians coming in, thanks to the early warnings that had successfully moved the bulk of Golgotha into refugee shelters on the north end of Temple Hill. Alek paid little attention to the few that arrived. Right now, he needed to focus on the guardsmen in front of him. Other volunteer medics did the same. A man was brought in with a massive cut along the inside of his leg. He wasn't moving, and Alek remorsefully crossed an X on his forehead. Too far gone, too much blood loss. He couldn't be saved now.

With every new arrival, Alek anxiously checked to see if one of them was Remer. Maybe somebody had found him, just trapped below but alright. He kept hoping to see the unkempt mop of black hair on one of those beds, or maybe hear a bad joke from the eternal optimist. But Remer never came. Alek's heart sank as the night dragged on. He recounted the proverb: Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.

A Growing Web

Wadden felt as though the forge would go on forever. Talros had led them from gantries, through service tunnels, underneath production lines, and everything in between. The Mechanicus was certainly maintaining a steady production of military arms and equipment, but despite Merrick's objections otherwise, Hurst wasn't quite convinced that the priesthood was hoarding for themselves. The supplies were constantly being shipped out to the loading bays, and heavy cargo ships continually came and went through the openings at the top of the Forge. Everything appeared to be running as Hurst thought a forge should.

They were now hidden between two large containers on a mag-train cart hurtling towards the primary Forge. So far, Talros had succeeded in keeping Tech Guard patrols and watchful priests from detecting them. Hurst hoped that whatever luck Talros had conjured up to keep the Mechanicus off their backs held out. While Hurst didn't believe in the arbitrator's suspicion of treason, being captured for trespassing was something he' d prefer to avoid. The mag-train hummed louder as it slowed to a halt in a large receiving depot. Large cranes reaching for the ceiling far above began offloading the train's cargo.

Talros slid off the side of the train and dropped a short distance to a maintenance catwalk that ran along the underside of the rail system. A tiny hatchway lay further up the grated walkway. Merrick and Hurst flanked either side of the door with their pistols drawn while the Talros produced his lock slicing tool. Hurst swung into the room, immediately checking his corner to the right with Merrick mirroring him on the left. When he gave the all clear, Talros entered and sealed the door behind them.

The room was a maintenance junction for the Forge's hydroelectric system. A small artificier console was packed tightly between a mass of dripping pipes, funneling water through the junction an back throughout the Forge. Wadden noted that only one other doorway entered the room. Easy to cover, but also easy to become trapped in. Talros produced two small, rectangular cards and pressed each against the entrance hatches. "These will emit an intermittent scan of the opposite side of the doorways. They are keyed to my neural augments, so I will know if there is movement the moment the surveyors detect anything. We will rest here for three hours, and then continue onwards."

Merrick shook his head, and nestled into a corner, resting with one hand on his laspistol. While he rested, Hurst watched the Arbites agent as he used the artificier's monitor, injecting a spike shaped object into the computer's memory banks. Hurst leaned over Talros's shoulder, staring at the screen. "What are you looking for?"

Talros did not take his eyes off the screen, and he continued to sift through information. "Anything of value. Security patrol routes, maintenance schedules, anything that might indicate if this room could be compromised in the time we stay here."

"That's not what I meant," said Hurst quietly, as to not wake Merrick. "I meant what are you looking for, here in the Forge?" Hurst placed himself between Talros and the monitor, and stared impassively at him. "I may not share Merrick's disregard for authority, but he is right about one thing. What do you need us for, exactly? You could have spoken to either of us in the past three months and learned all you could from our testimonials. But instead, here we are, helping you break into Angel Forge to steal documents. You say that the events leading up to Spire Legis's demise did not add up, Talros, but from my perspective, neither do your motives."

Talros was undeterred by Hurst's probing. He answered flatly, "You are here because I allow it. Your friend the sergeant major would still be in that cell if I had not overruled the Imperial Guard's sentencing. You are here because you are more embroiled in this conspiracy than you may realize. The Mechanicus archives will provide the proof I need to complete my case."

"Spare me the obfuscation, agent," said Hurst sharply. "I asked you a question with a simple answer. I didn't ask for another rant. What is in these archives that could be so valuable to you to risk death by the hands of the AdMech?"

"This conversation is over." Talros glared up at Hurst until he finally walked away. "My reasons are my own."

In a darkened room, visible only by the infrared sight of his optics, the priest watched and listened to the exchange between the two intruders. The Arbiter had been efficient in covering their footsteps. The low level Transmechanics overseeing audio surveillance of the Forge had been quite fooled by the encryption codes the agent had uploaded into the junction's computer bank. But not quite the match for the Logis Adept's discerning watch. The conversation was fascinating to him. A thought danced across his mind. Perhaps, a treasonous thought. But still, possibly a course of action worth exploring...

As far as Valeris could tell, she was somewhere in the lower levels of Golgotha spire. Either side of the abandoned roadway were artificial canals that provided drinking water to those below the surface level. The whole spire was covered by these waterways. Valeris hoped to follow the canals out to the water reclamation center, and from there, follow the shoreline north into Imperial Territory. It was slow going, Valeris was dragging her left leg, clutching a metal pipe as a crutch.

Her Thunderbolt had crashed some miles back. Valeris had hit the deck harder than she'd hoped, and her plane had bowled over the side of the freeway before crashing down here. She was lucky that she hadn't flipped over. Without her canopy, the plane would have crushed her. Even so, her flight jacket was stained dark red from her wounds, and Valeris' head was spinning from blood loss.

She could catch a few glimpses of the world above through the slivers of light that broke the darkness. Even as night fell, she could make out the occasional blips in the air that signified gunfire. So both sides were still going at it, she surmised. Above and below, the spire stretched for a mile in each direction, packed with countless roads, passages, and pipes leading through the labyrinth. She was constantly wary of attracting attention. If it wasn't Orks looting the lower levels, it would certainly be the Hive Gangers too stupid or stubborn to evacuate when the invasion warnings had gone off. There was always the sound of nearby gunfire, and Valeris didn't want to investigate.

The canal she had followed abruptly ended, flowing out of a huge metal grate built into the side of one of the Spire's support pillars. Valeris pulled herself over to the observation deck, thumbing the access panel to let her inside. Exhausted, Valeris collapsed through the entrance, the door hissing shut behind her just before she passed out. The last thing she felt before everything went black was the smack of her head against the hard floor.

Merrick and Hurst had their guns trained on the door the moment they heard the hatch click. Talros stood flat against the wall next to the entrance, brandishing a discreet needle pistol. Wadden suppressed the tension building up inside him by controlling his breathing and easing up on his grip. When the door didn't budge, whoever was forcing an entry opted for simply smashing it down. The hatch was blown open by a pressure ram, embedding the metal frame in the opposing wall. Then the fighting started.

The first Tech Guard through the door took a blast from Talros's needle pistol, spilling blood and oil over the squad of heavily armed cyborgs following him in. The trio fired shot after shot into the Skitarii, dropping them as they tried to force their way over the growing pile of bodies in the doorway. None of the Skitarii had yet managed to fire a shot in the engagement. Skitarii units were renowned for their lethality and advanced reflexes. Hurst prided himself on his marksmanship, but he was certain something was amiss. This suspicion was confirmed as a rasping voice shrieked "Cease fire!". The last Skitarii fell to Merrick's gun, and the room was quiet again.

Still pressed against the wall, Talros called out to the voice. "If you wish to speak, show yourself! Otherwise, join the rest of your fellow machine men in death."

The voice spoke with wearying contempt dripping from every syllable. "Oh very well, if I must. The weaknesses of the flesh are such inhibitors to proper conversation." A robed man, a Techpriest, strode into the room, showing no concern for the three guns pointed at his hooded face. "Very well, we shall do it your way, though, if I may ask a question?"

Talros cut him off. "I will be the one asking questions here," he said, still holding the gun to the priest's head. "How many more know we are here?"

"Three thousand four hundred and twenty seven Skitarii units under my command have been alerted to your presence," stated the priest. "They are currently on standby for further orders, and the nearest units can be here in thirty nine point two seconds."

"That is enough time to put us far enough away to stand a chance, then," said Talros. "And you can come with us for insurance."

The priest raised his hands and armatures in surrender, but continued to speak plainly. "Oh I assure you, agent, that will not be necessary. They will not attack without my command. In fact, I merely wished to speak with you. I understand we share a common interest."

Talros gave a harsh laugh. "And what would that be, gearhead?"

"Why, justice of course. The truth about Angel Forge. And the evidence you need to convict both Magos Dolthem and Commissar Elle Connor for heresy."

Hurst and Merrick shot a quick glance at each other, trying to hide their shock. It did not go unnoticed by the priest. "Oh, did he not explain that part to you, soldiers? You must forgive me for jumping ahead, but your skills at deduction are so limited by your hardware. Yes, heresy in the Guard ranks, and a conspiracy within the Priesthood. Isn't that correct, Aldan?"

