majority of the people that had been onboard had apparently disappeared into thin air。
“By who？” Solon had asked。
“Ghosts；” the boy had replied； and the words had made Solon’s skin crawl。
“There is no such thing as ghosts；” the Interdiction sergeant； Folches； had said； though there had
been little conviction in his voice； and Solon wondered whether he had been trying to convince the
boy； or himself。
Solon had to agree with Folches； though。 He didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits； but something
had taken all those people。 Fifteen hundred people do not just disappear。
Since bringing the boy onboard； the child had shadowed every step of Solon’s second； Cholos。
Solon was just glad that the boy had not latched onto him。 For his part； Cholos seemed to be
enjoying the attention； and had even suggested making the boy the crawler crew’s mascot。
“That’s the way；” said Cholos as the boy tucked into Solon’s discarded food with gusto。
“Hungry； aren’t you？”
“Find a woman amongst the refugees that has lost her son；” said Solon。 “Give the boy to her。”
“Oh； I don’t mind lookin’ after him；” said Cholos。
“We don’t need a pet kid underfoot； Cholos；” said Solon。 “Foist him off on one of the refugees。
There are plenty of women down below who would take him。”
Cholos glared at Solon for a moment。
“Don’t listen to him； boy；” said Cholos。 “He’s nothing but a mean old man。”
68
The boy； for his part； seemed oblivious to the conversation； focused on the meal before him。
With a last lick of the standard issue spoon in his hands； he finished off the meal； smacking his lips
loudly。
“Cholos；” began Solon； but his words were interrupted as the room shook violently。 The crawler
came to a shuddering halt； and warning lights began to flash。 The wail of sirens blared from the
hallway； and Solon was instantly up and moving。
“What the hell？” asked Cholos； knocking his chair over as he stood。
A second impact rocked the crawler； and mugs fell from their hooks to clatter on the floor。 Solon
clutched at the door…frame to steady himself。
“Ghosts；” murmured the boy； his eyes wide and fearful。
“Go； go； go！” shouted Folches as the crawler bay doors slid open。
The sergeant dropped to the ice and landed in a crouch； his laslock rifle humming as its charge
powered up。
The storm had； if anything； become fiercer； and punishing winds lashed against the soldiers of
the Skyllan Interdiction as they peered into the whitewash of billowing snow。
“Can’t see a damn thing；” muttered one of Folches’s men； the sound crackling through on the
sergeant’s micro…bead in his left ear。
“The crawler was hit from the north…east；” said Folches。 “Move out； dispersal formation。”
“How can we engage what we can’t damn well see？” asked another of his team； his voice
strained。 Fear； Folches realised。 He rounded on the man； and grabbed him by the shoulder； pulling
him close。
“You done？” barked Folches into the man’s face； and the soldier nodded curtly。 With a shove；
Folches pushed him away； and gestured for two of his men to move around the front of the crawler；
and for the other two to proceed around its rear。
His men nodded their responses； and the sergeant began moving towards the rear of the hulking
behemoth； loping along the length of the crawler with his body low and the butt of his laslock
pressed into his shoulder。 Behind him； the two soldiers loped through the snow and ice。 The other
two men； moving in the opposite direction； disappeared instantly into the storm。
Reaching the rear of the ice…crawler； Folches gestured for his men to halt； and risked a glance
around the back of the immense vehicle。 Smoke was billowing from the engine stacks； and hot oil
was spilling out onto the ice。 Steam rose from where the oil was pooling。
Crouched low； he signalled for his men to take cover。
One of the soldiers； Leon； dropped to his stomach and began crawling elbow over elbow through
one of the deep depressions created by the crawler’s track units； easing himself into position and
sighting his long…barrelled lasgun out towards the north…east。 The other ducked beneath the
undercarriage of the craed forward to take up a position looking out to the northeast。
Folches leant around the corner of the crawler； peering through the sight of his weapon。 The
scope rendered the landscape in shades of green； and though it lit up the darkness as if it were day；
the fury of the storm was such that he could see no more than twenty metres ahead。
There was nothing to see； just a swirling blanket of snow and ice。
“Julius； you seeing anything out there？” he said into his micro…bead。
