Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten


	Lord Guilliman stood watching the holograms over his head coil and spark as awed Techpriests hurriedly imparted new knowledge.  Elkop, who had not said a word since Guilliman had first spoken to him, stood beside him, quiet and thoughtful.

	There was a new presence in the room, too.  He had introduced himself as Master of the Defenses Arthur Molliere, and he had brought a Kill-team with him.

	They were an eclectic bunch, but Guilliman found them oddly reassuring.  Of the six, he failed to recognize only one of their icons.  The others were the old Loyalists.  Dressed in black, true, but still very much his own brothers’ colors underneath.  Four were hurt, three seriously, but their advanced genes were healing them all well.  Guilliman gauged that each would be able to take part in his plans.

	Molliere was so excited that it was honestly rather unbecoming.  Guilliman quirked an eyebrow as the Master of the Defenses began speaking.

	“Of course, this should only take a moment longer,” he said.  He had a surprisingly high-pitched voice for a Space Marine, but the service marks on his head and gorget told Guilliman he had served for hundreds of years.

	“Indeed.”  Guilliman hid his impatience.  Molliere, however, was not done.

	“My Lord, among the crew of your Stormbird, I saw Marines in strange, large armor,” Molliere said.  “Is that a new model of Terminator?”

	“No,” Guilliman said.  “It is a new model of Marine.”

	The Kill-team all looked over at Guilliman, as did Molliere.  “I am… not certain what that means,” Molliere admitted.

	“A new age demands new warriors,” Guilliman said.  “I, along with the Archmagos Cawl of Mars, have authorized the creation of a new form of Space Marine, the Primaris Marine.”  The other Marines in the room, Domack included, listened as he explained.  “They are stronger, faster, more resistant to Chaos.  They can react and think at a greater speed than conventional Astartes.  Cawl has crafted new arms and armor for them, and new vehicles for battle.”  Another speech he knew by rote.

	Molliere stared at him in shock.  “We are… obsolete?” he asked.  He sounded personally wounded.  “You are replacing us?”

	Guilliman sighed.  Another rote response.  By the stars of Macragge, he was tired of this one.  “Of course not,” Guilliman said patiently.  “There are, by the count of the Martians, one thousand forty nine different Chapters and Legions in the Imperium’s history.  Even discounting the old Legions, there are just under a million spots for Battle Brothers in the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes.  The Primaris Marines are your comrades and gene-brothers, not your replacements.”

	Elkop finally spoke.  “It does not seem within the bounds of the… forgive me.  The Emperor’s past conduct.”

	Guilliman kept his lip from twisting.  “His past conduct.  What might that be?”

	Elkop blinked.  “Commanding us to conquer all the suns in the sky in His name.  For Terra and Mars.”

	“Do tell me, my son, how my actions prevent you from doing that,” Guilliman said flatly.  “Take your time.”

	The holoprojector kicked on at last.  Guilliman stepped past the stunned Elkop and into the tak, and he spread one hand out before him.  “Now.  From what I have seen of the limited Astropathic communications we intercepted en route to Dascomb, the primary threats to the Sector are this Glasian Migration, an Ork Space Hulk in Septiim as well as the Glasian Command Cylinder, and the Ork hordes on Gorkypark, Foraldshold, and Oglith,” he said.

	“Correct,” Lerica said.  She seemed more willing to move past her rancor now, at least while work was being discussed.

	“Why has the Inquisition not captured or annihilated Gorkypark?” Guilliman asked.  “The Orkhold there is vast.  Enough to fuel a Waaagh by itself.”

	“Were that their intention, they could have done so long ago,” Lerica said.  “They specifically avoid joining or starting one.  It is by the will of the Meks who rule there all but unopposed.”

	“Interesting.”  Guilliman highlighted the system in which the Orkhold hung.  “Oscar India Golf.  Is this some kind of joke?”

	Lerica narrowed her eyes.  “I do not understand, Lord.”

	“The name of the system that contains Gorkypark.  Oscar India Golf.”  He turned to Lerica and cocked a brow.  “It’s not a joke?  That’s its actual name?”

	“My starmaps are accurate, Lord,” Lerica said stiffly.  “What is so funny?”