Talros's face had contorted with anger. Flushed red, he pressed his now shaking pistol into the base of the priest's neck. "How do you know that name? Who are you?"

The priest turned on Talros, towering over the visibly shaken Arbiter. "I am the answer to all your questions, Aldan. I am Logis Corsis. It seems we have much to discuss." Another squad of Skitarii entered the room, marching over the bodies of their fallen allies. They trained their autoguns on the trio, who lowered their weapons. "If you will follow me, please."

The Beast Awakens

A week had passed since the Orks had made planet fall, and the effects could already be felt throughout Angel Hive. Millions of refugees evacuated from the besieged Golgotha Spire made the long pilgrimage across the frozen highways towards the Capital. Those too weak to brave the fierce blizzards were simply left on the roadside. Others still were harried relentlessly by local Ork marauders, stirred into a frenzy by the arrival of a true Waaagh! Greenskin bikers and raiders conducted steady hit and runs on the refugees, striking wherever the overtaxed PDF escorts were not. Thousands died on the long march.

Overhead, the air battle still raged, with round the clock sorties from the Imperial Navy's ground bases raiding the Ork roks while the Ameratus rested in orbit, providing fire support as needed. Angel Hive was too valuable to deploy capital weaponry against, severely crippling the Imperial's orbital defenses. The battleship was limited to tactical missile strikes to prevent excessive damage to Golgotha Spire's extensive supplies.


In Golgotha, the chaos of the initial attacks had finally subsided, and solid battle lines had been formed between the Imperial Guard and the xenos. The supply lines to the north half of the Spire remained open, allowing the Imperial Guard to swell across the river. However, attempts to advance further inland across Luesan Island were met with heavy resistance from the entrenched Greenskins. Routine patrols were sent along the canals to shore up holes along the line that the Orks could exploit.

Today, it was Gren's turn to lead the patrol. Captain Caius had the 7th company probing the underside of Southgate Bridge once again. The service tunnels had opened into an underground labyrinth of warrens and side passages that crept down into the undercity. There had been reports from previous patrols that Hive Gangers had been sighted using the passageways. Gren's orders were to clear out any squatters he found that might tip off the Orks to this potential weakness. Corporal Carros was on point, leading the ten troopers further into the warrens.

Contrary to many Imperial Guard regiments, the Vendolanders often employed reserve regiments with no designation to replace casualties. The trooper Gren had encountered in the mess hall had turned out to be a replacement, named Tamm. The 85th had received two replenishments during their tour of duty in Subsector Aurelia. Flinn had been on the first resupply, following the Coalition War. Tamm had arrived in the aftermath of the Tyranid invasion, fighting with 8th company against the Chaos incursion until the reformation of the Vendolanders. Chance had thrown him into Gren's unit.

Tamm annoyed Gren. He seemed resentful of his position as a reserve, despite seeing some of the worst combat during the Aurelian Crusades. He was always making snide remarks towards the company veterans, and he made no attempts to hide his jealousy of the regiment's actions on Typhon. It was all Gren could do not to punch the smug private's face. He settled for having Tamm bring up the squad's rear.

"Thank the Emperor we're out of that blasted snowstorm at least," joked Gren. "You'd need a bear's skin to stay outside for more than a minute."

"I think they have bears on Cadia," said Flinn. "That Colonel Moran from the Xenobane had a big furry cloak. I think they call them Ursidae. The thing's paws were as big as the Colonel's face."

"What is a bear, anyways?" asked private Rast.

"No idea," said Gren, shrugging. "That fellow Remer, from 4th company told me about it, once. Some kind of big, furry animal, the size of a truck, or something. He said that some Space Marines ride them." The squad laughed at the idea. The absurd image of an eight foot tall knight atop his noble, fat steed made Gren chuckle.

"And you believe that?" muttered Tamm.

"As a matter of fact, I do, private," said Gren. Remer might have been from another company, but there were few soldiers in the regiment who hadn't at least heard of the man. It was hard to ignore the effect that his death had taken on morale, and he wasn't about to let some arrogant little upstart speak ill of the man.

The ceiling shook above them. The gun batteries from Temple Hill were commencing their daily bombardment. In the past four days, the relentless sound of basilisk and thunderer fire had faded into background noise for Gren. Underground, he welcomed the reprieve from the cacophony.

Carros raised his hand for the squad to stop. Gren dropped to one knee, lasgun aimed down the passage. "All right, this is as far as second squad made it before turning back," said Gren. "We go in, clear the tunnel of any hostiles we find, and report back to HQ, got it?"

"Aye, sir," said the squad.

"Very well then, lads. Carros, lead on." Five hundred meters further, the passage opened up into the vast chasm that was the Undercity. The faint daylight fell through the cracks and holes of the Hive's surface, offering meagre light to the underground expanse. Gren peered down over the side of the walkway. Below, the curved metal and rockcrete that formed the support domes holding up the Hive bulged outwards for hundreds of meters.

Streets and rail lines zigzagged between the support domes. Coming from the bocage countryside of Vendoland to Meridian had been a shock for Gren. Even to this day, after years living on the planet, it still baffled his mind as to how so many people could live in such cramped conditions. And yet now, the entire Spire was empty. Across the chasms, there were no signs of life.

As they descended it became blisteringly hot. Scalding hot steam billowed from cracked pipelines, and waves of heat flowed upwards. The amount of power needed to power a Hive City was immense. Enormous geothermal energy furnaces were buried deep in the crust of the planet, and they burned so hot that even the intense snowstorms of Meridian's winters simply turned to vapor in the Undercity. Freezing cold water, pumped down from Lake Aradine came to a boil as it cascaded from open floodgates into huge reservoirs at the base of the domes.

There's no way we can cover all of this alone, thought Gren. Carros continued to lead them further downwards. More tunnels dotted the support dome. They would have to clear them one at a time. A few vagrants scattered as they pressed down the passage. Gren fired a few shots at their feet to encourage them to move a little faster.

They were the emaciated, the rejected, and the exiled members of society. Too late to heed the evacuation warnings, the people still living in the Undercity were little more than human vermin. Gren pitied them for their inability to help themselves. "Ignorance breeds innocence", the preacher had said at several sermons. Well look where that's gotten these wretches, thought Gren.


The squad met their first resistance at a tram junction. Hive Gangers, armed with stubbers and knives, were holed up in the operator's booth. As the squad approached, they fired a warning shot, plinking off Carros's shoulder pad. Protected by his flak armor, Carros immediately hit the ground, rolling out of the open. Gren barked at the men to take cover, and they dove behind anything solid. A stub gun wouldn't pierce armaplas, but it was never wise to take chances.

Tamm and Flinn fell in beside Gren. "Bloody hive gangers," spat Tamm. "One grenade and they're dead. Shall I do the honors, Sarge?"

"No, we're just supposed to clear them out, not start a street war," said Gren. Tamm rolled his eyes and gave a little huff. Gren nudged him sharply. "Hey, boy, that's enough. You listen to me, and you might live. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the target. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," said Tamm sullenly." Flinn's eyes darted from Tamm to Gren, and he tensed up a little bit. Gren had fire in his eyes.

"Say that again, private," Gren said icily. "I think you missed something."

"Understood, sergeant. There, is that better?"

"For now." Gren signaled to Carros, who was crouched behind a bench. The corporal peaked over the top, and then motioned to Gren. Five targets, all in the booth. Gren grabbed a smoke grenade from his belt. "See here? Nonlethal. All right, on three, we go," he whispered, gesturing to the other troopers. "One, two, three!"

Gren lobbed the grenade over the barrier. At the same time, Flinn popped up and fired a shot at the booth, shattering the glass. The cap on the smoke grenade burst, and white smoke came billowing out. The ten Guardsmen leapt over their cover, storming the tram station. They fired sparingly, seeking only to intimidate the Hive Gangers. The thugs wisely decided better than to stand against ten heavily armed soldiers, and they promptly fled.

One gang member, slow on the uptake, decided otherwise. He brandished a curved knife, swinging it wildly in front of his heavily tattooed face. Tamm rushed forward, despite Gren's protests. The private flipped his lasgun over, bringing the butt of the rifle into the ganger's face with a wet crunch. The man recoiled, clutching his shattered nose. Tamm struck the man twice more in the sternum, knocking him to the ground. Reeling, the ganger scuttled away as Tamm drew his bayonet.

"That's right, you better run, scum!" jeered Tamm, pumping his fist in the air. "Try not to bump into any Greenskins while you're running! We're the frakking I.G!"

Gren simply walked over to Tamm, grabbed his arm and twisted it until the bayonet fell from his grip. He spoke dangerously quiet. "When I say we are just supposed to clear them out, that is what I expect you to do, private." He picked up the blade, showing it to Tamm. "If I see this come out again without my command, you can find a new place to fix it, understood?"

Tamm looked away, resentfully. "Yes, Sarge."

