with me, boy, I’m too old to lift you.”
One arm came free, and then another. In a moment, Toria was standing again, his heart pounding
and rattling his senses. His vision swam with fatigue, and the head rush almost tipped him over
again. He allowed his rescuer to pull him along.
Moments later, they arrived at a full-track lorry that was buried up to its lower road wheels in
sand. A faint bluish light flickered and jumped at the treads, sprockets and rollers; the static
electricity was expending itself, the sand no longer as frictionless. The man pushed Toria up the
access steps despite the minor jolts that shocked them both. Toria collapsed in the cabin’s seat while
his rescuer sat in the driver’s seat. The engine was running and the air gauzers cleared away most of
the interior dust.
“Thank you,” Toria managed, stripping off the kafiya and leather chamfrom wrapped around his
helmet. He was olive-skinned, his nose aquiline.
His rescuer nodded. “You’re lucky I saw you,” he said tapping the night vision periscope
attached to the ceiling before unwrapping his kafiya. He was old, with a full growth of frosted hair
that glowed against his nutmeg dark skin and elaborate, looping tribal scars spread across his chin.
A jolt shot through Toria. His rescuer was Turenag, his markings those of one of their chief
tribe, the D’Shouf.
17
“You’re Turenag,” Toria said.
“I couldn’t tell which tribe you belonged to,” the man admitted. “But, curse my father for raising
me right, I would have saved you either way.”
“I thought all Turenag blood ran hot at the thought of killing us.”
“Not mine,” the man said. He leaned in close, the glimmer of a mischievous smirk on his lips.
“My blood is ice cold, boy. Would you care for a sip?”
Toria smiled despite himself. “No,” he said, drawing up his canteen, “I have my own water.” He
tilted the bottle towards the D’Shouf tribesman. “Not as cold as yours, though. Have some.”
The old man shook his head. “Thank you, no.” He revved the engine of the lorry and pushed the
steering lever forward. “I have to keep her out of the sand. Another minute and I wouldn’t have seen
you at all.”
“Captain Toria, 1st Company, C Platoon.”
“Captain Qal Abantu, Armoured Support.”
Toria grinned. “We have armoured support?”
Both men started laughing.
“Barely, boy,” Abantu replied, “barely.”
It was the last thing Toria heard before he fell fast asleep.
8
Day Two; Hour Ten.
The storm was a day old and still pitching its fit. The interior of the command Chimera had
grown stale and humid on body sweat, and a crackling voice filled the interior. From the wash of
hard static, a few words floated through the cacophony.
Immediate — Forced — Althera Beta — 892nd — Orbit — Weeks.
One of the two auspex operators continued fiddling with the knobs on the vox, trying to fine
tune it. The voice was heavily distorted, the bursts of static haemorrhaging through the signal.
“Can you decipher it?” Nisri asked.
Corrupted — Anchor — More — Hives — Sector Lord.
The operator shook his head. “It’s the storm. She dirties the air and wreaks havoc with
communications.”
“I’ve heard worse,” the other operator replied. “On Canimos Prime, the static discharge was
enough to kill a man. But, this is the best we can get, sir.”
The vox warbled in response.
Alert — Command — Light of — Unable to — Estimated, two—“I’ve heard that before,” the fairhaired
Sergeant Raham said, straightening up in his seat. “That sentence fragment, I heard it
before.”
“Confirmed, sir,” one of the operators replied. “The transmission is looping.”
Supplies — Time — Munitorum — Location — Convine.
“I heard Convine,” the second operator said. “Isn’t that a hive?”
“I heard hive mentioned before,” Raham said.
“Why would they be sending us a looped transmission?” Nisri muttered.
Expedite supplies — Weigh — Unable to — Two.
“They may have been trying to reach us for several hours, sir,” the second operator replied. “The
interference varies. This is the clearest window we’ve had in a few hours.”
“Fine,” Nisri said, annoyed. “Keep listening, start piecing the transmission together. Raham, I
need your ears on this.”
18
Nisri and Raham gathered around the vox-caster while the two operators collected message
strings and transcribed them to a data-slate. The words slowly clustered together into sentences.
Alert ground forces Khadar, 892nd Command.
They switched words out…
The Convine Manufactorum Hives on Althera Beta have turned against the Light of the
Emperor.
…and back in again, like a grammatical puzzle.
All Imperial forces required to respond by order of Sector Lord General Behemot.