“Negative； sir；” came the response。
“Hold position；” he said。
The wind howled around Folches； and he remained motionless； waiting。 Minutes dragged by；
and the biting cold began to seep through his limbs。
He lifted his head away from his gun sight； and stared out into the blanketing white gale。 A
shadow of movement ghosted behind the veil of swirling ice。
69
He dropped his eye to his sight once more； straining to pick up the movement。 He saw nothing；
and swore under his breath。
“You see that； Leon？” he hissed into his micro…bead。
“Didn’t see anything； sir；” said the soldier。
“Damn it。 There’s something out there。 Julius； anything？”
There was no response from the other soldiers of his squad； just the relentless roaring of the
wind。
“Julius； Marcab； come in；” said Folches； but again just silence answered him。
“Hell；” he swore。
The sergeant felt movement behind him； and he swung around； his heart thumping； bringing his
laslock to bear on… nothing。
He was jumping at shadows； and he cursed himself。 He forced his racing heart to slow； breathing
in slowly。
“Calm yourself； man；” he said to himself as he resumed his position。 He’d give anything for a
blast of his stim…inhaler around about now； but he had left the black market narcotics back onboard
the crawler。
Trying to push the cravings away； Folches took a deep breath； and tried to contact his other
soldiers once more。
“Marcab。 Julius。 Come in；” he whispered hoarsely into his vox…bead。 “Where the hell are you？”
Again； nothing but silence。
He flashed a glance towards Leon； lying concealed in the crawler tracks。 The motionless soldier
was face down； and blood was splattered out around his shattered head。
Folches pulled back from the corner of the crawler； and a flurry of projectiles impacted with the
metal； centimetres from his face。
Several of the rounds sliced past the corner of the crawler； whistling sharply as they sped
through the air。
A strangled grunt carried to Folches’s ear on the wind； and he knew that the last of his squad；
Remus； was dead。
Swearing； Folches leant out around the corner of the crawler； presenting the smallest target
possible。
Half a dozen figures in glossy black armour were darting through the snow； and he saw larger；
shadowy shapes gliding forwards behind them； several metres off the ground。
The sergeant snapped off a quick shot towards the closest of the figures； and ducked back into
cover as return fire spat towards him。 One of the enemy rounds struck him； slicing a neat cut
through his body armour and scoring a wound across his forearm。
The cut was impossibly thin； and at first there was no pain； but then blood began to well and he
cried out； clutching a hand to the deep wound。
Leaving a trail of blood drips that hissed and steamed as they struck the snow； the Skyllan
Interdiction sergeant staggered away； dragging his laslock with him。 He slipped in the hot oil
pooling from the damaged engine block； and fell to his knees。 Scrabbling through the sinking mire；
Folches pushed himself back to his feet； and ran blindly around the corner of the immense icecrawler；
looking fearfully over his shoulder。
A thin； wickedly barbed blade entered his guts； sliding easily through his armour and flesh and
halting him in his footsteps。 His laslock dropped from his hands； and he stared up into the face of his
killer。 Nothing could be seen behind the cruelly slanted eyes of the blank helmet； and all Folches
saw was his own face reflected back at him。
The figure was a good head taller than him； though it was inhumanly thin； and it cocked its head
to the side； leaning into him as it twisted the blade embedded in his stomach； as if savouring every
70
moment of the kill。 Blood gushed from the wound as it opened up； and steam rose from the heat of
his innards。
A hand； fingers like the black legs of a spider； clamped around Folches’s neck； and he was
pushed up against the crawler。 The blade slid from his gut and was held poised in front of the
sergeant’s eyes； blood dripping from its elegantly curving tip。
The figure pressed almost intimately close to the dying sergeant； as if it wanted to experience
every last dying sensation of the soldier。 Then it pushed the blade into Folches’s side； sliding it
slowly up between his ribs to pierce the lungs。
Blood foamed up in the soldier’s mouth as his lungs began to fill； and he gasped for breath as he
slowly drowned on his own blood。 The black fingers remained clasped around his neck almost
lovingly until his heartbeat fluttered and stopped。
Then the black figure r