"Knock it off, Tamm," said Marlo. The others murmured in agreement.

Gren was already checking his kit over. "Did I ask for a second opinion? No, so shut it." He monitored the charge on his lasgun. "All right, pack it in, lads. Keep moving."


The patrol continued like this for the next hour. Occasional groups of stubborn gangers would hole up and then run before the guardsmen could beat them down. It became tedious quickly, being unable to simply end the nuisances while at the same time being shot at. Tamm's surly attitude was not helping. Gren began quoting proverbs just to drown out the private's incessant complaining.

Even bringing up the rear of the squad, Tamm was managing to get on everyone's nerves. The heat, the attitude, and the stressful patrol was all mixing together in a boiling pot, and tempers were bound to flare. Eventually, things came to a head. Carros, constantly on point and watching for threats, had had enough. He stopped the patrol, and turned on Tamm. "If I have to hear one more fething word from your mouth, I'll cut it off and replace it with a vox grill. Shut the hell up."

"Easy, Corporal," warned Gren, wary of the unfolding situation.

Tamm sneered at Carros. "Oh look, the kid doesn't like me. Deal with it, point man. We all have a job to do, right? So do yours. I like the new paint job, bullet scratches look nice on you."

Carros moved like lightning. In a flash, he was in Tamm's face, with an armored glove smacking the smug grin off the insolent trooper. "Enjoy it while it lasts, prig. You can hang out with your gang buddy back there, it looks nice on you." Carros spat at Tamm. The private roared, and the rest of the squad had to hold the two back from tearing into. Tamm was swearing and cursing at Carros, who offered just as many insults in return. Gren finally stepped in.

"That's enough! I don't care if I'm working alongside the thickest Ogryn or smelliest Ratling, but I will not tolerate this behavior in my squad!" He jammed a finger at Carros. "You, get back on point, now. And you, you keep this up for one more second, and you'll have a meeting with the Commissariat. I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

Tamm glared at Carros with contempt. Blood was pouring from his broken nose, dribbling over his breastplate. He shook Marlo and Rast off him, and looked at Gren. "Understood, sergeant," he said, half heartedly. Gren took his helmet off, running a sweaty hand over his fading hair.

"Look, it's frakking hot down here, and everyone's on edge. I know nobody likes this kind of busywork, but it has to be done. We can't start fighting each other when there's enough down here to do that already." Gren sighed. "I think we've covered enough ground for one day. Corporal, mark this spot for the next patrol. The rest of you, fall in. Let's get back to camp."


The patrol began the slow, winding ascent back to the surface. The steam was becoming so hot that Gren's shirt was soon drenched in sweat, and it clung to the inside of his breastplate like sticky cloth. Sweat was dribbling down over his head, his helmet feeling like a boiling soup bowl. He actually found himself missing the blizzard above.

"Saint Ollanius's soul, what is that smell?" said Marlo, scrunching his nose. "It smells like wet grox gak."

"Have you never smelled sweat before, genius?" said Tamm. "We're practically swimming in it." He was met with silence from the other troopers.

But Gren could smell it too. It smelled like a filthy barn that hadn't been cleaned in years, a musty scent with a hint of rancid food. A gust of hot air blew across the empty street, bearing more foul odors with it. Gren gagged on the stench, coughing. Carros had made it back to the surface access tunnel. The door was sealed shut. That can't be right, thought Gren. We made sure it was forced open when we first set out. Something was wrong.

Oh hell, he thought. Gren felt a growing dread building inside him. His gut instincts were screaming to run, that they were in danger. The smell, the sealed doorway. He pieced everything together, just a moment too late.

The door exploded, showering the squad with jagged metal fragments that tore through their fabric uniforms. The guardsmen were thrown from their feet by the concussion wave. Gren's ears were ringing as he stumbled upright. He could hear muffled shouts while his hearing recovered. Around him, the other troopers were struggling to stand. Large, hulking figures were moving out of the shadows, and advancing on the group.

"Orks!" screamed Marlo. The private shoved his shotgun into the hole, firing a blast of shells into the Greenskin's face. The Ork fell backwards, propelled by the impact. A second, much heavier shot fired back. Marlo's chest was blown open by the Ork's own shotgun, plastering the walls with his guts.

"Pour it on 'em, lads!" shouted Gren, finally rising unsteadily to his feet. The tunnel was soon filled with ringing gunfire, echoing across the undercity. The Kommandos must have been lying in wait. It was shocking how easily such huge xenos could move stealthily. Their brutish faces were covered in black camouflage paint, or obscured completely by crude metal helmets shaped to look like a spiked mouth. Dozens of them must have been stalking them, as more Orks appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"Rast, Flinn, make for the surface!" shouted Gren. "Get back and warn HQ, we've got a breach!"

The two soldiers nodded, making a run for it. Flinn hesitated, looking back helplessly at his friend. "Flinn, get going. Run, you idiot!" The lad kept looking back, before finally turning away and racing to catch up with Rast. Gren turned back to the fight. He cranked the power setting on his lasgun to maximum, and uttered a war cry as he plunged into battle with the Greenskins.


The Leviathan's vox operator looked up from his screen. "Colonel, I think we've got something. The Greenskins are on the move. It looks like they're advancing on the forward line. Listening post Omega just went dark, but not before they sent a distress call."

Crassus and Lester rushed over to the operator. "Have you heard anything from the other regiments, son?" said Crassus. "Is it just our sector?"

The operator looked up. His face was white. He slowly put down the speaker, hands shaking. "It's the same all across the line, sir. They're moving on every sector across the island. It's a full scale attack."

"Send an emergency distress call, soldier," said Crassus. "Get as many men as you can to spread the word."

"Aye, sir." The operator began scrambling to adjust his system to the emergency channel. Crassus pulled Major Lester to the side. "Armand, get on the line with Hullen and the PDF units. I want Battery 77 ready immediately. Put the reserve companies on full alert. We will need everyone from the looks of things."

"On my way, Colonel." Armand vanished through the exit from the comms room. Crassus jammed his hands into his pockets, grabbing a lighter and a cigar before leaving for the observation deck. Four days of skirmishing with the outlying Orks. This was their first major counterattack, and the Greenskins weren't doing things halfway. A massive surge across the entire island, Ertrand thought to himself. This would either make or break the Imperial defenses. He was confident that the Vendolanders would be ready for the push. He hoped the rest of the Imperial Guard felt the same.


The 4th Company was making final preparations for the Ork onslaught. A strip of hab blocks, five hundred meters wide and miles long, had been utterly demolished by Basilisk artillery barrages. This no man's land separated the inner island from the Vendoland's battle line. If the Orks were going to meet them, they would have to cross the killzone. Anything they had done to prepare for an Ork attack would soon be tested.

Kippler pushed his way through the platoons making their way to the line. As assault infantry, the grenadier squads were ill suited for defensive operations, so Captain Uther had divided them for the time being. Alek was busy aiding the medic corps, while Corporal Beryn had allocated the rest of the troopers to other squads for increased support. Lieutenant Hunder had ordered Kippler to get high and spot for artillery. While the company dug in, Soras searched for the highest vantage point he could find.

A hab block, some three layers into the Guard's defense line, rose high above the rest like a grey monolith. Soras and several other sharpshooters settled in on the rooftop, overlooking the battlefield. He had a perfect vantage point to survey the no man's land. Peering through his long las scope, Kippler could make out the Orks, milling about on the edge of the expanse. There were thousands of them, some walking, others clinging to the sides of ramshackle trucks and tanks. More still were mounting their Deff Dreds and Killa Kans. The Orks were swelling on the edge of the field, ticking down the minutes until their capacity would burst, and they would swarm towards the Imperial gun line.

Kippler checked his vox bead. "Mathis, can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Corporal," replied Beryn. "Everyone's settled in."

"Good. Keep an eye on Vornas, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"I'll try. No promises," Mathis sounded wary. Kippler couldn't exactly blame him. Vornas had taken Remer's death extremely hard, and over the past few days, he had been extremely hostile to the Daredevil's replacements. The man could snap at any moment, and Kippler was struggling to keep Vornas grounded and focused.

"Just try your best, that's all I ask," said Kippler quietly.

"Will do, Corporal." Mathis closed the channel. Kippler sank into his position, still as a rock. The blanket of snow washing over him from the blizzard only helped to reinforce his cover. Overhead, the roar of the Navy fighters encouraged Kippler. The Vendolanders were as ready as they would ever be. With their backs to artillery, and planes overhead, Soras felt confident in their position.

The Orks began to advance. Slowly at first, the scattered boyz darting across the killzone soon became a wave. Behind the battle line, the artillery batteries on Temple hill began to fire. Between the blizzard and the smoke from the basilisk strikes, it was difficult for Kippler to find priority targets. He waited for brief pauses in the barrage to fire at his targets. He missed more often than he liked, but every Nob that he dropped was one less that reached the gun line.