The sentences flowed together…
Fleet immediately weighing anchor to respond to call.
…some more easily than others…
Unable to send more supplies for the time being.
…until finally, the truth stood out.
Will request Departmento Munitorum expedite supplies to your location, estimated, two months.
Nisri’s eyes widened. “When was the message sent? When?”
The operators scrambled, trying to find a time-stamp in the transmission.
“About seven hours ago,” one replied, “probably more.”
“Transmission source confirmed to be a satellite relay,” the other responded.
“That puts them outside the system,” Raham said.
“They’ve already left,” Nisri said, falling back into his seat.
“But it’s only two months,” Raham replied. “They sent us enough supplies for that.”
Nisri shook his head. “They sent us the wrong supplies, sergeant, and the storm prevented them
correcting their mistake! Get me the quartermaster on vox. We need to find out how much trouble
we’re in.”
19
CHAPTER THREE
“The Greedy pray for what they do not have.
The Blessed pray for what was given them.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
Day Three.
The desert seemed renewed, the passage of the 892nd brushed away by the winds and new coats
of sand. On and around the rocky island, Guardsmen were busy digging out vehicles and cargo
containers. The rosy hued plateau rose a dozen metres from the dunes on its east side, while on the
west, a large dune had pressed against it, forming a ramp for treaded vehicles to traverse. The
plateau’s roof was a hundred metres in diameter, and the highest one the Guardsmen could reach
among the many scattered throughout the region. A tall pole already stood at its centre, the newly
minted double-headed eagle banner of the 892nd.
While the men worked in groups that were exclusively Banna or Turenag, they sang songs, each
trying to be louder or more insulting than the other. Naturally, they weren’t vulgar or deliberately
demeaning, but they said enough to hint at a slur. The Banna’s songs praised the Emperor and the
Transmitter of His Word, the great Orakle, while the Turenag sang of their love for the Emperor
alone and of the perils of following false gods.
The remaining vehicles were clustered around the command Chimera in the shadow of the plateau.
Colonel Nisri Dakar sat with his men upon a mottled tan Hellhound, while Lieutenant-Colonel Turk
Iban Salid stood with his at the treads of a tan Chimera. Commissar Rezail and Tyrell Habass, stood
off to the side, at the open ramp of the command Chimera.
Captain Ural Kortan, Quartermaster of the 892nd, had noticed the commissar’s adjutant
dropping sodium and potassium powder into the commissar’s canteen earlier. Heat exhaustion,
Kortan surmised, given the commissar’s pale, sweaty complexion. Kortan, standing in the open
circle between the vehicles, continued with his report to the command staff and ranking officers. He
motioned to the data-slate for emphasis.
“We were sent supplies we didn’t need,” Kortan replied, “inflatable rafts, carbon-filtered
rebreathers, five full pallets of green vehicle paint… I can continue,” Kortan said, shrugging.
“Fine,” Nisri said, rubbing his scalp hard. “What do we have that we can use?”
“We have enough rations to last twenty-three days, and water for twenty-five.”
“Ration them both out,” Nisri said. “That’s a meal per soldier, per day, two for the sick. We’ll
switch to night operations to stave off dehydration. Sergeant Ballasra?”
“Um, yes,” Ballasra said, stroking his white beard. “By your will and the Emperor’s providence,
my squad can see what the desert provides.”
“Very well, search the area for edibles, preferably something more appetising than sand. Duf
adar Sarish,” Nisri said, turning his attention to the stable master. “We may need to slaughter some
of the animals if they cannot graze, or if there is no water for them to drink.”
20
Sarish scowled, but he nodded. Turk and his officers straightened; they seemed ready to say
something, but Nisri was quick to interrupt them.
“Which of your men do you recommend to help Sergeant Ballasra,” Nisri asked.
Turk bit his lip for a moment, before nodding to the olive-skinned man next to him. “Captain
Toria and his men are fine trackers and hunters.”
“The same Captain Toria that Captain Abantu saved?” Raham asked.
Of Nisri’s men, all but Captain Abantu chuckled at the jibe, but Nisri silenced them with a harsh
glare. He was not pleased, his look cruel, like the drawing of an assassin’s blade from its sheath.
Even Raham reddened and looked away.
Turk, meanwhile, had forcibly grabbed Master Gunner Nubis by the arm and pulled him back.
Kortan noticed all this, and took measure of where the lines were being drawn.
