extended high above them, protruded through the resin layers on the walls, along with the frames of
arched windows, bits of stained glass windows floating in the resin.
“It’s one of ours,” Odassa whispered. “It’s one of ours.”
“Not anymore,” Cartouk said. “The tyranids must have cobbled it together from the wreckage of
a cruiser.”
“We’re never getting off this world,” Odassa said. He continued staring at the chamber, gapmouthed.
“There’s nothing more to see here,” Cartouk whispered, urgently. “We must leave.”
Almost on cue, the vox crackled and sputtered, the panicked Hellhound driver screaming
“Enemy contact. Enemy contact!” The roar of the inferno cannon drowned out the voices. “Too
many of them… merciful Emper…” the signal died.
“We’re trapped!” Cartouk said. “They’ll be on us now.”
Odassa stared up into the empty cavern of the vaulted chamber, unable to act. “We’re going to
die here.”
“Sergeant Odassa!” Cartouk screamed. Nothing. Cartouk spat out a curse at the Banna for his
weak blood, and voxed the other two Sentinels. “We’re trapped,” he said, “but perhaps we can hurt
them before we die. Form up on me.”
61
Iban Dubar and the other Sentinel fell in behind Cartouk. He regretted not knowing the name of
the other Dust Marauder pilot, but right now, other concerns took precedence. The three Sentinels
ran across the chamber, their torches sweeping from side to side, looking for an exit. They found a
side corridor large enough for them to use, the metal walls and floor of the Imperium vessel
swallowed up by thick growths of resin and tyranid bio-matter.
Cartouk cast a last glance at Odassa before darting into the tunnel. A moment later, over the vox,
they heard him scream.
Where there was nothing before, the tyranid vessel suddenly surged into life. Tyranids appeared
in the corridors, as though birthed from the very walls. They scampered along walls and ceilings,
racing to overtake the squadron. They seemed to be everywhere at once. Iban Dubar had taken
point, and was blistering enemies with his promethium fuelled cannon. His fingers seemed to be
stuck on the trigger, the corridor heated to the point where it hurt to breathe, yet Cartouk knew he
could never let up.
Cartouk took the rear, and back-pedalled through the corridors, unleashing streams of las-fire at
anything that moved. Scorpions, runners, leapers and snakes darted towards him, but in the confines
of the corridor, he held them at bay.
Their progress seemed interminably slow, each step a kilometre in the making, until finally, a
terrible rending filled the corridor. The ceiling seemed to rip open behind Cartouk. He glanced back,
the air filled with screams. An avalanche of white maggots spilled from the rent in the ceiling,
drenching two Sentinels under its mass. The screams turned to agonised shrieks, and then to gurgles
Cartouk knew the pilots were being eaten alive. Maggots were already dropping into his cockpit,
through the crack in the ceiling, and racing over him.
Cartouk screamed in pain, the maggots biting oft fingertip-sized chunks of meat as they bored
into his flesh. More rained down, on his face and arms. Cartouk spun his Sentinel towards the other
two birds covered in maggots. Blood and pain filled his vision until the things burrowed into his
eyes. He spasmed in agony, his finger clutching the trigger, and he opened fire on his squadron.
Cartouk never saw his shots clip the Sentinels, or the promethium tanks of Iban Dubar’s bird. The
accelerant fuelled explosion ripped through the tunnel, detonating the engines and fuel tanks of the
other two Sentinels.
The blast tore open the adjoining tunnels and pumped fire through endless corridors, flash-frying
all manner of beasts in its path. Walls cracked and tunnels collapsed; perhaps not a deathblow to the
vessel, but certainly a crippling blow that sent Shockwaves across the hive-mind, enough to give the
creatures pause… enough to pull several swarms back to the nest.
10
Sergeant A’rtar Shamas, squadron leader of the Orakle’s Apostles, craned his neck to look around.
They’d been engaging the tyranids for several hours, and night had firmly locked its place over the
world. It was a beautiful, star-filled evening, but with the darkness came a sense of isolation. The
night winds even sounded different, and Shamas jumped at the errant noises.
The tyranids had remained with them for the first few hours when, suddenly, they dropped back
and kept their distance. Now Shamas knew they were out there, just out of sight, keeping pace and
waiting for the Sentinels to misstep.
“Report,” Shamas whispered into his micro-bead.
“Orakle Three here.”
Shamas waited for another moment before clicking the micro-bead again. “Orakle Two?
