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trajectory；　speed；　wear　and　tear。　All　of　these　were　matters　of　serious　concern。　The　enginseers　in
charge　of　the　regimental　tech…crews　wouldn’t　be　getting　much　sleep。
Thinking　of　the　strange　cybernetic　tech…priests；　Wulfe　decided　they　probably　didn’t　need　much
sleep　anyway。　Maybe　they　just　popped　in　some　fresh　batteries。　The　image　that　formed　in　his　mind
using　and　disturbing。
The　drop…ship　was　really　bouncing　around。　Golgotha’s　atmosphere　was　thicker　than　most
populated　worlds；　and　the　pressure　differentials　between　the　planet’s　hot　and　cold　zones　reportedly
made　for　some　truly　ferocious　storms。　Some　of　the　rookies　looked　set　to　soil　themselves　as　the　craft
was　tossed　this　way　and　that。
Wulfe　fought　an　instinct　to　tense　his　muscles。　It　was　far　smarter　to　relax　if　one　didn’t　want　to
suffer　torn　tendons　and　the　like。　Such　injuries　were　all　too　common　during　a　drop。
“Altitude；　seven　thousand　five—”
The　static…ridden　voice　was　suddenly　drowned　out　by　the　most　awful；　ringing　screech。　Wulfe
pressed　his　hands　to　his　ears。　He　knew　that　sound；　knew　it　never　heralded　good　news。　It　was　the
sound　of　tearing　metal！
The　drop…ship　suddenly　rolled　hard　to　the　right。　Wulfe’s　head　flew　backwards　and　struck　the
padded　surface　of　the　seat。　His　stomach　felt　like　it　was　doing　backflips。　His　vision　dimmed。　He　saw
stars。　Some　of　the　men　on　the　opposite　row　were　thrown　so　hard　against　their　restraints　that　their
gumshields　flew　out。　Yelled　curses　filled　the　air。
“We’re　frakkin’　hit！”　shouted　a　young　trooper　in　a　panic。　Wulfe’s　heart　felt　like　it　was　stuck
somewhere　up　by　his　throat。
“We’re　not　hit；　Webber；”　barked　another。　“Don’t　say　that！”
“What　the　hell　was　it；　then？”　demanded　someone　else。　“By　the　bloody　Eye！”
16
“Quiet！”　Sergeant　Rhaimes　yelled　at　them　around　his　gumshield。　“That’s　enough　of　that！　It’s
turbulence；　you　kak…eating　dung…worms。　You　heard　the　cogboy。　Buffeting；　he　said。　Now；　pipe
down！”
Rhaimes’　lie　was　all　too　obvious。　He　was　trying　to　keep　them　calm；　but　no　one　was　buying　a
word　of　it。
The　ship　rolled　hard　in　the　other　direction　and　righted　itself；　though　the　juddering　was　so　severe；
now；　that　it　was　painful。　The　men　gripped　their　impact　frames　with　white…knuckled　hands。
Wulfe　chanced　a　look　up　the　row　at　Lenck　and　was　irritated　to　see　him　sitting　quietly；　lips
bulging　over　the　tell…tale　bump　of　a　gumshield；　apparently　unfazed。　The　cocky　upstart　only　jumped
when　a　noise　exploded　from　the　vox…speakers。　It　was　a　deafening；　high…pitched　whine　that　cut　off
suddenly　to　be　replaced　by　the　cold　flat　tones　of　the　cogboy　addressing　them　once　again。　This　time；
the　voice　was　amplified　to　ear…damaging　levels　and；　whether　Wulfe　simply　imagined　it　or　not；　he
heard　hints　of　his　own　panic　reflected　in　the　broken　sentences。
“…concentrated　anti…aircraft…　storm…　below…　off　course　and…　down。　All　personnel…　for
immediate…”
Suddenly；　a　great　wave　of　nerve…searing　pain　blossomed　in　Wulfe’s　head。　The　whole　galaxy
seemed　to　roll　over　on　its　axis。　Up　was　down；　left　was　right。　Then　everything　shifted　again　with
frightening　speed。　He　shut　his　eyes　tight；　saw　fireworks　bursting　behind　his　eyelids；　felt　his　muscles
cry　out　in　protest　as　his　body’s　limits　were　brutally　tested；　and　then；　with　his　heart　battering　the
inside　of　his　chest　like　it　wanted　out…
Darkness。　Thoughtlessness。　Silence。
He　sank　into　an　unfeeling　void　in　which　even　bad　dreams　ceased　to　exist。
Something　stung　Wulfe’s　left　cheek。　The　pain　was　sharp；　and；　slowly；　though　he　struggled　against　it；
it　dragged　him　back　from　the　comfort　of　his　dark　oblivion。　Half　awake；　he　probed　the　inside　of　his
cheek　with　his　tongue。　The　flesh　was　ragged。　He　tasted　blood。　His　tongue　played　over　nearby　teeth
and…　Damn　it！　Two　of　them　were　much　sharper　than　before。　They’d　been　broken。　He　wondered
idly　if　he’d　swallowed　the　pieces　and　decided　that　he　probably　had。
Next；　there　came　a　shooting　pain　in　his　eyes。　He　wanted　to　shut　them　tighter；　but　the　lids　were
already　squeezed　together　hard。　Then　a　shadow　fell　across　him；　and　the　pain　dissipated。　Slowly；