	Guilliman half-smiled.  “It is a name in an old Terran dialect.  Never mind.  Who discovered this place?  Whomever named it clearly has some taste.”

	Elkop spoke up.  “An Explorator in partnership with an Ordo Xenos Ork Counterincursion specialist task force, my Lord,” he said.

	“I see.”  Guilliman looked back to the system and scanned it quickly.  “How is it coiling up that gas off that giant?”

	Lerica pointed.  “The same thing that keeps us from invading, Lord.  See?  A Beast-era Graviton Compressor Array.  They use it to collect chemicals from the giant, then turn it into fuel, then sell it to visiting Ork ships.  This is how they maintain their neutrality.”

	“Clever of the damned Orks,” Guilliman remarked.  “And so you wanted it taken intact, of course.”

	Gregorius spoke up.  “They can weaponize it.  They have such precision with it that they can use it to compress ships and kill the crews.”

	“Ah.”  Guilliman waved the system away.  “A problem for another day, then.  Tell me of the travails of Oglith.”

	“Ah, Oglith, a place of idiots and opportunities,” Domack said heavily.  He was not done discussing these Primaris Marines with Guilliman, but that could wait.  “To make an absurdly long story short, my Lord, the world has had a population of Feral Orks living underground for two thousand years.  The Administratum knew all along.”

	The others saw Guilliman’s shoulders tense for a moment, then slump.  “You don’t say,” he said dourly.

	“The current Ork problems stem from an external invasion, however, not an uprising from the native Orks,” Domack pointed out.  “The Glasians landing there is not helping matters.”

	Guilliman stared at the conflict map of the Sector in silence for another few seconds.  “The Hulk, then,” he finally said.  I shall go to Oglith, and I shall send a force of Terminators from the Indomintus task fleet to board and capture the Hulk.  I shall send a few ships to this…” he trailed off when a dot on the map suddenly turned bright red.

	The Techpriests manning the control lectern frantically poked keys.  A few words appeared over the dot as the rest of the people in the room stared.  Lerica read them aloud.  “Confirmed daemonic incursion, localized Warp rupture, Malleus requested.  Origin, Celeste.”  She broke off as her throat tightened.  The Kill-team and Domack shifted as all assembled realized what that meant.

	“They’re attacking the Capital system, the bastards,” Holgein growled.  He bared his fangs in contemptuous hate.  “They’re trying to take Celeste and Cloudburst off at the head.”

	Guilliman quickly ran down his available assets in his head.  “Then I will dispatch some of the Marines in my personal flotilla to the capital and relieve the defenders there.  The Skitarii accompanying the Titan Legion following Cawl will go to Foraldshold and attack the Orks besieging the colony site.”

	“And glad I am to hear it, Lord, a thousand blessings on you,” the senior Techpriest at the lectern piped up.  “May the Omnissiah smile on your efforts!  Foraldshold feeds millions and supplies twice more.  Losing it would set back our efforts here by decades.”

	Guilliman nodded.  “Indeed.  As for the actual Titans… what are these Orks on Oglith actually doing?” he asked the room.  “Have they Gargants?”

	“Not that we have observed, Lord,” Domack said.  “We believe they were going to Gorkypark, but exited the Warp too soon and crashed on Oglith.  The fight against them drained Oglith’s ability to repel the Glasians, and also increased the psychic backlash on the Orks that were already present, driving them to the surface.”

	“Then Titans should not be needed,” Guilliman decided.  “What of this Forge World here, Cognomen?  Does it lack Titans of its own?”

	Jergal spoke up.  “It does not,” he said firmly.  “Their Legion is small, but ferocious, and rapidly expanding, Lord Guilliman.”

	Guilliman frowned as he read the force disposition of Cognomen, hovering over his head.  “Where are they?  Are they not partaking of the battle to drive off this Glasian Migration?”

	Domack pointed his Guardian Spear at the map of the Sector.  “They have divided the Legion.  Two engines are staying on Cognomen, to prevent the loss of the entire Legion should the Imperium lose the rest of the Sector.  Five are on Oglith.  The remaining eighteen are on Foraldshold or Dawn-break.”

	“Another world blessed by the Machine God,” Jergal said.

	“I would rather hope we have a chance to visit Dawn-break before our vigils end, Brother,” Ly’tren remarked.

