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Seeing　the　slaughter　of　its　foul　kin；　the　darker　ork　began　thrashing　madly。　Slayte　calmly　turned
towards　it　and　repeated　the　exact　same　procedure。　Those　in　the　front　rows　of　the　crowd　pushed
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backwards。　There　was　another　loud　crack　as　the　bolt　pistol　fired　and；　again；　the　air　filled　with　a
bloody　mist。
Crusher　holstered　his　pistol；　turned　and　addressed　all　those　present。　“Damn　your　eyes；　the　lot　of
you。　Have　you　forgotten　the　principles　of　intolerance　set　forth　in　the　Imperial　Creed？　Perhaps　the
sting　of　the　lash　would　help　you　all　to　remember。”
The　crowd　parted　wide　for　him　as　he　stalked　off；　calling　out　as　he　went；　“Suffer　not　the　alien　to
live！”
“Damn　it；”　said　one　of　the　lieutenants　from　the　303rd　as　he　dabbed　at　his　bloodstained　tunic　with
a　handkerchief。　“Which　regiment　is　that　bastard　attached　to？　I　feel　sorry　for　them。”
“That　would　be　my　regiment；　lieutenant；”　said　Wulfe　grimly；　“the　81st　Armoured。”
“Colonel　Vinnemann’s　lot？”　asked　the　other　officer。　“Throne　help　you；　sergeant。　You’ve　got　a
bad　one　there。　Execute　many；　does　he？”
Wulfe　shook　his　head。　“He　likes　his　punishments；　does　old　Crusher；　but　the　colonel　can　usually
talk　him　down　from　a　killing。　The　alternative　isn’t　much　better；　mind　you。　He　gives　out　a　hell　of　a
beating。”
“Is　that　why　you　call　him　Crusher？”　asked　the　first　man。
“You　didn’t　notice；　sir？”　said　Wulfe；　surprised。　“His　hands。　Augmetic　replacements；　both　of
them。　He　lost　his　organic　pair　to　the　jaws　of　a　bull　carnotaur　some　years　back。　Not　that　he
complains。　He　caught　a　deserter　back　on　Palmeros　in　the　first　months　of　the　campaign　and　forced　us
all　to　watch　the　execution。　The　boy　was　nineteen。　New　meat。　He　saw　his　cousin　get　killed　and　lost　it。
Commissar　Slayte　crushed　his　skull　with　one　hand。　Broke　it　like　it　was　an　egg。”
The　officers　from　the　303rd　both　frowned　and　shook　their　heads。
“Those　boys　in　the　259th　Mechanised　aren’t　going　to　be　pleased；”　said　one。　“They　had　the　killrights
to　these　two。　They　made　the　capture。”
“Might　as　well　disperse；　you　lot；”　shouted　the　other　to　the　grumbling　crowd。　“Nothing　much　to
see　now。”
The　troopers　moved　off　trailing　a　palpable　air　of　disappointment　and　resentment。　For　a　short
time；　the　imprisoned　enemies　had　offered　a　distraction　from　the　biting　of　the　ticks　and　the　coughing
and　sneezing　caused　by　the　dust。　Wulfe　stayed　a　moment　longer；　staring　in　silence　at　the　headless
alien　bodies。　Siegler　and　Beans　waited　for　him　a　dozen　paces　away；　also　silent。
It’s　not　enough；　thought　Wulfe。　No　matter　how　many　we　kill；　it’s　never　enough。　They　keep
coming。　We　send　troops　to　purge　them　from　one　world；　and　another　falls　at　our　backs。　Can　we　ever
break　the　stalemate？　Will　we　ever　do　more　than　just　survive　against　them？
He　reached　a　hand　up　and　stroked　the　scar　on　his　neck。　Where　had　all　his　faith　gone？　Aboard　the
Hand　of　Radiance；　Wulfe　had　always　turned　to　Confessor　Friedrich　for　spiritual　strength。　There　was
a　man　he　could　talk　to。　Despite　being　a　year　younger　than　Wulfe；　the　priest　had　a　calm　wisdom
about　him　that　Wulfe　envied；　though　he　wasn’t　prepared　to　drink　quite　as　much　as　the　priest　did　to
achieve　it。　As　he　led　Beans　and　Siegler　back　to　the　barracks；　he　considered　seeking　out　the　priest；
but　it　was　already　late。　He　would　have　to　wake　his　crew　at　sunrise　tomorrow。　General　deViers
wasn’t　about　to　let　them　rest　up。　That　was　fine　with　Wulfe。　The　hardest　part　of　any　soldier’s　life　was
down…time：　too　much　time　to　think；　to　notice　the　little　things。　Typically　stoic　men　would　begin　to
grumble。　Colonel　von　Holden　was　a　stark　example　and　he　wouldn’t　be　alone。　Dissidence　was　far
from　exclusive　to　the　officer　class。　Fights　would　start　breaking　out。　There　would　be　more　incidents
of　drunkenness。　Some　would　turn　to　less　legal　distractions。　Before　you　knew　it；　the　commissars
would　be　executing　men　left；　right　and　centre。
It　was　just　as　well　that　the　bulk　of　the　18th　Army　Group　would　be　moving　out　soon。　Nothing
cleared　the　mind　like　going　into　battle。
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CHAPTER　FIFTEEN