Something caught his eye, however. Thousands of Orks were swarming forwards, covering the ground in a sea of green. But there was something else out there, obscured by the swirling clouds of snow and debris. Somebody else had seen it too. Far below, Kippler heard somebody shout.

"Squiggoth!"

Author's note: Updated to fix some continuity issues and some niggling parts I felt needed expanding on.

Beasts of Waaagh!

The call sent shivers down the spine of every guardsmen on the frontline. A Squiggoth was a massive creature, towering over even the largest vehicles the Imperial Guard had available. Like ancient war beasts emerging from the shadows, the Squiggoths burst through the black smoke, their handlers riding atop ramshackle bunkers strapped to the beasts' humped backs. Its tusks were as long as three men, its red eyes filled with animal rage. With every step, the ground shook with the force of an artillery blast. The Orks gave them a wide berth, letting the feral beasts lead the charge. Mighty zapp guns and cannons bristled on their backs, flashing harsh yellow light as they fired on the guardsmen.

The Vendoland 4th company lay behind their aegis defense lines, weathering the attack. They were to wait until the Orks were within effective range before firing. Behind them, Leman Russ tanks, disguised as rubble piles, began firing their battle cannons, joining the heavy Basilisk fire from Temple Hill. The charging Squiggoths exchanged fire with the tanks, some shots deflected off of the Russes' frontal armor, while others were torn asunder by direct hits bouncing underneath the gun mantlets. The noise was deafening, but above the roar of explosive rounds, the chanting Orks could be heard, shouting in crude Low Gothic voices. "'Ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go!" they yelled, shooting sporadic bursts into the air to punctuate their chant.

Beryn Mathis kept his head down, waiting for the order to fire. The Orks were getting closer, with every step, the return fire from the Vendolanders intensified. He grasped his Lasgun, squeezing and releasing the stock as he counted down in his head. Captain Uther was telling the men to hold fire. One soldier began to panic, shaking uncontrollably. The waiting, the noise, and the oncoming swarm of Greenskins had gotten to the trooper. He made a break for it, leaving his post on the line and running for the relative safely of the inner defenses. He made it ten feet before a hand with an iron grip clutched his chest, stopping him cold.

Commissar Connor held the man with one arm, giving him a deathly glare. "Back on the line, trooper," she said, her voice as cold as the winter winds. Connor threw the man to the ground, towering over him. Using his better judgment, the trooper rushed back to the line, still in a panic. Mathis had to hand it to his new Commissar, she didn't need to kill subordinates to get results. He shuddered to think of what it would take to put the woman over the edge, and he certainly did not want to test her patience. His comrades from the 46th Vendoland shared a glance, holding similar sentiments.

"Two hundred meters!" called a spotter.

"This is it, soldiers," said Captain Uther. "Hold for just a little more!" The snipers and machine gunners dotted across the rooftops had sparked to life, striking down scores of Greenskins. The spotter screamed out one hundred and fifty meters. The captain rose over the aegis line, wielding his laspistol and chainsword. "Now, men! Open fire!"

Two hundred lasguns were trained on the Greenskin horde. Mathis felt the hiss of lasgun discharges as the air was ionized by the volley. Kalan and Donovan, his squad's gunners, fired bursts of heavy stubber fire, punctuating the snap hiss of lasgun shots with the steady thud of solid bullets. Mathis watched as dozens of Greenskins simply melted under the barrage. A Slugga Boy was torn into several pieces by the immense volume of fire, refusing to die until a trio of full power lasgun shots from Mathis tore the xenos's head off.

The intensity of the Imperial firepower was matched by the Orks's ferocity. A wall of hot steel peppered the aegis defense wall as shoota boys and flash gits fired back. Dozens of Guardsmen were caught by the Orks' response, ripping through their flak and carapace armor. Mathis spotted a large Ork leading a pack directly at them; a Nob, covered in scrap metal armor and spiked shoulder pads adorned with human skulls. "Vornas, grenade on the big one!" he ordered. The grenadier swapped out his ammo drum, and lobbed a volley at the Nob. The cluster of explosives landed at the feet of the Greenskin just before they detonated. The brute's legs disintegrated from the blast of hot shrapnel.

As the wave of Orks hit their lines, the Squiggoths held back, still trading shots with the Imperial armour, and running amok as their riders wrestled them into position for a charge. Mathis watched the impact of earthshaker rounds tearing huge holes in the Ork swarm, but few hit the large creatures. He focused on the enemies in front of him, and dreaded those yet to come.


The Squiggoths had reached the firing range of the Guardsmen. Massed fire from tanks, machine gun nests, and small arms fire was only slowing the beasts down, not stopping them. Kippler tried a different tactic. He was aiming for the Orks riding atop the war beasts. Without a handler, a Squiggoth might panic and run, breaking up the Ork horde and giving the Imperials an opening. With each Ork that poked his head out of the metal box atop the lead Squiggoth, Kippler's sharpshooter aim added another Xenos to his kill tally. The Orks aimed the giant, back mounted Zapp gun upwards, searching for the snipers harassing them. Kippler quickly backed up from the edge of the rooftop.

"Everyone, move, move!" he shouted to the other sharpshooters and gunners. The Vendolanders uprooted from their positions, fleeing for the far side of the roof. Behind him, Kippler could hear the buzzing whine of the Zapp gun charging its shot. A blast of hot air washed across his back, melting the snow on his cloak, and then he heard a deafening crash. Kippler chanced a glance back to the ledge. It wasn't there anymore. The entire side of the building had simply fallen away, either vaporized by the Zapp gun blast, or collapsed, raining over the Guardsmen below.

Kippler switched on his vox bead, turning it to the squad's closed channel. "Alek, do you still have your vox pack?" he asked as he moved to a new firing position.

"I'm a little busy at the moment," said a panting Alek. "We've got wounded coming in all over the place. What do you need the vox for?"

"Alek, those Squiggoths are tearing us apart. We need the artillery to focus on them rather than the Orks," said Kippler. "Otherwise we might as well give up the bridge. Do whatever you can, just get me in touch with a gun crew!"

"Alright, Kippler, I'll try," said Alek. "Give me some time, I'll head for headquarters with the wounded."

"Roger that, Alek. Good luck."


"Alright, alright, set him down on the back, gently now," said Alek, helping hoist a wounded trooper onto a jeep. He turned to the trooper helping him. I'm going with this one, Harrel. I'll send back as many medical supplies as I can scavenge, we'll need all of them." Alek hopped into the passenger's seat and the driver took off. The jeep winded its way down the streets, darting between tanks and personnel rushing to reinforce the frontline. Alek checked his comm bead again. "Kippler, I'm on my way back to headquarters. Where are you now?"

"I'm heading for the frontline, my position was compromised. There's a hab complex on the edge of the killzone that hasn't fallen completely yet, and I'll need to be close for this to work."

"Kippler, are you insane?" said Alek. "You'll be a sitting duck out there, and if that thing doesn't get you, you could be caught in the blast!" Alek's hands started trembling again, like they had when Remer had died. "I can't ask you to do that, Kippler, please. There has to be another way."

"There isn't," said Kippler solemnly. "I know it's risky, Alek, but it's one life against everything. I have to do this. Don't make me pull rank, let me do this as your friend."

Alek sighed, exasperated. "I trust you, Soras. Get it done."

The jeep sped down the thoroughfare. Across Southgate Bridge, Alek could see the titanic Leviathan Command Vehicle, a mobile fortress that acted as headquarters for their sector of Golgotha Spire. The Vendoland, Garredyne, and Cadian regiments operating in the sector all shared the Leviathan, and even it was only one of many similar vehicles coordinating the defense of the Spire. Alek told the driver to let him off at the base of the huge machine before sending him off with the wounded soldier and orders for more supplies.

Alek ran up the wide access ramp at the front of the Leviathan. Aboard the headquarters, he worked through the cramped hallways, pushing aside regimental aides and servitors as he made for the communications room. "Major, major!" Alek blurted, bursting into the comms center. Major Lester looked up from the hololith tactical map dominating the center of the room. His face was strained, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. The major looked as though he had been working all day, and Alek figured he probably had been.

"What is it private? Make this quick, what's happened?"

Alek finally caught his breath, heaving. "I need to get a hold of some artillery. I don't have the codes, sir, but my squad leader said he can do something about the Squiggoths."

"Private, we're currently short on available artillery," said Lester, sternly, "I cannot just 'give' you a gun battery." The major highlighted the Vendolanders' attached gun crews on the hololith chart. They had access to three large batteries dotting the Temple Hill. Red arcs indicated the basilisks' predicted shell trajectories and their intended targets. "We have to rely on carpet barrages, there simply isn't a spotter close enough for us to make an accurate strike that you are proposing."

Alek's vox bead bleeped again. "Alek, are you there? I'm in position, have you got anything for me yet?" Major Lester watched him instinctively put his hand up to his ear. His eyes narrowed as they focused on the vox bead.