	Guilliman searched his memory.  “Ah, this is Dawn-break?  Cawl informed me of a cache of Dark Age treasures in the area,” he said.

	“The Mechanicus has been painstakingly bringing them online for hundreds of years,” Domack informed him.  “The true prize is the last known Heliopolis-class Pseudostar Harness.”

	“Small wonder, then, that the Mechanicus values the world so much,” Guilliman said.  “Still, eighteen Titans, to see off these Glasians?  Is this not a measure of overkill?”

	“It would be, but there are ten on Foraldshold and eight on Dawn-break,” Lerica explained.


	On the conference went, for another hour, as Guilliman and the Deathwatch representatives determined the best course of action.  When the final tally of demands and forces settled, Guilliman departed the strategarium for the Forges.

	Inside, Forgemaster Asutori and the last Techmarine still assigned to the Fortress and not the field awaited.  While the Watch Commander had been poring over the strategic data Guilliman had collected on his way through the tumultuous outer edges of Cloudburst, Asutori had sat in silence in his Forges, surrounded by working serfs and Servitors.  He had copies of the new tech-prints of the Mark X armor variants, Bolt Rifles, Plasma Incinerators, and all manner of new tools for Reivers and Aggressors and other Marine variants he had never heard of.

	When Guilliman walked in with Jergal and Ly’tren in tow, Asutori rose to his feet at once.  “My Lord Primarch Guilliman, sir, this is the honor of my life,” he said reverently.  He slapped a fist across his breastplate in salute.  “Welcome to my Forge.”

	“Thank you, Forgemaster Asutori,” Guilliman said.  He nodded respectfully to Asutori, who stood surrounded by hundreds of mechanical and electronic gadgets of his own making.  Guilliman had a natural rapport with creators, and not in the spiritual way of Vulkan or the grueling self-perfection of Ferrus or Fulgrim.  In them, he saw a spark of what had made his father Konor worthy of more than obedience, but respect and trust as well.  He saw the mixture of discipline and cleverness needed to take a problem and turn it into a challenge.  “Have you had a chance to review my documents?” he asked, as if he couldn’t see them reflecting on the optic implant Asutori wore.

	“I have, and they are unique and interesting,” Asutori said.  He waved a sheaf of data-paper.  “This is a fascinating tank, Lord Guilliman.  This Repulsor thing, it seems to have more guns than an Ork Battlewagon.”  He set the data-papers down and stepped into a more proper stance to receive the Primarch.  “But I get ahead of myself, again.  By my name, welcome to the Forge Core of Dascomb, Lord Primarch Guilliman.  Please, allow me to show you some of our greatest accomplishments.”

	Guilliman smiled politely at the grizzled old Techmarine’s obvious enthusiasm.  It showed past both his natural stoicism and his Tech-brother training.  “I fear I haven’t more than a few minutes.  Shall we speak as we walk?  I have much to say.”

	“By all means, my Lord, and thank you,” Asutori said.  He led Guilliman into the fabrication room, where dozens of Servitors labored over rivers of molten metal.  “What did you wish to discuss?”

	Guilliman looked around the room and saw a dozen ways it could be more efficient.  He sighed and spoke of his original topic instead.  “Do you imagine that the new Primaris Marines will be difficult to supply, Forgemaster?”

	Asutori thought for a moment.  “Yes, but only for a year or two, my Lord.  The new armor is certainly more advanced, but the schematics you gave me are fantastic.  Mars-quality, at least.”

	“I should hope so.  They were written on Mars,” Guilliman said drily.  “They were made by a colleague of mine named Belisarius Cawl.”

	“They are works of art.”  Asutori pointed at a series of metal cold presses in one corner.  “This is where we manufacture the custom bolter shells we use to penetrate the grav plates on Glasian hovertanks.  I designed the needle drops myself.”

	Guilliman looked them over.  They were passable, above average.  “Impressive.  Do share the design with us, would you?”

	Asutori frantically searched his memory for a moment.  Did he still have them?  After a panicked second, he recalled where he kept them.  “Er, yes, Lord.”  Book-keeping had never been his strong suit.  To change the subject, he quickly spoke up again.  “My Lord Primarch, sir, what was it you wished to discuss with me?”

