tested?” Turk asked. “What if this is another ordeal? Choose between your duty to the Emperor or
the gift He bestows? Which is more important?”
Nisri straightened, instantly aware of the argument’s implications. “It is no such thing, Prince
Iban Salid. We have found a paradise worthy of the Turenag, and I will not be the ruin of it.”
Turk leaned forward. “The Aba Aba Mushira would not give you a paradise, just to fill it with
scorpions. He would not offer you an oasis, just to poison it.”
“What if it is a test to see if we are truly worthy of keeping it?”
69
“And what if it’s a test to see whether it is greed or faith that drives you? Think, Prince Dakar,
imagine the glory that would be promised to your tribe if you turned your back on paradise to fight
His enemies.”
“A paradise neither you nor Rezail believes to be ours.”
“Did it ever matter to you what we believed?” Turk asked.
“No,” Nisri admitted.
“I know you Prince Dakar, and you know me. You do not spend this much time hating someone
without knowing the truth of them. I am not asking you to surrender your garden of delights. If the
Emperor truly meant for you to have it, then nothing can stand in the way of providence. If this isn’t
providence, then nothing can save it. In either case, our remaining here, on this plateau, is certain
suicide. It is a waste of our duty to the Emperor.” And with that, Turk shut his mouth.
If Tyrell was speaking the truth, and Turk believed he was, then Nisri already knew the caves
were their only hope. He’d fought the tyranids before, and he understood the dangers of remaining
exposed on all sides. The trouble was, as in all things that afflicted the two tribal alliances
throughout this civil war, Nisri needed a reason to change his mind without appearing weak or
betraying his people. He needed a reason to retreat to the caves without appearing indecisive. He
needed someone else to state the truth for him.
Nisri appeared to have a burden lifted from his shoulders, as though he were no longer
shouldering them alone. He straightened. “I hear paradise can be fattening.”
Turk smiled. “Only when it prepares you for the slaughter.”
“Emergency council, all command staff and every officer,” Nisri said.
“Yes, sir,” Turk replied, snapping up to salute before he transmitted the order over his microbead.
2
The command bunker sweltered with officers, everyone quietly listening to Turk speak as they stood
surrounding him.
“We lack the firepower to protect us from an all-out attack on all sides, and once the tyranids
swarm us, we’ll be cut off from our supplies of food and water. We will not last the night,” Turk
concluded.
The officers listened, some nodding their heads, while others shook theirs, and looked to Nisri
for support.
“We’d be leading the tyranids straight to the caverns,” Captain Abantu said, speaking directly to
Colonel Nisri, “to the future home of our—”
“They’ll find the caves with or without our help,” Captain Toria responded, interrupting. “Is that
not true of the tyranids? They possess an unerring skill in tracking down bio-matter to consume.”
“They do,” Dashour responded, “but I say we keep them as far from the caves as we can for as
long as possible.”
“This isn’t a discussion,” Nisri said, “it is an order. The caves do not belong to us unless the will
of the High Lords of Terra are in our favour. If the caves truly belong to the Turenag, then the
Emperor fights with us, and the Banna, in protecting them. Let any man who doubts that speak.”
Nobody spoke; the root of the dissension between the soldiers was tribal in nature, but with Nisri
and Turk supporting one another’s decisions, nobody dared offer a dissenting voice.
“There is one thing,” a rough voice said. Everyone turned to discover Nubis standing up to
speak. Turk groaned inwardly, praying that Nubis understood the delicate balance they’d achieved.
“If we are going to make our stand at the caves, then we should mine the entry tunnels and
collapse—”
70
The Turenag officers exploded into argument, and even Nisri was vehement in his refusals. To
despoil paradise with their fight was one thing, but to begin destroying the tunnels was too much to
bear. Nubis, however, was never one to be cowed by officers screaming at him, and he effectively
raised his voice to cut through the wash.
“If!” he barked, loud enough to be heard. “If we collapse the larger passages, we force the
tyranids through smaller chokepoints. We conserve ammunition that way, and it we’re in danger of
being swarmed, we can collapse the tunnels completely and seal ourselves inside the caves… with
no damage to them. We save your paradise!”
The voices lessened in pitch, enough for Nubis to speak normally. “If we collapse the tunnels,
the tyranids would have to dig far and long to reach us, and even then, we could continue to mount a
defence, perhaps for long enough to be rescued, if the Emperor so wishes it.”