Major Lester extended a hand, demanding the bead. "Let me talk to him, private." Alek removed the vox bead from his helmet and handed it to the officer. "This is Major Lester of the Vendoland Consolidated Regiment. Identify yourself."

Alek listened as Kippler's voice came through the vox pack. "Corporal Kippler, sir, 1st Battalion, 4th Company. The Squiggoths are tearing through our frontlines, but I can give you accurate targeting information. If we don't bring these beasts down, the line is going to break."

Major Lester remained unconvinced. "Corporal, I'll tell you the same thing that I told your private. I don't have any guns I can provide you. All of the batteries on Temple Hill are operational already."

"Is there nothing you can do?" pleaded Kippler, "Give me one gun, that's all I need. One gun pointed at a Squiggoth. They're shrugging off small arms, but I'm certain an Earthshaker could bring it down. Sir, please, this could be our only chance."

Major Lester wiped his face of sweat, and sighed. "Are you certain you can maintain a lock on those beasts, Corporal?"

"Perfectly sir."

"Very well, give me your signal," said Lester. "I'll put you through to Murtonn. Do not take my charity lightly, trooper. Make every shot count."

"Understood, thank you sir."

Lester handed the vox bead back to Alek. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Your corporal better be right about this, private, or we're all buggered. Here, use this frequency with your vox pack. It will put you through to the Planetary Defense Force's artillery network."


Vox Operator Murtonn received the order moments later. "Commander Hullen, new target orders. The regiment needs one gun redirected to coordinates Six-Three-Three, Oh-Four-Two. We have laser targeting for corrections."

The PDF Commander looked down at the Guardsmen. "Understood, mister Murtonn." Hullen exited the soundproofed building, being met with the deafening barrage of artillery. The twelve Basilisk cannons had been firing nonstop for close to four hours, softening up the Vendolander's killzone, and now devastating the Ork horde as it tried to cross no man's land. The very air was thick with the smell of sweat and the heat dispersing from the guns. Grease and oil coated every man more than snow, and the gunners had stripped off their shirts as they toiled away.

"Gun 4, new targeting information!" barked Commander Hullen, "Correct to coordinates 633042! One round, high explosive charge." The loader set the shell in the cannon's breach and slammed it shut. His hearing dulled, the loader and gunner gave a thumbs up to indicate their readiness. Hullen puffed up his chest, and screamed. "Fire!"

The massive thump of earthshaker fire shook the ground, but the crew remained unfazed. They were used to this work by now. For months, the guns had lay silent, untouched since the last crusade struck Meridian. But now, after a week of relentless bombardment, the crews had returned to a steady routine, undisturbed by the noise, the cold, and the grime. There was only the gun, the target, and the resounding sound of a successful hit. The rhythm was like poetry to the men, uncomplicated, but beautiful.

The shot disappeared into the sky. They didn't watch to see if they'd hit their mark, immediately restarting the procedure for the next shell. The distant sound of an explosion called back to them, carried on the wind. A second shot fired, followed by a third. Whatever lay on the far side of that river was surely suffering by now.


Flinn and Rast ran as fast as they could towards the surface. The horrible sounds of the Kommandos still fighting the squad further back followed them through the tunnels. It was a horrible reminder, and the guilt Flinn felt for leaving his friends behind nearly pushed him to tears. It was wrong, leaving them back there to those monsters. But Gren had told him to go, and Gren knew what was best for the him. He'd looked out for Flinn, and now, Flinn needed to trust him.

A growling, bestial voice echoed through the corridor behind them. "Get back here, humies! I'z not finished wif ya yet!" The rattle of heavy machine gun fire and the flash of muzzle discharges made Flinn instinctively duck, yanking Rast down with him. The two scrambled across the floor and pressed themselves into an alcove in the corridor. Flinn's heart was pounding as the heavy, stomping footsteps of the Ork Kommando came closer and closer. "I can smell ya, humies. Come out to play, show me yer dakka!"

"What do we do?" whispered Rast. Flinn peaked around the corner. In the dim, flickering lights, he could make out the massive bulk of the Ork. It filled the hallway, his back hunched over and covered in explosives and knives and all manner of weapons. He looked back to Rast, and silently pointed to the trooper's belt of grenades. Rast hastily passed the belt to Flinn. He counted down on his fingers, pulled the pin on the first grenade, and tossed the belt at the Greenskin, before huddling back in the corner and covering his face.

The blast left the Ork bellowing in pain, shortly before the rest of the greenskin's explosives began bursting like firecrackers. Shrapnel embedded itself in the wall opposite the two guardsmen, glowing red hot. Flinn and Rast popped around the corner with their guns immediately on the Kommando. They didn't wait to see if the Greenskin was still moving, they just unleashed volleys of lasfire into the smoky haze. The Ork was reeling, its face shredded by shrapnel, and the unending volley of las bolts blasted every part of its body. Flinn didn't stop shooting until the Ork lay unmoving and charred beyond recognition.

"Bloody hell, Flinn," said Rast, staring at the fried xenos and then back to Flinn. He looked into Flinn's face, and stepped back like he didn't recognize the man. Flinn realized that there were tears rolling down his cheeks, and he had bitten his lip until it bled. Rast nervously stepped forward. "Are you alright?"

Flinn snapped out of it, shaking his head and focusing. "I'm fine, yeah. Come on, keep going. Just... keep going." They continued to run for the surface, leaving the stench of ionized air and burnt Ork in their wake.


Beryn continued to pour more and more gunshots into the Ork tide crashing against them, even as Captain Uther ordered the company to begin pulling back. Jann Tarls was sliced to bits by an Ork's deff gun as he tried to snap one last desperate shot off. Mol and Vornas were dragging Rejor between them while Donovan and Kalan covered the squad's retreat. Beryn kept waving the troopers back, while the Orks began hacking apart the Aegis defense line with their axes and hammers. All around him, guardsmen were being cut down as the Orks whittled away at the Imperials.

Only Commissar Connor remained, defiantly facing down every xenos that dared challenge her. Beryn watched from an overturned transport in awe while she fearlessly waded into a pack of Sluggas, armed with nothing but her power sword and bolt pistol. She fought like a lion, making striking lunges at the Orks necks, and cleanly slicing their heads off in a vicious swing of her blade. As her body count grew, so did the attention she garnered from the Orks. Rolling over the barricades like a green ocean, dozens more sluggas and shootas joined in the battle with the mad Commissar. She was soon surrounded, even as she continued to hack down the huge Orks.

Mathis thought quickly. "Garrett, Serrt, put your gun on that horde, right now!" he ordered. The machine gunners set their heavy stubber atop the truck, and started shooting bursts into the Ork crowd surrounding the Commissar. Mathis contributed to their barrage, hitting the Orks from their flank and taking at least a dozen down before the brutes knew what had happened. Mathis could see Commissar Connor more clearly now, still fighting in the center of the pack. "Come on, lads, put some more fire in it!"

Suddenly, the Orks were blown apart. A series of precisely aimed grenades landed amidst the greenskins, blowing wide holes in the wall of green. Mathis looked to see where the shots had come from. Standing next to him on top of the truck was Borik Vornas, the Daredevils' remaining grenadier. The giant man's face was a mask of rage, and he yelled incoherently as he continued to lob explosive after explosive at the Orks. The Commissar and her assailants stopped momentarily to look at the soldier standing above them. Connor took the initiative first, jamming her sword into the gut of one ork while simultaneously firing a bolt into the skull of another.

A hungry smile swept across Connor's face, taking a moment to savor her kill. The hesitation cost her. Before he could warn her, Mathis saw a massive Nob swing his hammer at the Commissar from behind. Connor turned too late, and the hammer slammed into her breastbone, knocking her through the air. The Commissar hit the ground hard, skidding into the sidewalk, where she lay, screaming and clutching her chest.

"Commissar!" shouted Mathis. She didn't respond, only able to cry in pain. The Orks, however, heard his voice, and, looking for more sport, turned on the guardsmen instead. They were on their own, the rest of the company had fallen back to the second line. Mathis never let up his rate of fire, even as it took far more to kill even one ork than he'd like. The Nobs leading the pack simply absorbed the lasgun shots, and even the squad's machine gun had trouble piercing their tough hides. Only Vornas's grenade launcher had any success killing the larger orks.

"Oh, to hell with this!" growled Vornas, suddenly. He jumped off the top of the truck and broke off at a run for Connor's slumped body. "What the hell are you doing?" he called back to Mathis. "Keep shooting, damn it!"

"Right, you heard him, boys! Give the man some covering fire!" The three troopers redoubled their efforts, focusing their shots on the Greenskins that had turned their attention to Vornas. The grenadier was a massive man, but even he was dwarfed by the giant Orks. As he ran for Connor, he fired off his last few grenades, before dropping the launcher and leaving his hands in Mathis's hands. Vornas scooped up the wounded Commissar and tossed her over his shoulders.