	Guilliman recognized the abrupt change of pace and decided not to ask questions.  “Of course.  Forgemaster, I have seen a pattern emerge among the Adeptus Astartes Chapters to which I have paid visits,” he began.  “I have spoken to Chapters descended from my own blood, others descended from dear brothers,” he continued.  Asutori regarded him in silence as they walked past a vast rack of combi-attachments, as varied as only an eleven thousand year old family of equipment could be.  “And among all but a few, they have seen the Primaris Marines as a threat.”

	“A threat, my Lord?” Asutori asked.  He contemplated that as the two men walked through the armory, shadowed as always by the Custodian who rarely seemed to leave Guilliman’s side.  “I suppose I understand.  All men fear obsolescence.”

	Guilliman grimaced.  “I do not offer obsolescence.  Throne, I have never wanted to phase out the Space Marines!  The Astartes have defended the galaxy for eleven thousand years, and brought more alien species to heel than even I know.  I have no intention to replace them.”

	The two transhumans walked past a collection of disarmed alien weapons.  Guilliman gave them a brief skim.  Nothing he hadn’t seen before.   They kept walking.  “No.  My Primaris Marines shall be the claymore to the Adeptus Astartes’ schiavona.  Both perfect weapons, when fielded as they should be.  I think you understand, Forgemaster.  You craft weapons in certain ways because there are certain places where they should be best used.”

	“I think I do understand, my Lord,” Asutori said, before asking the obvious question.  “Why are you telling me this, Lord?”

	Guilliman halted and faced him.  “Because it is time for Cloudburst Sector, and its Deathwatch, to ascend to a place of prominence in the Ultima Segmentum, Forgemaster.  Cloudburst is a rare thing in the modern Imperium.  It is growing.”  He gestured off into the darkness outside the station, at four dozen Imperial worlds.  “It is dynamic, it is strong, and its power is growing daily, or it was before the Rift.”  Guilliman’s senatorial face took on a melancholic tone as he spoke.  Asutori saw a spark of genuine hope in the ancient warrior’s eyes as he did so.  “Humanity has thrown off the shackles of Old Night, and now we are putting them back on in so many places… but not Cloudburst!  It has fallen to horrid aliens, turned to dark gods, or abandoned Terra in so many places… but not Cloudburst!  It has arisen from a navigation error and a tiny Forge Satrap into a hub of power, of art, of trade, of industry, of statecraft!”  His voice was rising.  He tempered it.  Asutori was spellbound.  Colquan was barely listening.

	“Cloudburst is not without flaw, of course, but look at what the Imperium has accomplished here!  Here are worlds forgotten, worlds abandoned by humanity long ago, routinely scourged by aliens.  Yet here are also are strong folk, loyal folk.  They fight for what is theirs, and the local institutions are actually co-operating to make it happen!”  Guilliman sighed in frustration.  “Do you know how rare that is in the Imperium today?”

	Asutori suddenly realized the question wasn’t rhetorical when he saw Guilliman’s lips purse.  “Oh, er.  Shamefully rare, in practice, my Lord.”  He looked down.  “I apologize.  I was lost in your oratory for a moment.”

	Colquan rolled his eyes to the ceiling behind his mask.  Guilliman chuckled.  “I do apologize.  That happens.”  When he wanted it to, anyway.  Not a word had been false, though.  He meant it all, and Cloudburst did intrigue him.  An expanding region of the Imperium that wasn’t just conquering space from somebody else was indeed quite rare.  That it was actually holding back Tzeentch’s direct observation was especially uncommon.

	“Regardless, Forgemaster, I think I make my point.”  Guilliman watched Asutori closely to see how he reacted to the implied burdens of his charge.  To his slight relief, Asutori seemed heartened by the recitation.

	Asutori nodded sharply.  “I do understand, my Lord.  And whatever… compunction my brothers in other Chapters may feel about your Primaris Marines, I do think they can integrate here.”

	“Yes.  The Deathwatch will be a bridge, I think, between the old Marines and the new,” Guilliman said.  They had reached the end of the Forge Core, and were now standing beside the base of a vast steel catwalk that spanned another, much larger workshop where the spare parts of the station and the mass-produced equipment of the Deathwatch Brothers were built.  Guilliman glanced over the pit of industry below.  “As much as I appreciate this talk, Forgemaster, I think it best if I depart for Oglith soon, hmm?”