“And for that,” Turk said, keeping his eyes on Nisri, “Captain Abantu has my thanks. Captain
Toria was searching for Major Anleel, First Company’s commander, during the storm.”
“And have you found him?” Nisri asked.
“No sir. Five men went missing last night, from both companies. The electric discharges may
have rendered them senseless long enough for the storm to get the better of them.”
“I sent two Sentinel squadrons searching for them,” Major Hussari said. “There’s no sign of
them.”
“Unfortunate,” Nisri said. “Very well, Captain Toria and Sergeant Ballasra will coordinate their
efforts to locate food and water. What else, Captain Kortan?”
“Plasm-tins,” Kortan replied, “to cook the food, we have enough for twenty days.”
“Perhaps we can siphon vehicle fuel?” Nisri asked, looking at Abantu.
“What’s mine is yours, but we were only sent half of what we needed. The storm robbed us of
the other half, and we’re low on power cells for the vehicles.”
Nisri thought for a moment, before sighing. “Ration the fuel as well. The command Chimera has
priority on the power cells—”
Lieutenant Osam Djeer, the command staffs engineering officer, quickly interrupted. “We can
tether the command vehicle to the solar generators.”
“Do so. Major Hussari’s squadron receives priority on the fuel, whatever is required to stretch
our reserves to two months. Regular patrols will use any dromads and mukaali that Duf adar Sarish
can spare. Now tell me, good quartermaster, and for the love of the Emperor make it favourable
news, is there anything we do have in good supply?”
“Yes,” Kortan replied with a smile. “We have plenty of sand.”
2
“Put yours backs into it,” Nubis barked at his men as they struggled at the lip of the plateau. He
wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm. The night air was graciously cool, and he was happy
to be away from the sun. He watched as his men struggled to pull open the collapsible wire-frame
cubes. The articulated mesh expanded to form interlinking baskets ten metres long. These would
form the battlements atop the plateau. Once they’d riveted them into the hard rock, the companies
would fill the layered rows of baskets with sand, creating walls that could absorb heavy bolter fire
and shelling.
Nearby, a Turenag work detail was laying the foundations for the command bunker, and singing
about their beautiful wives and the children they had left at home. A couple of men in Nubis’ group
began singing the praises of their wives in retort, when Nubis pushed through his men and slapped
one across of the back of his head.
21
“What are you doing?” Nubis said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Singing with them? These are
Turenag! They killed the Orakle Murha and they’ve ambushed our fathers and our uncles. Go on,
then! Sing! Sing like women, because you certainly aren’t acting like the men of the Banna!”
The men hesitated, and then returned to their work, their prides stung and their skin flushed with
heat. Nobody spoke, and even the Turenag work detail watched in silence.
“Well?” Nubis shouted at the Turenag. “Keep singing! My men deserve to be entertained by
women.”
The Turenag exploded into curses and insults, and several men moved forward with their
pickaxes ready. Nubis and his men positioned themselves to face the enemy, pry bars and shovels in
their hands. They were only metres apart when a white las-shot, instant and lethal, lit the night and
scorched the earth between them. Two more landed in quick succession, for emphasis, stopping
everyone in their tracks. Duf adar Sarish held two dissimilar laspistols, one trained on each group of
men.
“Get back to work,” the Sen’tach rider told them. “You are frightening my animals.”
Nubis eyed Sarish and motioned his men back to work. Slowly, the work crews returned to their
details, but none of them sang any more. They glared at one another and at Sarish, who was
watching them carefully in return.
3
Major Ias’r Dashour stood at the opening of the tent, waiting to be acknowledged by Nisri. He was a
dour-looking man, his brow constantly knotted in some distant thought. He was light skinned with a
pale olive complexion, and he kept his face clean.
Nisri sat at his desk, a folding table with thin, spindly legs. Stacks of data-slates and print-sheets
covered the surface in neat, ordered piles. The colonel shook his head and motioned to the
information.
“Useless,” he said.
“Sir?” Dashour said, taking the opportunity to step into the cool dark of the modular tent, with
its open peel-back front and peaked roof.
“All this information, and it tells me nothing. You know what nearly killed us at Absolomay.”
“The tyranids?” Dashour asked. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of firing round after
round into the advancing wall of screeching, chittering xenos, their claws scrambling at the rocky
terrain, their strength undiminished despite the steady, winnowing salvos. The tyranids operated as