"He's got the Commissar, fall back!" said Mathis. The gunners packed up the heavy stubber, and broke for the second line. Mathis sprayed a last handful of shots at the Orks until Vornas was past him before he joined the squad's retreat. The ground shook, and a great animal roar echoed overhead. Rounding the corner of a half destroyed hab block, one of the Squiggoths that had wrought havoc upon the frontline stared directly at Beryn. He promptly picked up the pace, running as fast as his legs would carry him. The beast roared again, its heavy footsteps shaking the earth and tearing apart the defense line like it was made of paper.


The hab block had been blown wide open by the destructive zapp guns mounted on the war beasts' backs. Kippler crept over the collapsed roof, taking care not to dislodge loose debris and give himself away. The 4th company had fallen back to the second defensive line in a scattered withdrawal, leaving only a few resistant squads to die by the hands of the Orks. Similar reports had come in across the regiment's emergency channels, it looked like a full retreat. But Kippler was sticking to his plan. He had a Squiggoth to kill.

The Orks rolled over the frontline, followed by the heavy footsteps of Kippler's target. Through the skeleton of metal girders, left bare against the cold wind, Kippler followed the bulk of the Squiggoth, remaining in its blind spot. He fixed the laser targeting beam to his long las, screwing it into place in the bayonet socket. Kippler settled into the shadow of a fallen beam, and tracked the monster's head. As the xenos rounded the corner of the building, the massive head came into view. This was Kippler's chance. He had to hold the Squiggoth in place, and let the basilisks do their work.

I must be crazy, he thought. Kippler lined up his rifle with the Squiggoth's glaring red eye. As soon as he had a clear shot, the sniper squeezed the trigger. The high powered shot would have bounced off the beast's scaly hide, but Soras's aim was true. The Squiggoth's eye evaporated, and the massive creature recoiled in pain. Rearing up on its hind legs, it thrashed wildly, slamming into the side of the building. Kippler continued moving along the ruined floor, keeping the laser sight trained on the target. "I've got the target zeroed, artillery, light it up!" he said into his vox bead.

"Ordnance is on its way, Corporal," responded the vox operator. The sound of streaking shells filled the air mere moments before they struck their target. The earthshaker rounds disintegrated the Squiggoth's armored back in a plume of black smoke and high explosives. Shot after shot struck the creature with such force that the foundations of the hab block shook beneath Soras's feet. Its insides pouring out of the horrendous gashes carved in the beast's side, the Squiggoth collapsed into the hab block, crushing the weakened supports and bringing the entire building crashing down atop it and it's handlers.

Kippler was moving the moment the Squiggoth had been struck. He'd been in falling buildings before, and to turn around and look was precious time wasted. He thought quickly about his escape options while the floor gave way behind him. As he ran, he reported to the artillery. "Target hit, I repeat, target is down! Moving onto the next one!" Soras leapt through a hole in the floor and hit the ground running. The roof was coming down around him, and downwards was the only direction he could go.

An alleyway a chasm deep was wedged between the two hab blocks. It was narrow, narrow enough that Kippler could try and jump for the other side. Through blasted out windows, Soras looked desperately for any ledge or handhold he could reach. Eyeing an air conditioner unit, Kippler made a run for it. At the edge of the building, he jumped, praying to the Emperor that he would make it. His feet left the Hab block just as the next floor fell away completely.

As he fell through the air, he felt a deep chill run through him. He was going to miss it, surely. There was no way a person could make that jump, how could he have been so stupid? He was going to die, falling until he struck his head on the way down. At least it would be quick. He'd hit the ground so quickly, he wouldn't feel a thing. It would be a nice way to go, in a flash. The air conditioner was still in his eyes. Soras reached out, stretching his hand, desperate to grab onto anything at that point.

If it was his fate to die, it wouldn't happen that day. Soras managed to grab onto the large unit, smacking into the side. He swung his other arm up and pulled himself on top of the air conditioner, breathing a sigh of relief. Soras sat there, watching the Hab block crush itself under its own weight. The massive complex began to sink into the ground, as the weight of the top broke the foundations, and the entire building fell into the undercity, leaving a gigantic sinkhole in its wake. The Imperial Guard's prepared battlefield stretched out in front of Soras, uninhibited by any sight. It was still covered in Orks, and several more Squiggoths were still marching on the Guard line.

His vox bead bleeped again. "Corporal, please respond. Do you have another target yet?"

Kippler sat there, limp, vaguely listening to the vox as the operator repeated the question. Finally, he answered. "Affirmative, 77, I've got a clear view from here. Marking targets and waiting for your thunder."

Counterattack, Part 1

The Vendoland 4th Company pulled back to the 1st Battalion headquarters. As the Orks pursued them, they encountered layer after layer of defenses designed to slow the xenos down. For the moment, the 4th Company had been pulled off the line, and Captain Uther was overseeing the removal of his wounded before the company returned to their positions. He directed another wave of ambulances to their triage station. The medics were working quickly, sorting through who could be saved and whom were already too far gone.

The company had been hit hard by the first attack. Of the two hundred men in the company, some forty casualties had been accounted, and over a dozen had been outright killed. Lars tried to reassure himself that he'd made the right call by pulling out. It was either lose a handful of his men, or all of them. But still, he thought about each man who'd fallen. As Captain, he'd made it a point to connect with his troops as best he could. Even with the recent reorganization, Uther had taken time to meet with the replacements that had been shuffled into 4th Company.

Lieutenant Hunder approached the captain. "Well, Jorin? Any sign of them yet?" asked Captain Uther. The grenadier lieutenant looked terrible. His face was covered in blood, and fragments from a fresh explosion had flecked his left cheekbone. "That looks bad, are you alright?"

"No sign yet sir," said Jorin. He wiped his face down, leaving streaks of blood over his uniform. "Trench Skippers reported in about ten minutes ago, but I've had no luck finding Kippler or the rest of the grenadiers. The squad's vox channel has been dead quiet, but they were seconded to other squads for the attack. They might have come in with some of the others. I'll keep searching, sir."

Lars grabbed Jorin before he could leave. "All right, you keep looking for them," Uther said, "but first, I want you to get that looked at. I need you healthy, Jorin. If it's serious, get it fixed, understood?"

"Yes sir," said Hunder hesitantly. The man was jittering and swaying in place. Having one of the medics look him over might help calm him down. The lieutenant wandered off in the direction of the field triage. Uther tucked in his hands and sighed. He couldn't afford anymore officer casualties. He was already down his two senior NCOs thanks to Meridian's damned internal security, he didn't want to lose anyone else. Hell, he couldn't even find Connor anywhere, right when he needed her. The whole force was a scattered, disorganized mess.

Hundreds of new troops from the 2nd and 3rd Battalions were moving up to reinforce the battered 1st's battle line. The Battalion could use some much needed relief after the hours of trading shots with the Xenos invaders. Fresh tanks from the 46th followed the infantry, sweeping past the 4th Company on their way to the fighting.

Uther headed for the command post. It was little more than a mesh canvas draped over some poles to keep the snow out. Inside, several intelligence officers were going over a large map, a paper one, unlike the advanced hololith charts Regimental Headquarters had. Uther admitted the charts were woefully out of date, but that was Imperial record keeping for you. At least the main thoroughfares were the same. Captain Falk, their liaison from headquarters, was currently pouring over the map, marking new positions for 1st Battalion's companies. They were closely packed together, using overlapping fields of fire to slow the Ork advance.

Uther hunched over the map. They had given up five blocks to the Greenskins, but so far, the layered defense was holding. The Orks were paying for every step they took, and luckily, the Squiggoths had been stalled at the frontline. The Vendoland second and third battalions were marching forward to reinforce first. On their flanks, the Garredyne Rifles had achieved similar results, while the regiment had heard nothing concrete from the Cadian Xenobane. A few scattered transmissions had made it through, but there was no word whether they had pulled back, or if they were still holding the main line.

Uther studied the map further. A railway ran along the length of the Luesan canal. It had been cut off from the northern half of the spire in the opening phase of the invasion. However, it could potentially act as an artery for the guardsmen to move soldiers up and down the line relatively safely."Falk, that rail line runs the length of the river, right?"

"It looks that way. What about it?"

"Somehow, we need to connect with the Cadians," said Uther. He ran his finger along the rail line, stopping on the Cadian's last known whereabouts. "If they've held out, our retreat has just opened a gap for the Orks to flank them. We need to close that gap before the Greenskins get wise and exploit it."

Falk followed Uther's trace across the map. "It's possible, sir. But if the strike force was noticed, they could easily be surrounded. We still have a few thousand Orks to tend with on our own."

"2nd Battalion is here now, and our lines are holding," said Uther. He had an idea. "Get me a channel to command." The intelligence officer walked over to the vox communicator and came back with a speaker, which he handed to the Captain. "This is Captain Lars Uther, Company 4/1/85."