Report.”
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The subtle hiss of static played back. No answer. It was as though the desert had swallowed him
up.
“All right… pull in formation,” Shamas responded. “I want you in visual contact.”
“I have you on auspex,” Orakle Three reported. “I’m heading your way.”
Shamas was sweating hard. He ran a dusty sleeve across his forehead and hailed Orakle Two
again. There was still nothing on micro-bead or auspex. He tried listening to the desert, picking out
sounds between the heartbeat thumps of his Sentinel’s footfalls, but it was impossible to discern any
noise over the servos or his rattling engine. Worse still, the fuel gauge on his Sentinel was
dangerously low. He had enough left in the drums for a few more hours of this hellish pace, but that
would mean stopping to refuel, and even a minute standing still seemed too great a risk.
In the distance, he saw the repeated muzzle flare of an autocannon on full bore. A second later,
the flashes stopped and it was dark again. The thump-thump-thump of autocannon thunder echoed
across the desert. Shamas glanced at the auspex, but no identity runes appeared. He seemed alone in
a sea of green sensor wash.
“Orakle Three,” Shamas called, “was that you firing?” That, of course, was an obvious question,
since Orakle Three was the only one in the squadron with an autocannon. “Can you still see me on
auspex, Orakle Three? Because I can’t see you.”
This time, it was Orakle Three’s turn to remain silent. Shamas whimpered, the night hedging in
on him. He was all alone, the last one still running. He switched channels on the micro-bead.
“This is Orakle One… is anyone out there?”
He heard nothing for a moment, until, “This is Runner One,” Hussari’s voice crackled back.
“Report.”
Shamas bit his lip and forced himself to speak slowly and clearly. He would not be seen as the
resident coward, even though he was fighting the urge to soil himself. It felt as if his insides had
suddenly liquefied, and he was struggling against his fear and the urgent need to let go.
“My squadron is gone and I’m running low on fuel.”
“What happened?” Hussari asked.
“For the love of the Emperor, I don’t know,” Shamas reported, biting his lower lip against the
squirming pain in his bowels. “One minute they were there, and the next minute… gone.”
“Did the tyranids get ahead of you? Did you double back?”
“No… I don’t know, sir. We’ve been running straight since this thing began. Oh Lord
Emperor… I’m almost out of fuel.”
“How much remaining?”
“Ten minutes… less. I have to stop.”
“Not yet you don’t. We’ll do this together. Rendezvous with the Runners. We’ll cover each
other as we refuel.”
“And the other squadrons?”
“We lost contact with the Holy Striders a while ago… now yours.”
“I’m sorry sir,” Shamas said, genuinely regretting disappointing the major. Thankfully, the wave
of bowel cramps was retreating and the night air flushed his skin with a cool breeze.
“Nothing to apologise for. Just rendezvous at 30.03N 31.15E. Can you make it?
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll refuel there.”
“What about the tyranids?”
“We’ll worry about that when you get here. Just get here in one piece.”
The micro-bead clicked off, and Shamas felt grateful for a moment… a short-lived one at that.
The movement was rapid. Something darted across the sky and blotted out the stars for just long
enough to draw his attention heavenward. Shamas barely caught the movement as it hurtled towards
his Sentinel.
63
No other thought entered his head other than to click on the micro-bead.
The flying tyranid landed atop the Sentinel, its almost vestigial hook-like feet catching the frame
of the cockpit. It nearly toppled the bird, but continued flapping its great leathery wings. Shamas
screamed.
“Orakle One?” Hussari shouted.
Before Shamas could even react, the tyranid’s long bladed tail lanced into the cockpit, impaling
the sergeant through the stomach and out through the back of his chair. He shuddered, his bowels
releasing in a warm, wet rush. The tyranid, however, didn’t seem to care. It leaned into the cockpit
with its elongated, ridged head, and opened its jaws to reveal its hard, cartilage spike of a tongue.
Shamas could feel the world slipping away, the wrenching pain of his gut wound submerging
beneath a haze of darkness. In the back of his thoughts, there was one last thing to do. He wasn’t
sure what that thing was, at least not until he said it.
“Flyers,” he said, stutter-gasping into the micro-bead.
“Orakle One? Did you say flyers?”
The spike tongue shot out on pneumatic muscles, cracking through the bone of Shamas’ skull
and fishing out his final thoughts.
