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activity　in　the　spaceport　below。　Perhaps　he　was　worrying　about　his　own　place　on　one　of　those　ships；
wondering　how　much　longer　he　could　afford　to　wait　behind。
“You　were　lucky；”　said　the　lieutenant　at　last；　in　a　somewhat　quieter　voice；　“that　my　platoon　was
in　the　area；　that　those　mutants　died　before　they　could　break　down　the　door　and　reach　you。　I　only
wish　they　could　have　been　in　time　to　save　my　sergeant。”
“I　wish　that　too；　sir。”
“As　far　as　I　am　concerned；　Trooper　Blonsky；　you　killed　Sergeant　Arkadin　without　reason。　I
don’t　know　why。　Perhaps　you　were　the　would…be　deserter；　and　he　was　standing　in　your　way。　The
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only　way　to　be　sure　would　be　to　convene　a　formal　tribunal　with；　as　you　say；　your　commanders
present。　Under　the　circumstances；　that　would　take　some　time。　It　would　also　mean　blackening　a　good
man’s　name；　by　airing　these　scurrilous　accusations　against　him。”
“If　you　say　so；　sir。”　Blonsky　could　see　from　the　lieutenant’s　bearing；　the　way　he　could　no　longer
quite　meet　his　prisoner’s　eye；　that　he　wanted　to　believe　what　he　was　saying；　wanted　it　so　much；　but
that　he　couldn’t　be　entirely　sure。
The　lieutenant　let　out　a　heavy　sigh；　and　said；　“Go　on。　Get　out　of　here。　It　would　be　a　mercy　to
keep　you　off　the　front　line　anyway。　You　belong　to　the　Valhallan　319th；　yes？　The　regiment　that　is　to
stay　behind；　that　is　to　be　sacrificed。　Well；　then；　Trooper　Blonsky；　if　you　are　so　zealous；　so　damn
loyal　to　the　Emperor；　then　this　is　your　chance　to　prove　it；　isn’t　it？　This　is　your　chance　to　make　sure
you　die　for　Him！”
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CHAPTER　THREE
Time　to　Destruction　of　Cressida：　45。57。14
The　sight　of　the　Termite　stirred　something　in　Sergeant　Ivon　Gavotski’s　heart。
It　was　just　a　small　vehicle；　its　chassis　almost　outweighed　by　the　great　cylindrical　borer　it
supported　—　but　it　had　been　given　a　distinctively　Valhallan　make…over；　painted　with　white　and
green　snow　camouflage　patterns。　Six　flamer　emplacements　had　been　added　to　its　sides　and　four
more　flamers　mounted　on　the　borer　itself。
Gavotski　had　heard　the　story　many　times；　of　course　—　about　how；　after　his　home　world　had
been　hit　by　an　asteroid；　after　its　lush　fields　had　become　frozen　wastelands；　his　distant　ancestors　had
struggled　to　survive。　An　ork　invasion　must　have　seemed　like　one　misfortune　too　many；　back　then　—
but　it　had　given　the　Valhallans　a　reason　to　fight　back；　a　tangible　goal　to　achieve。
The　precise　schematics　of　the　ice…boring　vehicle　they　had　developed　had　been　lost　to　history。
But　this　Termite　was　the　nearest　thing；　in　the　modern　world；　to　the　vehicle　that　had　won　the
Valhallans　their　war　—　the　nearest　thing　to　the　vehicle　that　had　given　them　mastery　of　their　changed
environment；　allowing　them　to　tunnel　through　the　hearts　of　the　glaciers　and　to　strike　at　the　ork　mobs
where　they　least　expected。
A　single　Termite　wouldn’t　win　this　war　—　but　with　Cressida　becoming　more　and　more　like
Valhalla　each　day；　it　could　at　least　carry　one　squad　of　Ice　Warriors　to　where　they　needed　to　be。　That
was；　if　Gavotski　could　find　it　a　squad　to　carry。
He　had　sent　out　the　orders　over　two　hours　ago。　Trooper　Mikhaelev　had　been　the　first　to　report　in：
a　quiet；　lean；　thin…faced　man；　not　at　all　what　Gavotski　had　been　expecting　from　a　heavy　weapons
expert。　Anakora　had　arrived　next；　her　face　impassive；　her　eyes　dead　even　as　she　had　told　Gavotski
what　an　honour　it　was　to　be　assigned　to　him。　Then　Blonsky　had　come　in；　his　narrow；　black　eyes
forever　darting　about　him；　alert　like　a　hawk。
That；　so　far；　had　been　it；　apart　from　a　few　garbled　vox　messages。　Two　of　Gavotski’s　draftees
were　listed　as　dead；　three　as　missing　in　action；　although　efforts　were　ongoing　to　locate　them。　Of　the
remaining　four；　including　his　reserve　choices；　he　had　heard　and　seen　nothing。　It　was　with　some
relief；　then；　that　he　greeted　the　approach　of　a　Chimera；　although　even　the　jaded　sergeant　couldn’t
help　but　raise　an　eyebrouscular　trooper　hanging　from　its　side。
The　hitchhiker　didn’t　wait　for　the　vehicle　to　stop。　He　hopped　down　and　ambled　up　to　Gavotski；