	“Of course, my Lord, by all means,” Asutori said.  He bowed to the Primarch and stepped back a pace, a surprisingly formal gesture from the quirky old Marine.  Then, none of his typical brothers were around to see it.  “If you go to battle against Glasians, my Lord, I am not doing my job properly if I do not equip you with the knowledge required to counter their Ruin Guns,” he said.

	“Those would be the unique plasma weapons that they possess?” Guilliman recalled.

	“Correct.  They are deadly, and both more reliable and accurate than ours,” Asutori admitted.  “We still do not know what technosorcery they employ to produce such things, nor why they have never attempted to create a sidearm variant.”  He gestured back towards his Forge Core.  “My predecessors have destroyed all captured examples, thanks to their taint of Chaos.  I have only a few undamaged components to examine.”

	Guilliman’s lips tightened.  “Another issue to solve when we have the time, then.  Shall you be accompanying me and the Killteam that returned here recently to Oglith?”

	“I shall not, Lord, for the Forges never sleep,” Asutori said regretfully.  “I must begin preparing replenishments for the ammunition spent on Oglith.”  He nodded his head towards the distant rows of ammo presses.  “However, you are of course welcome to help yourself to any of the specialty ammunition classes I create.  I build Kraken, Hellfire, Dragonflame, Flux, Inferno, Metal Storm, Silenced, and baseline variants.”

	“The facilities on Macragge’s Honour are more than sufficient to construct nearly all ammunition types, Forgemaster, but I thank you for your generosity regardless,” Guilliman said politely.  The two of them walked over to the exit of the Forge chambers, and Guilliman clapped him on the shoulder.  “It’s been a pleasure, Forgemaster,” he said.  “Perhaps we shall meet again in more stable times.”

	Asutori slapped his breastplate again.  “I would like that.  Thank you, your Lordship.  May fate smile on your Crusade.”


	Outside, ships were already dispersing to conflict zones throughout the region.  The monstrous Gloriana Battleship at the heart of the fleet waited long enough to pick up Guilliman and drop off twelve Primaris Marines, then made directly for the Rampart system with a few Deathwatch ships in his wake.  Four capital ships from his Indomitus flotilla broke off for the capital system Celeste, with handfuls of troopships and escorts flying off to pursue larger objectives.  The majority of his fleet set flight to the border with the Drumnos Sector.  The Indomitus Crusade’s raw firepower would have been gross overkill against a few hundred thousands of Glasians and Orks.  It was more efficient, Guilliman concluded, to send his forces ahead to the more populated Drumnos Sector while he and his select allies secured the rear.

	Guilliman himself stood on the central command platform of the Macragge’s Honor, watching as ships disappeared into the Warp.  The rattling of cogs and prostheses told him that a Techpriest was approaching him, and he turned to see two of the bridge crew saluting him under their red and white hoods.  “Lord, immediately after your arrival on the ship, we received an Astropathic burst, encoded for the Fortress,” one said, not quite keeping the awe out of her voice.  “Moments ago, the Fortress transmitted their transliteration of the message to you.”  She extended a gene-locked datapad with her free hand.

	The Primarch waved her to stand at ease and accepted the datapad.  He kissed it to bypass the gene-lock, having grown no more fond of the spitting technique in stasis than he had in his first reign so long ago, and text scrolled across the screen.  He gave it a quick read and cocked an eyebrow with interest.  “Now, then,” he mused slowly, reading it over again.  “I was under the impression that this Sector was relatively stable compared to most others.”

	“So our briefings concluded, my Lord,” the other Techpriest said.

	“Hmmm.  Thank you, Priestesses,” Guilliman said distractedly, and turned to Colquan, who had stood by impassively and watched at the side of the command throne.  “Tribune, you may wish to see this,” he said, handing the machine to the Aurumite-clad warrior.

	Colquan read it over once and handed it back to Guilliman with a look of distaste.  “Hmph.  I mean no disrespect to you in this, Lord Guilliman, but her presence on Celeste is at most a quaternary concern.”