The room was quiet before Nisri spoke. “Very well… we collapse specific tunnels to funnel the
enemy, and we mine the others. If we must, and only on my word, then we collapse the others to
save ourselves… and to save our paradise.”
Turk allowed the order to sink in before he moved on to the next matter, one most terrible to ask,
but crucial to their survival nonetheless.
“What I am about to ask,” Turk said, “will require a great sacrifice from some of you. Major
Hussari reports that the tyranids will be here in about seven hours.”
Turk paused for a moment, allowing the statement to sink in. He could see the officers glancing
around. They knew what was coming, what was being asked. Some officers could not meet Turk’s
eyes, and their gaze fell to the floor.
“If they find nothing here and follow us directly to the caves, they will catch us before we can
prepare an adequate defence,” Turk said. Each word felt bitter in his mouth, a poison that would
surely kill him for speaking it. He continued nonetheless. “We need volunteers to remain behind to
man the fort and engage the tyranids. We need volunteers to buy the regiment more time to prepare.
Major Hussari is already aware of the situation. He’ll arrive before the tyranid assault and engage
the horde with the remaining squadrons in the open desert.”
The room was uncomfortably quiet. Commissar Rezail rose to his feet, about to challenge the
men to rise to the occasion. Turk caught the commissar’s eye, however, and gently shook his head.
Rezail looked shocked, but he held his tongue.
Finally, Major Dashour stood. “I hate caves,” he said. “Confined spaces bother me. I’ll stay and
fight beneath the open sky.”
Another moment passed, everyone’s breath held hostage in that moment between waiting and
acting.
“I’ll stay as well,” Captain Abantu replied at last. “You’ll need a gunnery crew operating the
Basilisk, and who knows, perhaps our sacrifice will move the High Lords of Terra to give our
people this planet.”
“Thank you,” Nisri said.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Quartermaster Kortan stood as well, his eyes dark and haunted, the
long scab of the fight still fresh on his face. “I wish to stay,” he said, nodding. Everyone was taken
aback; Kortan’s gift for selfish action was legendary. At first they thought it was another joke, and
someone chuckled needlessly, but Kortan neither cracked his customary grin nor laughed. The room
went quiet.
“Thank you, quartermaster,” Nisri replied, “but your expertise will be needed at the caves.”
“Actually, sir,” Kortan said, “Private Sabaak is more than capable of managing the supplies. I
recommend him for a field promotion, sir, and, truthfully, I… can’t let the Turenag stay behind
alone. Someone has to bring the Banna glory,” he said through a weak smile.
Several of the officers chuckled, and Toria patted him on the shoulder.
71
“Very well,” Turk said, “and thank you. I want the remaining officers to seek out volunteers to
man the base. We can’t spare more than fifty men.”
“Dismissed,” Nisri said. “Begin evacuations.”
3
Kortan was shaking as he walked back to the supply shed. He stared at the bloodstained rock where
two soldiers had died, and fought to stomach the queasiness that made his intestines and guts feel
slippery. Officers were already barking orders to their soldiers, and everyone was getting ready to
pull out with emergency provisions only. Their personal items would remain behind until they could
return to retrieve them.
There was a line of soldiers already at the supply shed, with Sabaak trying to handle the flood of
requests for survival gear. Kortan was about to make his way inside when a rough hand grabbed him
and pulled him to the side of the shed. A few soldiers saw and watched, but nobody interfered.
Kortan met Nubis’ piercing black eyes; the scar patterns accentuated his angry scowl. Kortan
knew what was coming.
“Make sure you don’t survive,” Nubis whispered. “There is no home for you at the caves, I
promise you that.”
“Why? Because I killed two of Anuman’s men… who were trying to kill me?”
“You murdered two men of the Banna Alliance, two men of the Nasandi! My tribe!”
Kortan pushed Nubis back. “I saw no men of the Nasandi… only jackals who set their teeth at
my throat! And so, I shot them like jackals.”
Nubis reared back with his fist, but Kortan didn’t flinch.
“Tell me, master gunner,” Kortan said, a crooked smirk on his lips. “Is the Nasandi tribe a
kennel these days? Strike me if you truly believe I killed two of your kinsmen that day, and not
dogs.”