11
Hussari groaned as he stretched his back and cramped legs, and relieved his bladder. The blue sun
was swimming on the deep azure horizon, and for the first time in hours, they had a moment’s
reprieve. There was time to tend to their aching muscles and to refuel. Qubak was standing nearby
with a vox ready. He was downing a few ablative pills to ease the stiffness that had spread across his
back and neck. Corporal Maraibeh stood atop his Sentinel, staring out through a pair of
magnoculars.
“Confirmed, sir,” Maraibeh said. “They’re heading back.”
Hussari finished his business and motioned Qubak over. He took the vox handset and waited for
Qubak to raise the outpost. He finally nodded; they had a signal.
“Report,” Nisri said over the vox.
“We kept them busy for most of the night. They finally pulled back. We have the Burning
Falcons to thank for that.”
“Any losses?”
“Yes, sir,” Hussari said. “We lost many Sentinels. The Orakle’s Apostles, Burning Falcons, the
Dust Marauders and the Holy Striders are gone. We lost another bird from the War Chasers. The
survivors from the Blight Thorns are rendezvousing with us. That leaves us with ten Sentinels, sir.
The tyranids have given up the chase, for now. All surviving squadrons report the beasts retreating.”
“Hmm,” Nisri said, musing over his options, “probably to deal with the damage to their ship.
But, we still need more time.”
“Sir, they have flyers. That’s what killed the Orakle’s Apostles. They might have ambushed us
too had Sergeant Shamas not warned us. What I’m trying to impress upon you is that if you remain
at the outpost, they’ll have you on five sides, and there’re too many to fight.”
“The next words out of your mouth better not involve the caves,” Nisri said, the warning clear.
“Of course not, sir,” Hussari said. He clicked off the handset for a moment to mutter a colourful
string of expletives, before returning it to his mouth. “I just hope you’re very well prepared for what
might be coming your way. What are your orders?”
“Don’t let the tyranids escape. You’ve made the Emperor proud this day with your courage and
dedication, but I need you to keep on them… keep them distracted.”
Hussari craned his neck back and stared at the sky. He shook his head and placed the handset to
his mouth. “Understood, sir. Runner One out.” Hussari tossed the handset back at Qubak and headed
64
to his Sentinel. “The colonel expects us to get massacred defending an exposed position,” Hussari
barked. “Let’s not disappoint him.”
“Let’s show him how the Sentinels fight,” Qubak said.
Hussari offered Qubak a grim smile as they both climbed into their waiting birds. Hussari
dropped into his seat and ordered the remaining Sentinels to rendezvous for another thrust.
12
The command bunker was silent. Nobody spoke, for Nisri didn’t appear to be listening anymore. He
stared at the tactical slate, studying the possible approaches to the outpost and their best defence.
The operators continued to monitor auspex and vox, Rezail appeared to be asleep on the cot in an
adjoining room, while Tyrell simply watched everything with his quiet fastidiousness.
Turk couldn’t stand to be inside any longer. Nisri’s stubbornness was killing the finest
squadrons of Sentinel pilots that Turk had ever known. Now they were being used as cannon fodder
to protect an outpost with no hope of ever surviving the onslaught that awaited it. Turk was certain
that Nisri knew this, but the colonel was committed to a course of action and unwilling to sacrifice
the caves. Nisri was trapped. Turk actually pitied him, for a moment, because he knew that Nisri
saw no way out of his situation. The sense of pity lasted but a moment, however. It was mostly his
men that were dying in the desert, his Banna kinsmen, and soon, all of them would die. The urge to
walk away was overwhelming.
“I’m going to check on the men,” Turk said, by way of an excuse to leave.
Nisri offered a distracted head nod, but continued staring at the indication runes on the tactical
table.
Turk walked outside, and felt immediately grateful for the bright wash of sunlight and for the
sounds of life, such as they were. Men were adding more sandbags and fastening tripod guns and
grenade launchers to the parapets. Rows of mortars rested in the courtyard, ready to provide indirect
fire, alongside ammunition crates protected under small plasteel bunkers, water drums to cool the
mortar barrels and the hulking form of the self-propelled Basilisk artillery piece. The forward
observer and fire direction centre for the mortars and Basilisk were sheltered in a plasteel
observation nest on the floor above the command bunker. It offered a 360 degree view of the desert,
and it contained several turret-mounted autocannons, facing both the desert and the compound
interior.
Turk stood watching the men scramble to prepare the base for a fight they couldn’t win. He was