	Guilliman gave him a calculating look at that pronouncement.  “Now whatever does that mean, Tribune?  Is the presence of the mightiest psyker in the Galactic North Fringe in our path not a matter of potential interest?”

	Colquan glared at the static stars and pulsing red scar across them.  “I do not trust Inquisitors.  I do not trust high-spectrum psykers.  I certainly do not trust one woman who is both.”

	“And I did not ask you to trust her,” Guilliman pointed out.  “You seem disinclined to liking her, but have I ever allowed that to become an obstacle to working with people?”

	Now Colquan glared at him, but he had been made aware that his dislike of mortals had damaged the Crusade’s function before, and so held his tongue.  Regardless of his obvious disapproval, Guilliman looked away, his point made.  He reached for a vox-cup and spoke to the bridge communication staff as he did.  “Comms, get me the Praetorian Lights,” he said, naming the largest ship he had sent to Celeste.

	“One moment, Lord,” the comms crewer said.  He furiously tapped keys for a moment.  “You are through.”

	The vox crackled.  “Acknowledging ping, Macragge.  This is Lights.  We are receiving you, over.”

	“Praetorian Lights, this is Lord Guilliman.  We have literally just received intelligence concerning the presence of a specific Lord Inquisitor present on your destination world,” Guilliman said.  “All reasonable efforts to locate and preserve her are to be made, so long as they do not impede your daemon-combating orders.  I repeat, all reasonable efforts.  I wish to speak to her prior to my departure from the Sector, on matters of the Crusade’s future path.  Is this understood?  Respond.”

	A brief silence, then more crackling audio.  “It is understood and acknowledged, Macragge’s Honor, and we confirm.  Please identify this Inquisitor, over.”

	“Her name is Lady Inquisitrix Malleus Kimihira, Mizuki Kimihira, and she is do doubt leading the charge,” Guilliman said.  “Do you receive?”

	“We receive, Lord Guilliman, and we obey.  Good hunting on Oglith, Lord.”

	“Likewise on Celeste, Praetorian Lights.  Farewell, Brother-Lieutenant.  Macragge’s Honor out.”  Guilliman set the vox cup down.

	Colquan shifted his shoulders, but he was done arguing.


Chapter Eleven


	Lord General Halwart stared at the display screens in his Leviathan in total disbelief.  Was it an error?  They had just had to do some repairs to his machines, perhaps they were still malfunctioning?

	No.  No, that would be too easy.  He just had Horus’ own luck, lately.  Halwart sighed to himself and forced a positive face on for the lads.  “Well, that just means there’s a few more to kill, what!  Corporal Blorath, please do send a message to Chief Astropath Corlander and ask him if he might inquire to the Sector Overlord’s office about a few more men, eh?  Appreciate it, lad,” he said cheerfully.  The Corporal in question levered himself up out of his seat and scurried toward the door.

	Normally, Halwart was a cheerful fellow anyway, but even he was finding his readings a bit bleak.  Atongwë dead at the hands of an Ork sniper, the greenskins breaking through under the ground in old mines and evacuation tunnels, the stalemate in orbit tipping towards the Orks since the Glasians were focusing their fire on the Imperial ships, and now Squiggothrider assembling two Gargants?  When would it end?

	The Leviathan shook a bit as the tracks on the left side reversed to bring the main cannon to bear on something many kilometers away.  An alarm rang from the ceiling, and all assembled quickly put on their headphones to cancel the noise.  The sound of the cannon was still loud enough to make every man present wince in pain.  The second alarm announced that the cannon was reloading.  Most kept their headsets on.

	Halwart kept staring into the depths of the screens, trying to derive some advantage from it.  Periodically, part of it would blip and move, and he would quickly type an update for the troops in the field that his staff would flesh out into a proper tactical report.  Every so often, the big holo-screen on the front wall of the command chamber would show a green Ork or blue Glasian icon vanish, and people in the room would send up a ragged cheer.  Then an Imperial red or grey icon would vanish, and the cheering would stop.  Eventually, even that pattern halted, as the people at consoles grew more engrossed in the work of containing two concurrent alien invasions.


	“Lord General, sir!” a voice said loudly in his ear.  Halwart jumped.  He spun to see Corporal Blorath standing beside him, looking distinctly nervous.  From the look on the lad’s face, he must have been repeating himself.