Nubis did not strike, but his fist wavered.
“I thought so,” Kortan said. He turned and headed for the supply shed, half expecting to get
beaten. No blows arrived. The other soldiers parted way for him and he entered unmolested.
4
The camp seemed to be in staggered uproar. The Chimeras were leaving the compound with soldiers
packed inside and atop the vehicles. Friends wore sombre expressions as they shook hands,
embraced and kissed the cheeks of those staying behind. They clasped arms and exchanged dataslates
holding farewell letters written to loved ones. Others traded pieces of jewellery: devotion
chains, lockets with pictures of their wives and medallions of saints. None of those staying behind
said it was so their comrades would remember them. It was always “for safekeeping”. The
Guardsmen spoke quietly, the air filled with the noise of machines.
The Chimeras would make a couple of trips to get everyone, but the soldiers involved in
cementing the defence of the caves went first; they knew this would be the last time they would see
one another. The Guardsmen were dog-tired, their efforts spent over the last day on fortifying the
base camp. Now they were expected to lay explosives throughout the cavern’s tunnels and secure
the choke points.
Worse, perhaps, was that with the shift of attention from fortifying base camp to fortifying the
caves, the men leaving felt a renewed sense of hope. They could collapse the tunnels and seal the
tyranids out. That hope, Turk knew, also tore them apart with guilt. That hope came at the expense
of the men they left behind, and more than a few wept quietly, shuddering to contain their grief as
they left.
72
Turk watched as a squadron of Sentinels headed for the main gate carrying men on their open
frame roofs. It was far from an ideal ride, but Captain Toria and his men were urgently needed to
scout the remainder of the caverns, to uncover any additional passages leading underground:
anything that the tyranids might use to bypass their defences. Already there was the worry of bur
rowing tyranids, but Nisri had expressed doubt that the diggers could create traversable tunnels for
their allies to use. Whether he was lying to offer a glimmer of hope, Turk knew not. But, he noticed
that Nisri spoke through clenched teeth, and that was enough to worry Turk.
Shaking the many thoughts from his head, Turk briefly watched two Guardsmen lower the
regiment’s double eagle banner and roll it up reverently. The 892nd, such as it was, was already
home to them. He ducked inside Kamala’s tent. Her kit had been packed and she appeared ready to
leave, despite sitting on her bed and staring at the wall in a daze. Turk took her hands and kneeled
before her.
“My love,” he said, “wherever you are, come to me.”
Her tired eyes riveted on him, her expression almost wild and panicked. “Did — did I leave
you?” she asked, frantically.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“When I first arrived,” she replied, “I was sure there had been no massacre on this world, no
Imperial presence. Now I’m certain of the opposite. There were Imperials here, some forgotten
expedition, and they died, cruelly.
“The sands have claimed them now, but they were here. Their ghosts cry out to be remembered,
and I can’t stop hearing them.”
Turk nodded. He asked the question, despite his discomfort. “Can you hear them now?”
“Not clearly, but the tyranids have awakened their memories and given them voices again. It’s
hard to tell… the tyranids skew my perception of things. Silence them. Smother,” she said, touching
her lips. “It was the tyranids who killed them.”
“That no longer matters,” Turk said. “What matters is that we survive. I secured your transport.”
“Yes,” she said, standing, dazed, “I was about to… go? Is that where I went?”
Turk stood with her and cupped her face in his hands. “My cherished, I couldn’t let you leave
without a suitable goodbye.”
Kamala focused on his smile, and smiled in return. She leaned into his kiss and seemed anchored
to it. They relished the tenderness of one another for a long, lingering moment, before Kamala’s
smile faded. She broke away reluctantly, apparently lost. She grabbed her kit and headed for the
door.
Turk stayed inside the tent for a moment longer, absorbing the jasmine ghost of her scent,
troubled by her visions. He could not help his thoughts, could not help the primal fear that
something was eating her mind. But no… the tyranids, and the ghosts they brought with them, were
troubling her. That was all. He walked back out into the wild bustle of the camp, fully confident that
in the chaos of the moment, nobody would see him leaving Kamala’s tent.
5
It was dark when the main gates swung open and Major Hussari’s Sentinel strode into camp. He was
shocked by the ghostly state of it, the fifty-odd soldiers rattling around inside a compound like a