It　was　still　early；　but　the　day　was　already　uncomfortably　hot。　The　Golgothan　sky　was　lighter　than
Lenck　had　ever　seen　it。　The　chief　medicae　liaison　issued　a　warning；　all　personnel　at　Balkar　should
stay　in　the　shadows　as　much　as　possible　until　further　notification。　But　it　was　difficult　to　follow　the
Imperial　Medicae’s　advice　when　Lieutenant　van　Droi　had　ordered　all　crews　to　run　maintenance
details。　Still；　Lenck　did　his　best。　He　slouched　with　his　back　against　the　New　Champion；　taking
shelter　in　her　shadow　while　his　crew　griped　and　whined　and　ran　the　necessary　checks。
Since　daylight　had　broken　over　the　base；　Balkar　had　been　abuzz　with　activity。　Word　hadn’t
reached　him　why　this　should　be；　but　it　wasn’t　hard　to　guess。　They’d　be　moving　out　again　soon。　The
final　leg　of　Operation　Thunderstorm　would　commence　shortly。
Fine　with　me；　thought　Lenck。　The　sooner　it’s　done；　the　sooner　we　can　get　off　this　blasted　ball　of
dirt。　If　the　next　deployment　doesn’t　take　us　somewhere　populated；　I’ll　kill　someone。
A　scowling　Varnuss　stuck　his　head　around　the　rear　corner　of　the　tank　and　said；　“We’ve　finished
with　the　headlamps。”
Riesmann　and　Hobbs　appeared　beside　Varnuss；　both　wearing　murderous　looks　that　told　how
much　they　hated　menial　work。
“Congratulations；”　said　Lenck。　“You　can　start　oiling　the　treads；　then。　Shouldn’t　take　long　with
three　of　you。”
“Sod　off；”　spat　Hobbs。　“Why　don’t　you　get　off　your　arse　and　pitch　in？”
Lenck　lifted　an　eyebrow　and　gazed　at　his　driver　coldly。　“Because　I’m　the　one　that　keeps　you　lot
in　extra　smokes　and　booze。　Earn　it。”
Hobbs　spat　on　the　ground　and　disappeared　around　the　corner　of　the　tank　shaking　his　head　and
muttering。　Lenck　got　to　his　feet　and　dusted　himself　off。
“I’m　going　for　a　wander；”　he　said。
“Where？”　asked　Varnuss。
“A　little　place　called　none…of…your…frakking…business；　that’s　where。　Just　have　the　treads　done　by
the　time　I　get　back；　all　right？　Throne　knows　when　van　Droi　might　show　up　for　an　inspection　or
something。”
A　few　hundred　yards　away；　in　the　south…east　corner　of　Staging　Area　Four；　Wulfe　and　his　crew　were
likewise　engaged　with　running　basic　maintenance。　Van　Droi　required　all　his　crews　to　be　able　to
undertake　basic　field　repairs　and　the　like。　If　there　were　problems　the　crews　couldn’t　handle；　the　techcrews
took　care　of　them。　If　it　was　something　even　they　couldn’t　manage；　the　enginseers　and　their
mindless；　half…human　servitors　took　over。
“Make　sure　they’re　locked　down　tight；　Sig；”　said　Wulfe；　pointing　at　the　spare　track　links　that
Siegler　was　fixing　to　the　armoured　sides　of　the　turret。　At　the　rear　of　the　turret；　Beans　was　working；
fatigues　soaked　in　sweat　as　he　packed　and　sealed　the　stowage　boxes　that　extended　backwards　from
the　turret　bustle。
Metzger　was　at　the　front　of　the　tank；　seated　in　his　station　with　the　hatch　open；　running　checks　on
the　remote　control　system　he　used　to　operate　the　hull…mounted　lascannon。　He　had　already　checked
everything　else　he　was　responsible　for；　working　with　a　wordless　efficiency　that　Wulfe　appreciated。
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It　was　their　first　day　with　Beans　on　crew；　but　the　new　gunner　seemed　to　be　fitting　in　well
enough。　Early　days；　of　course；　and　Wulfe　was　yet　to　see　how　Beans　handled　the　main　gun；　but　he
worked　without　complaint　despite　the　heat　and　heavy　lifting。　He　may　have　found　Metzger　a　little
cold　—　the　driver　took　a　long　time　to　warm　up　to　people　and；　even　then；　he　was　far　from　talkative
—　but　Siegler　had　taken　a　shine　to　him。　He　laughed　loudly　at　even　the　worst　of　Beans’　jokes。　Wulfe
cracked　the　odd　smile　himself　at　how　bad　they　were。　The　one　about　the　two…headed　whore　on
Emperor’s　Day　had　been　going　around　since　Wulfe’s　days　as　a　Whiteshield。　It　hadn’t　been　funny
then；　either。
Footsteps　approaching　from　the　right　made　Wulfe　turn；　and　a　smile　spread　over　his　face。　A　man
in　simple　brown　robes　was　approaching；　a　heavy；　gold…leafed；　leather…bound　copy　of　the　Imperial
Creed　swinging　from　a　bronze　chain　at　his　belt。
“Confessor！”
The　priest　smiled　back；　came　to　a　stop　beside　Wulfe；　and　stretched　out　a　hand。　“Damned　good　to
see　you；　sergeant。　I　prayed　you　would　make　it　back　to　the　flock。　It　seems　that　th