"Go ahead Captain, what's this about?" asked Major Lester on the other side.

"Request permission to take a strike force and reconnect with the Cadian regiment, sir. We've discovered a route along the old railway that could move troops swiftly and with little resistance. Our retreat has put the Cadian's right flank at risk. I intend to close that breach."

"Understood Captain, permission granted," said the Major. "Gather the resources necessary, I'll leave this operation under your control. Contain the breach, and re-establish communications with the Xenobane, is that clear?"

"Perfectly sir."

"Very well then, move at your own discretion, captain, good luck. Major Lester, out." Captain Uther handed the vox back to Falk. He straightened his helmet and stopped at the tent flaps.

"Thank you, Captain," said Uther. "Keep Command posted on my progress. I'm off to round up some men."

"Aye sir," said Falk. As Uther left the tent, the intelligence officer relayed the message to headquarters. Uther paced up and down the street, thinking to himself. How many men could he muster for this operation? Would they even get there in time? He needed backup.


Beryn helped Kalan and Donny lift Mol onto a stretcher, while Vornas hoisted the unconscious body of Commissar Connor into the emergency ambulance. A jeep pulled up beside the ambulance, and Alek jumped out, his arms laden down with medical supplies. Setting them aside, he went to inspect the wounded. "What are their injuries?" he demanded. The young private became deadly serious around wounded, working with a determination and confidence rarely seen by his squad mates.

"Lannik's caught some fragments in his leg," explained Beryn as Alek marked the trooper's forehead. "The commissar got hit by a Nob."

"How bad?" said Alek, looking over Connor. inspecting the wound, he peeled back the Commissar's coat, now caked in blood. Her sternum was cracked and her right shoulder was a bloodied mess of bone fragments and raw flesh. She was coughing up blood, and her breath was ragged and uneven. "How long has she been like this?"

"No more than twenty minutes," said Beryn. "Can you help her?"

"I can't do much here but stop the bleeding, she'll need to be moved to the med center," said Alek. He unwrapped a length of gauze, offering one end to Mathis. "Hold her steady while I wrap this. She's going to need a surgeon for anything more." Alek carefully dressed the wound, and then stabbed a needle filled with a clotting agent into Connor's neck. The wound slowly began to scab over as the injection went to work. He then hopped out and helped load the rest of the truck. As it drove away, Alek wiped the blood off his fingers and stood beside the corporal. "Did you bring her back in, then?" he asked.

"No, Vornas brought her back," said Mathis, shaking his head. "I almost couldn't believe it myself, especially after the other day."

Alek remembered the vicious glare that Vornas had given Connor after she refused to let him retrieve Remer. The grenadier now stood by himself, away from the rest of the company. Alek had noticed him growing increasingly distant over the week, but he was still nervous about approaching Vornas. Nobody wanted to test his anger. "I don't understand him, sometimes," said Alek. "But he never strikes me as one to leave a person behind, even if he does hate her."

"You think that's why he saved her?" asked Mathis, doubtful.

Alek shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to kill her himself."

The ugly business of tending to the injured continued for another ten minutes, until the last stretcher had been loaded, and the final ambulance was on its way back to the med center. Captain Uther called for a gathering, and the remaining men of the company formed a circle around him. Nearly forty men had been hit, leaving the 4th company short-handed. Arms clasped behind his back, the Captain addressed the remaining soldiers. "At this time, the Cadians are the only regiment in our sector still holding the forward lines. That is an act of bravery we can all aspire to, but it won't last. I've been given permission to lead 4th company along the railway and prevent the Orks from outflanking our comrades.

I know we're depleted at the moment, so I've called for aid from the 2nd battalion, and they have agreed to supply us with armour support to cover our flanks. I want every trooper restocked on ammo and supplies, and ready to move out in half an hour, understood?"

"Aye, Captain!" shouted the company.

"Good, report to your COs and prepare to move out." As the company dispersed, Uther caught sight of the Grenadier platoon. "Grenadiers, come here for a second." The two squads circled the captain. "You men are the vanguard for this operation. You see any Orks, you engage and call for reinforcements, is that understood?"

"Yes sir," nodded Hunder. "Corporal Kippler hasn't reported in yet, sir."

"You mean he hasn't come back?" said Alek, a tinge of panic in his voice. Captain Uther looked at the private questioningly. Alek explained, "Kippler was spotting for the artillery, Captain. He was on the frontline the last I heard from him. I got him in touch with the PDF crews, and then, nothing. He closed his vox bead."

Uther sighed. "Very well. Corporal Mathis, you're acting sergeant. Follow Hunder's orders and keep your head down." Damn it, Uther thought, looking to the Daredevils. "Have you seen any sign of Commissar Connor?"

"She took a hit, Captain," said Mathis hesitantly. "We sent her off with the wounded."

Uther's face turned to stone. Instinctively, his hand went to his shoulder. The synthflesh had fully integrated with the damaged tissue, it had been for nearly a year. But to Uther, he could still vividly remember losing his arm, and how Connor had paid for his replacement. And now she had been hit as well. "I see," he said eventually. "Thank you for bringing her back, men."

"Yes sir," said Mathis. The corporal looked wary, afraid he'd said something wrong.

"Carry on." Uther walked away, slowly processing the news. It was a fact of war that one person was as vulnerable to a bullet as the next. But it would still take Uther time to reconcile seeing someone close to him in that situation. When a trooper was killed, he felt empathy and regret, but he'd learned to live with it. But Connor, she was different. Worry washed over Lars in a way he hadn't experienced since he was an officer cadet. He wished that Mathis hadn't told him at all. His mind was split between preparing for their attack and fearing for Connor's life.


Kippler crept along the terraced rooftop, stalking his next target. Despite nearly being killed at least a dozen times marking the Squiggoth's positions, the only thing going through his mind was the lack of Ork aircraft. Throughout the first week, Kippler witnessed dozens of dogfights above the Spire. But now, the skies were eerily quiet, as the Navy had managed to gain air superiority over Golgotha. The Navy's atmospheric fighters had been redeployed over the lake, making continuous strikes against the Ork Rok that had embedded itself in the water. Kippler would have given his right arm for some close air support at the moment, but he had to make do with his eyes and the skill of the gunners he kept feeding coordinates to.

Snow whipped into his face. The ground below was covered in a sea of green. Thousands of Orks were rampaging over the strip and into the narrow streets along the Canal's edge. Kippler wouldn't even need to aim well to guarantee a kill. But he was on his own, against a million greenskins. Prioritizing the Squiggoths was his first and only goal. The remaining war beasts had run amok, trampling friend and foe alike. Gazing over the building's lip. Kippler drew a bead on the nearest Squiggoth.

The beast's heavy footsteps were breaking through the weakened surface layer of the Spire. Such intense shelling from the Imperial guns had severely damaged the support domes that held up each layer of the Spire. Several of the leveled buildings had already collapsed into the abyss, leaving gaping holes in the surface crust exposed to the elements. Kippler trained his long las on the panicked beast, transmitting the targeting feed to the gun battery. A moment later, the artillery rained true once again. Six concentrated earthshaker rounds hit their mark, battering the Squiggoth. As it collapsed, the immense weight was too much for the weakened ground, and the Squiggoth tumbled into the undercity, leaving another sinkhole in its place.

"Marked, target hit. Other targets clear of the firing zone. Thanks for your help, arty." Kippler packed up his gear and moved again. He flipped his vox bead back to the squad channel. "This is Corporal Kippler, does anyone read me?" he asked. Being so focused on aiding the gun crews, Kippler had not contacted the Daredevils in over an hour. The signal was very weak, he must have been on the very edge of the vox channel's radius. A voice cracked through the static.

"Corporal Mathis here, Kippler," said Beryn. There was an audible relief in the man's voice. "We thought you were dead."

"Well, I soon will be unless I get the hell out of here," muttered Kippler while he quickly moved along the building's edge. "What's your situation?"

"Rejor and Lannik got hit, Rejor couldn't shake it," said Beryn solemnly. "There wasn't anything we could do for him. Captain's got us advancing along the railway to reinforce the Cadian's. Looks like he wants to buy some time for the regiment to regroup by drawing the Orks our way. They want to know where you are."

"I'm on my way back to the CP," Kippler said hastily. He dropped down several flights of stairs along the fire escape. "The Orks haven't spotted me yet, but there's a lot of them between me and you."

Beryn's voice crackled. "Hold on, somebody's just accessed the channel. It's Lieutenant Hunder. He wants to speak to you."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant."

Hunder's stern voice spoke. "I want you to stay put, Kippler, do you understand? Do not try anything stupid to get back here. Take cover inside, you won't last two minutes on foot on the ground. The area is crawling with greenskins."

Kippler stopped his descent, flopping his arms in exasperation. "So what do you want me to do then? Just sit here?"