his　broad；　toothy　grin　a　bright　white　behind　his　black　beard。
“Trooper　Borscz；　sergeant；”　he　introduced　himself。　“Apologies　for　my　late　arrival；　but　your　first
message　did　not　get　through。　Machines；　you　know。”
Gavotski　introduced　himself　in　turn；　held　up　a　hand　to　stem　Borscz’s　eager　questions；　and
indicated　that　he　should　wait　beside　the　Termite　with　the　others。　As　the　newcomer　moved　to　obey；
the　sergeant　noted　that　his　eyes　flickered；　as　all　their　eyes　had；　towards　the　brooding　figure　of
Colonel　Stanislev　Steele。
Steele　stood　a　few　metres　away；　his　power　sword　at　his　hip；　observing　all　with　a　cool　but　shrewd
gaze。　His　bionic　right　eye　glinted　in　the　light　of　a　flaring　explosion　in　the　sky；　but　there　were　no
other　outward　signs　of　his　internal　augmetics。
It　was　said　by　some　that　Steele’s　emotions　had　been　neutered　by　his　cybernetic　grafts；　that　he
had　become　cold；　unfeeling。　Gavotski　could　see　how　that　myth　had　been　born。　He　counted　himself
privileged；　however；　to　be　one　of　the　few　who　knew　the　truth。
16
The　Chimera　had　come　to　a　halt；　and　another　two　Ice　Warriors　emerged；　exchanging　amiable
banter。　They　introduced　themselves　as　Troopers　Barreski　and　Grayle。　That　made　six　—　eight；
including　the　sergeant　and　the　colonel。　It　was　enough　to　make　do；　but　two　short　of　the　full　squad　for
which　Gavotski　had　hoped。　He　glanced　at　Steele　for　instructions；　but　could　see　that；　as　always；　he
was　happy　to　trust　his　sergeant’s　judgement。
He　decided　to　wait　another　ten　minutes。　With　luck；　Palinev　might　still　make　it；　and　bring　the
count　up　to　nine。　Beyond　that…
Gavotski　had　had　high　hopes　for　one　more　Ice　Warrior。　He　had　added　Pozhar’s　name　to　his　list；
despite　his　chequered　service　record；　despite　Steele’s　concerns；　because　he　had　worked　with　the　lad
before　and　judged　him　to　have　potential。　Pozhar　was　one　of　the　three　MIAs　—　which　meant　that
Gavotski　was　now　praying　for　a　miracle。
Or；　to　put　it　another　way；　he　was　about　to　find　out　if　his　faith　had　been　justified。
Pozhar　had　lost　all　track　of　time。
He　was　so　close　to　his　goal；　so　close　to　getting　back　to　his　comrades；　the　returning　hero。　It
seemed　like　days　since　he　had　been　separated　from　them；　days　since　he　had　lain　on　the　battlefield；
almost　gagging　on　the　stench　of　the　fallen　Chaos　worshippers　whose　bodies　had　protected　him。
Now；　he　was　just　a　few　metres　away。
A　few　metres　—　but　it　may　as　well　have　been　a　few　thousand。
It　was　not　in　the　young　trooper’s　nature　to　lie　still　for　long。　Anyway；　the　grumbling　of
approaching　engines　had　alerted　him　to　a　new　danger。　The　Chaos　army　had　pressed　forward；　most　of
its　foot　soldiers　passing　him　by　without　seeing　him；　but　behind　them　had　come　the　heavy　artillery；
the　tanks　and　the　battle　cannons；　and　he　had　had　to　act　fast　to　avoid　being　crushed　beneath　their
wheels。
Pozhar　had　scrambled　to　his　feet；　feeling　the　sting　of　cold　air　on　his　face；　expecting　to　be　shot
down　as　soon　as　he　was　seen。　Instead；　surrounded　by　the　enemy；　he　went　unnoticed。　He　had　realised
that　his　uniform　was　dishevelled　and　torn；　coated　in　grime　and　blood；　and　thus　there　was　no　real
visible　difference　between　him　and　any　number　of　Traitor　Guardsmen　on　the　battlefield。　Thinking
quickly；　he　had　ripped　off　his　unit　badge　to　further　this　illusion；　and　had　considered　taking　a　coat
from　one　of　the　fallen　traitors；　one　daubed　in　Chaos　sigils；　but　the　thought　of　wearing　such　a　thing
had　made　his　stomach　turn　and　his　skin　crawl。
He　couldn’t　just　stand　there；　he　had　realised。　He　had　to　do　something；　make　it　look　like　he
belonged　here；　give　himself　time　to　think；　to　find　an　escape　route。
Casting　around；　he　had　seen　a　pair　of　cultists　bickering　over　an　upset　cart。　A　purloined　plasma
cannon；　too　heavy　to　carry；　had　spilled　from　the　rickety　contraption；　and　Pozhar　had　rushed　to　help
lift　it　back　into　place。　In　so　doing；　he　had　brushed　against　a　cultist’s　arm　and　felt　something　shifting
beneath　his　cloak。　He　had　caught　a　glimpse　of　a　slimy　black　tentacle；　and　had　almost　vomited　on　the
spot。
Pozhar　had　ached　—　truly；　physically　ached　—　with　the　driving　need　to　pull　out　his　lasgun；　to
blast　these　freaks　to　whatever　afterlife　they　believed　in；　and　he　w