carefully；　he　eased　the　lids　apart　and　saw…
“Holtz？　Is　that—”
Waves　of　fire　surged　through　his　muscles　as　he　tried　to　rise。　He　grunted　in　pain　and　sank　back
down。
“Easy；”　said　Holtz；　leaning　over　him。　“Siegler’s　gone　to　scare　up　a　medic；　but　they’ve　got　their
hands　full。　There　were　deaths；　sarge。　Brebner　and　half　his　crew。　Some　of　Fuchs’　men。　Krauss　and
Siemens　both　lost　their　drivers。　A　score　of　lads　from　the　support　crews　bought　it；　too。”
Holtz　paused　for　a　second。　Then；　with　sorrow　giving　way　to　relief；　added；　“By　the　bloody　Eye；
sarge；　we　thought　you　were　out　of　the　game　for　good　this　time。　Just　lie　still　for　a　bit；　will　you？”
They　were　wasted　words。　Wulfe　was　already　moving。　With　another　grunt　of　pain；　he　rolled　to
his　left　and　braced　himself　with　his　right　hand。　His　fingers　pressed　down　into　warm　red　sand　and　he
froze。
“Golgotha；”　he　whispered。
Holtz　heard　him。　“Aye；　sir。　Golgotha；　for　better　or　worse。”
Wulfe　paused；　letting　the　sensation　of　the　fine　red　grains　filter　up　into　his　brain。　He　raised　a
handful　of　sand　up　in　front　of　his　eyes　and　watched　it　pour　like　water　from　between　his　fingers。　He
rubbed　his　forefinger　and　thumb　together　and　noticed　that　the　sand　left　a　stain　there；　a　thick　smear　of
dark　red　dust。
“Like　blood；”　he　murmured。
17
Holtz　caught　only　the　last　of　these　words　and　mistook　Wulfe’s　meaning。　“No　bleeding；　sarge；
except　your　mouth。　You　feel　like　anything’s　broken？　If　you’ll　just　wait　for　the　medic。”
Again；　Wulfe　brushed　off　this　advice。　Injured　or　not；　he　didn’t　have　time　to　lie　around　on　his
back。　He　lifted　his　head　towards　the　horizon　and；　through　his　nose；　drew　a　few　deep；　deliberate
breaths　of　the　Golgothan　air。　He　immediately　wished　he　hadn’t。　The　air　was　thick；　stung　his　nostrils
a　little；　and　smelled　like　eggs。　Is　that　sulphur；　he　wondered；　or　something　worse？　Open　sands
stretched　out　all　around　him；　flat　and　featureless；　running　all　the　way　to　the　shimmering　distance
where　land　and　sky　seemed　to　melt　and　flow　together　in　a　mirage　line　that　hovered　above　the　surface
of　the　desert。
He　turned　his　face　and　looked　directly　up。　The　sky　was　heavily　overcast　with　rich；　swirling　reds
and　browns。　Quite　beautiful；　he　supposed；　but　oppressive；　too。　The　cloud　ceiling　was　very　low；　and
lightning　flashed　deep　inside　it；　though　no　precipitation　fell。　He　detected　the　muted　glow　of　the　local
star；　directly　above　him；　hinting　at　midday；　its　light　barely　managing　to　struggle　through。　Then　he
realised　how　dark　everything　was。　Even　in　the　middle　of　the　day；　the　ambient　light　was　only　a　shade
stronger　than　twilight　on　Cadia。
Holtz　followed　his　gaze。　“According　to　the　cogboys；　we　should　be　glad　of　them　clouds；　sarge。
They　say　one　clear　day　is　enough　to　kill　a　man。”
“A　million　ways；”　Wulfe　murmured。
“Again；　sarge？”
“That　Terraxian　poet…　I　can’t　remember　his　name。　He　said　Golgotha　has　a　million　ways　to　kill
a　man。”　Wulfe　pulled　himself　up　into　a　sitting　position；　wincing　as　he　did　so。　Holtz　watched　without
comment；　giving　up　on　trying　to　keep　Wulfe　still；　merely　shaking　his　head　in　frustrated　disapproval。
“Is　Siegler　okay？”　asked　Wulfe。　“Metzger？　Viess　and　his　men？”
“Siegler　and　Metzger　are　all　right；”　said　Holtz；　“not　a　scratch　on　either　of　them。　Same　goes　for
Viess；　though　his　driver　is　a　bit　messed　up。”　Absently；　he　reached　up　and　rubbed　the　ugly；
discoloured　mass　of　scar　tissue　that　covered　the　left　side　of　his　face。　Seven　years　ago　on　a　world
called　Modessa　Prime；　a　secessionist　guerrilla　had　hit　Wulfe’s　tank　with　a　shaped…charge　explosive。
Holtz　had　been　in　one　of　the　sponsons。　A　fine　spray　of　molten　metal　had　turned　him　from　a
handsome；　confident　trooper　into　one　of　the　most　bitter　men　Wulfe　had　ever　known。　Very
occasionally；　however；　Wulfe　saw　hints　of　the　old　Holtz　shining　through；　a　bit　like　the　Golgothan
sun。
“Eye　blast　it！”　exclaimed　Wulfe　suddenly。　“Van　Droi　was　up　front　with　the　pilot。　He　isn’t—”
“No；”　said　Holtz；　cutting　him　off。　“Chipped　a　tooth；　though。　Raging　about　it；　he　is。　He　was　here
earlier　with　that　damned　soggy　cigar　sticking　out　of　his　mouth。　Se