"That's exactly what I want you to do. Get inside, and stay low. Just trust me on this on, Corporal. Captain Uther has a plan, and if it works, we'll grab you as soon as we can."

Kippler sighed, "Yes, sir, by your order." He cut the vox bead channel and walked over to the window along the fire escape. He shattered the glass with his rifle butt and climbed inside. The room was all dull metal, and only barely lit from the grey light passing through the broken window. Kippler pulled down his night vision goggles and gently slid the door open, walking into the pitch black hallway with his weapon ready for anything that he might encounter.


Lester and Crassus watched the second and third battalions march past the Leviathan Command Vehicle. Crassus could see the smoke far down the road ahead, where the battle with the Orks still raged. Flecks of snow melted in Crassus's coffee as the wind picked up again. What a ghastly day for combat, he thought. Come rain or shine or blizzard, it was all the same to scum like the Orks. Crassus took another sip, and then addressed Armand's report. "Well, he certainly is willing to take the initiative. If Captain Uther's detachment can close the gap with the Cadians, we will advance. With all three battalions, we should have enough men to push the Orks back."

"Yes, sir," said Lester, nodding in agreement. " I'll relay the information to the Garredyne Command. I've also received word that our gun batteries have effectively crippled the Orks' war beasts. A man from 4th Company managed to provide accurate coordinates."

"Excellent, Armand," said Crassus. "Perhaps we will get a lucky break today."

"That's one way of looking at it," said Lester. "If he hadn't put his life on the line, we'd be pulling back across the canal with a dozen of those monsters chasing us."

Crassus set down his cup, and pulled his greatcoat tighter around him to ward off the cold air. "Well, put him in for a medal, then. Selfless acts don't go unrewarded. It will be good for morale. Emperor knows we could use some with this damn weather."

"Yes sir," Lester said bluntly. Crassus looked at him. Lester's face was drawn, and he kept fidgeting in place. Crassus could tell something was bothering Armand.

He looked hard at the Major. "Armand, speak plainly with me. No rank, no insignia, just as a friend. You're not comfortable here, are you?"

Lester's face betrayed his words, even as he spoke them with unconvincing ignorance. "What? No, Ertrand, I'm fine. It's nothing, really."

"Cut the bs, Armand. You're not happy, I've known you long enough to see that. You're not a desk jockey, and you're not one for being on the receiving end of orders. You belong out there, with the men, right? That's what you want."

Lester's face contorted as he tried to summon the words. "Er, well, you see... oh sod it, yes, Ertrand, you're right. I hate this busywork. Give me a pistol and a bayonet any day over another goddamned servitor."

Crassus chuckled, and then smiled at his friend. "That's what I thought. Tell you what: grab your combat gear, and grab a ride. I want you up there with 1st Battalion when we move. I need somebody I know can get the job done right, and you're as good as I've got. Wait for the word that we've linked up with the Xenobane, and then advance."

Lester positively beamed. He snapped off a salute with a big grin on his face. "The Orks won't know what hit them, sir."

As Lester left to gather his gear, Crassus reflected on the past years. They were the old warhorses now, as strange as it seemed. Sicarus Plateau, Angel Gate, Spire Legis, Urizen, Crassus and Lester had gone through all those campaigns together, as partners. And now, here they were running the entire regiment together. It seemed like the job for old men with large beards and monocles, men like the Artemian General Derim. But Ertrand was barely thirty five. Most of the men in the Vendoland regiment had joined at the minimum age, eighteen. He'd been older than most when he was selected for officer duty, but by the whole, the 85th had been an army of young men.

Now he looked at them. The youngest man was still well into his twenties, with years of time in the field. They had changed. He no longer saw the faces of young boys. They were replaced with the hard stares of men who had seen too much. How things changed, he wondered. Soon, they'd be an entire army of old men. But it was such a pleasant comfort to see that enthusiasm in Lester again. Both being promoted to Major at the same time, Crassus had taken to management duties much better than Armand. When it came time to depose of their previous commander, Crassus had been the obvious choice to lead.

He trusted that Armand would not disappoint. He knew that the man would never forgive himself if he did, either.


The advance up the railway was swift, and it wasn't long before the 4th company made contact with the enemy. Orks continued to flow through the gaps in the line, and Uther's troops had almost immediately come under fire. Backed up by Chimeras and Leman Russ tanks, the infantry engaged the scattered Orks in close quarters fighting. Sporadic fire between abandoned rail cars and constant ambushes by cunning Ork infiltrators kept the guardsmen on their toes. But the company pressed onwards, meeting every blow with a tenfold return.

At the forefront of the column, the grenadier platoon carved a pathway for the rest of the company to follow. Even in their depleted state, the two squads held their own against the Greenskins. Lieutenant Hunder rallied his men, focusing lethal hellgun fire on the Orks. Sergeant Ennis dashed forward, followed closely by the 2nd squad. He peeled around the front of a train, slicing into the Orks from behind. Hunder and the Daredevils passed through the links in the rail cars, hitting the Orks flank. Together, the two squads routed the pack of Orks, clearing the path for the rest of the Company to advance.

The railway ran the length of the Spire, from the warehouses along the coastline to the edge of the dead zone. It was a straight shot to the Xenobane's position. Lars led the 4th company as swiftly as he could. He was determined to make the Orks pay. What had started as confusion and aimlessness had flared into white hot anger. Connor was in the hospital because of those green vermin. Every person they had hurt would be avenged. He'd use his bare hands if he had to.

"Gunfire up ahead!" called Hunder. The grenadiers halted, leaving their weapons aimed down the railway. The 4th company gathered up behind them, flanked by their armor. Captain Uther grabbed the ladder on a boxcar, climbing up to address the assembled soldiers.

"All right men, this is it!" roared Uther. "Mortars, find a hole and dig in. 2nd and 3rd platoons, you're with me, we're going up the middle. Follow the grenadiers through and link up with the Cadians. Everyone else, find targets of opportunity, and lay into them. No prisoners, no mercy. For the Emperor!"

As one, the Vendolanders rose, guns ready. Uther revved his chainsword, hatred in his eyes, and fire in his heart. Raising his weapon high, he led the charge. Ahead, a sentinel walker was hastily backing up in the face of a pack of Orks, its flamer scorching them to a crisp. The vendolanders quickly moved to fill the gap, pushing into the oncoming horde. Uther waved down the sentinel, and the cabin lid popped open. "Captain Uther, 85th Vendoland. What's the situation?"

"Communications were cut, we've been trying to re-establish our lines with the rest of the forces in the sector. The Orks have been giving us a pounding," said the pilot.

"Get word back to your commander. We're advancing on the Orks. The other regiments will wheel around to link up with the Xenobane and crush this attack. Tell the comms to switch to the Vendoland emergency channel, we'll use it to relay information until we can get the main lines back up."

"Aye, sir, on my way!" The sentinel pilot saluted and turned his vehicle back towards the Cadian headquarters, racing off with long strides. Lars turned back to his troops. They were driving into the narrow streets, using what cover they could find and liberally firing explosive shots at the Orks. Uther joined 2nd platoon, slowly creeping up the road behind one of the tanks. The Russ's huge battle cannon blasted apart buildings, and its side sponson bolters turned the narrow advance into a death trap for anything out in the open.

Constantly, Orks continued to attack them. Breaking out of buildings, they would tangle with the guardsmen in close combat. Troopers were hacked and torn while their bayonet strikes struggled to find their mark. Uther slashed at the Orks, cleaving bone and flesh with every strike of his chainsword. An Ork Nob leapt from a window above, bringing its huge chainaxe down on him. Lars fell to the ground, bringing up his own sword, and revving the blade again. The teeth caught the Ork's weapon, and the motion snapped back their weapons. Lar's sword was wrenched from his hand, while the Ork's axe jerked wildly before embedding itself in the side of the Russ.

While the Nob worked to yank his weapon free, the Captain scrambled to his feet, drawing his bolt pistol. Seeing him coming, the Nob used his free hand to throw a punch at Uther. The blow connected solidly with his breastplate, knocking the wind out of him, but he kept coming. He ducked under the greenskin's next swing, and brought his pistol up into its ugly face. Uther fired two shots point blank into the bastard's skull. The rounds exploded, showering him with brain matter and chunks of green flesh. The Nob's twitching body fell to the ground, its axe still stuck in the tank's hull.

Uther stumbled backwards, gasping for air. Liutenant Lonnis grabbed him by the arm and held him upright. "Are you alright sir? Are you hit anywhere?"

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," said Uther, still breathing heavily He waved Lonnis off. "Just got the wind knocked out of me. Keep them moving forward, we're almost to the Cadian frontline."

Vox operator Relt ran up to the Captain's side. "Sir, the Cadians are on our channel, I put them through to Command. They're readying up for the attack, waiting for us to link up."

Finally catching his breath, Uther spoke. "Let's not keep them waiting then. Driver, let's get this tin can moving a little faster! Everyone, at the double."