	“Oh, er, yes, Corporal.  What is it, lad?” Halwart asked.

	“I gave your message to the Astropaths, sir,” the Corporal said.  “The Astropath said that some of the darkness between the worlds is dimming, but he couldn’t relay much more than that.”  The Corporal presented a message slate to Halwart.  “However, he did have a few things.  Apparently, somebody outside the system is trying to send a message to us, sir.  One from Celeste, he thinks, one from elsewhere.  He has no idea about the source of the second, sir.”

	Halwart squinted past the eye strain at the message slate.  “Hmm.  Perhaps reinforcements, perhaps orders… there’s just gibberish here,” he said irritably.  He huffed and returned to staring into the holotank.  “Well, thank you, Corporal.  As you were.”

	“Yes, sir.”  Blorath walked off while Halwart looked in quiet desperation at the screen before him.  There had to be more he could do.  There had to be.

	The Lord General’s silence was more unnerving than his usual casualness in the face of danger.  On the rooftop, the Battle Cannon turret rotated a few degrees left and fired a shell off towards an Ork battlewagon that had rolled over the Imperial trench line and was careening around behind it.  The shell impaled the battlewagon and sent it up in smoke.  This time, nobody cheered.


	Mimic, the greatest marksman in the Galactic North, sighted down the scope of his Exitus rifle.  He had four shots left in his current magazine of armor-piercing rounds, plus one in the chamber.  He had far more ammo in his hidden shuttle, of course, but he had already chewed up four magazines in his current battle.  He slowly pivoted his rifle to track the movement of an Ork Killa Kan and fired a single round.  Two seconds later, the Kan toppled over backwards as the slug ripped one of its legs’ motivators off, and it toppled over the hilltop it was climbing.  He didn’t even bother watching; he knew it had hit.  He fired again, and a Weirdboy a half mile north of the Kan exploded from the neck up.  That one he did watch.  No sense in not confirming a kill with a psyker.  No, he stayed dead.  Good.

	The Vindicare pivoted the rifle the other way and tweaked it up a few degrees, then fired his next slug.  That one took an Ork Kommando in the back.  An Imperial Guard flamer-operator lurched away from the fountain of gore, then frantically looked around for the shooter that had saved his life.  Mimic ignored the show and fired his last slug.  It passed through a sheet of drywall from a collapsed building and blew an eleven inch hole in the back of a Painboy that had just stooped over to lop up a fallen boy for his bitz.

	Mimic was never unprofessional enough to feel the doldrums when working, but this was no challenge.  The shot that had killed the Subsector Overlord had at least been technically tricky.  He reloaded his rifle, stripped a slug into the chamber from the mag, ejected the mag, put a fresh round in from his bag, and slapped the mag back in.  Eight rounds to fire before reloading next.

	*Click*  A Meganob collapsed with no spine.  *Click*  A Mek toppled with an exit wound the size of an apple.  *Click*  An Imperial Guard grenadier managed to crawl back to the line, never having seen the ork Flash Git that had nearly set him on fire.  *Click*  Three grots blew apart at the seams as the shot passed through them and into the ork that had been herding them.  *Click*  A shot whizzed past the shoulder of a Techpriest that had been barely fending off a pair of boyz that had tried to capture him, and passed through one of them on the way to lodge in the skull of the other.  The Techpriest nearly fell over from the shockwave.  *Click*  A fuel trukk at the back of the nearest Ork convoy exploded as an AP slug shot through the flamer on the hood down into the fuel tank.  It only worked because it had been going downhill at the time.  *Click*  A Fighta-Bomma suddenly spiraled out of control and twirled down to collide with a pack of Shoota Boyz.  *Click*  A looted Leman Russ skewed off-course as the shot ricocheted off the open hatch on top and bounced around inside a few times.  *Click*  A Loota Boy looked in confusion as something suddenly tugged his belt, then exploded as the grenades on his belt all detonated at once.  The pins clattered to the ground behind him.

	Mimic sighed.  Where in the name of the Golden Throne was Squiggothrider?  He had been causing havoc on the front lines for days, and the Big Chief hadn’t shown hide nor hair.  He rose to a crouch and grabbed his kitbag.  Time to relocate.