happening was to douse the afflicted area of the body in strong alcohol； an unhappy solution on two
counts。 Firstly； troopers didn’t much like the idea of wasting their coveted liquor on shifting
stubborn ticks； and； secondly； dousing oneself in alcohol was never a good idea。 A handful of the
heavier smokers had already discovered this first…hand。
There were other challenges； too。 Aside from the dannih and the fines； there were numerous
minor conditions related to atmospheric pressure； allergies； the unusual but breathable composition
of the air； and all the problems caused by living at a constant gravity of one…point…twelve gees。 It
seemed to Bergen that Golgotha was waging its own war against the Cadians； and the orks hadn’t
even got started yet。
Bergen had never been a dour man by nature。 Quite the contrary； in fact。 He had； in his days as a
cadet； been selected to feature in a short series of Cadian propaganda and recruitment films； such
was his natural warmth and appeal。 But； as he opened the door to his quarters and saw Katz
34
snoozing in a chair by his desk； he decided there were three things about which he was depressingly
certain。
The first was that his commanding officer was coming apart at the seams。 DeViers had lost his
way。 A powerful aura of desperation hovered around him； and it heralded disaster for the 18th Army
Group and everyone attached to it。
The second was that Exolon would never find the famous Fortress of Arrogance。 Holy icon or
not； the orks had enjoyed thirty…eight years in which to strip it down to its bare nuts and bolts。 If
there was anything left of it at all； it would be unrecognisable。 No； The Fortress of Arrogance was
little more than a carrot dangled in front of the Munitorum’s nose by the Adeptus Mechanicus。
Whatever interest they had in returning to Golgotha； Bergen would wager it had little to do with
finding Yarrick’s cherished tank。
The third and last thing； the thing that worried Bergen most of all； and the thing that he was
convinced of above all else； was simply this： unless the Emperor Himself descended from the
heavens to offer them His Divine Protection； not a single man in his beloved armoured division was
going to make it off this blasted world alive。 The cards were stacked against them like never before。
Millions of men had died in the Golgothan War all those years ago。 Now； like those men； the fate of
Bergen’s troopers would be written in the blood…red sand。
He’d fight it all the way of course。 He swore it。 He had been born and raised to fight； and there
was nothing he wouldn’t do to see his men through this。
I’ll go over the old man’s head if I have to。 Killian and Rennkamp will back me up。 Together；
we’ll go to Morten and…
The thought went unfinished。 Tiredness crashed over Bergen like a tidal wave and he fell back
onto the bed； asleep before his head hit the pillow。
* * *
Elsewhere on the base； about a kilometre west of Bergen’s quarters； the three senior agents of the
Adeptus Mechanicus had returned to their apartments and were being attended by a flock of child
like slaves。 True children would have perished very quickly in such a place — the pungent
chemicals that misted the air would have dissolved the tissue of their lungs — but these were not
true children。 They had once been so； long ago； before extensive surgeries had converted them into
ageless amalgams of flesh and metal like the tech…priests they served； though far less sophisticated。
Their brains had been cruelly cut； rendering them incapable of independent thought； and their voices
had been silenced forever。 Their only function was to obey and； as such； they were beyond sin；
beyond mischief or evil。 Perhaps in recognition of this； their creator had crafted bronze masks for
them； faces frozen in beatific smiles； like half…living sculptures of holy cherubim。
They clustered around their masters； disrobing them； removing peripheral devices； pulling dataplugs
from flesh…sockets。 Then they helped the tech…priests into a deep circular tub filled with a
thick； glowing； milky substance that cast its light up to the metal ceiling。 When this was done； the
cherub…slaves retreated to shadowy alcoves set in the walls。 There； they deactivated； and became
like dolls at rest in upright coffins。
Apart from the area lit by the glowing pool； the Mechanicus quarters were dark and foulsmelling。
To the tech…priests； these things mattered not at all。 The darkness hid nothing from
augmetic eyes that could see in many spectrums of light。 The smells registered only as lists of
airborne compounds in varying concentrations； neither pleasant nor unpleasant； simply there。
Wading to the far side of the small pool； Tech…Magos Sennesdiar submerged his misshapen；
patchwork body all the way to his neck。 Adepts Xephous and Armadron followed suit； and the
glowing liquid within the tub bubbled and churned like hot soup。
It was Armadron who broke the silence。 His words； when he spoke them； were delivered in the
same chalkboard screech he had used at the general’s table。
The tech…magos answered with his own condensed； high…pitched burst。
Armadron did not reply； a sign that he was reflecting on his superior’s words。
said Xephous。 His mandibles
clacked together loudly at the end of his burst； something Sennesdiar considered an unworthy habit。
replied Sennesdiar。
Xephous shifted； sending slow ripples over the surface of the milky goop； and said；
said Armadron。
Sennesdiar turned his whirring eye…lenses from one to the other。
said Armadron。
added Xephous。
said
Sennesdiar； cutting across his subordinate。
countered Xephous。
Xephous said；
said the tech…magos。
Armadron bowed his near…featureless head； pulling taut the segmented cables that connected his
steel…encased brain to the augmetic ports on his naked metal vertebrae。