13th Legion

'Leaving?' Linskrug asks. 'Going where?'

You'll find that out when we get there, trooper/ the Colonel says mysteriously.

SIX

TYPHOS PRIME

+++ Operation Harvest complete. Preparing to commence Operation New Sun. +++

+++ There can be no more delays. New Sun must go ahead on schedule or all will be lost. +++

Compared with some of the places I've been with the Last Chancers, and considering that it's been torn apart by bloody civil war for the past two years, Typhos Prime seems very civilised. After touching down at one of its many spaceports, a Commissariat squad escorts us through busy city streets, with people coming and going as if there weren't battles being fought less than two hundred kilometres away. There are a few telltale signs that everything isn't as cosy as it seems, though. There are air raid warning sirens at every junction - huge hail-ers atop six-metre poles - and signs marking the route to the nearest shelters. Arbitrators patrol the streets, menacing with their silvered armour over jet-black jump-suits, wielding shock mauls and suppression shields.

As we pass along a wide thoroughfare, there are shuttered windows amongst the stores along both sides of the wide road. There are a few people around, swathed against the autumnal chill and damp in shapeless brown coats and thick felt hats, trailing brightly coloured scarves from their necks. A smog hangs above the city, visible over the squat buildings to either side, mixing with the cloud that stretches across the sky to cast a dismal gloom over the settlement. A column of Chimeras led by two growling Conqueror tanks, resplendent in blue and gold livery, grumbles past along the road, horse carriages and zimmer cars pulling aside to let them pass. In a reinforced underground staging area, we embark on a massive eight-wheeled roadster designed for long-haul troop movements, and the twelve of us spread out, trying to decide in which of the three hundred seats we want to sit. The Colonel parks himself up front with the driver, intendy ignoring us.

'Reminds me of tutelage outings/ jokes Franx. 'Head up the back where bad boys hang out!'

I'll take his word for it, I never had that kind of education. I was brought up as part of an extended family, with a dozen brothers, sisters and cousins, and my first memories are of chipping at slag deposits with a rusted chisel and mallet, trying to find nuggets of iron and steel. The roadster jolts into life, the whine of the electric engines soon being relegated to the back of my mind, out of conscious thought. Linskrag and Gappo join us and we sprawl happily, each across a three-wide seating tier.

This is a bit of a royal treatment, is it not?' suggests Linskrug, peering out of the tinted windows at the low buildings blurring past outside. A faint rain has started, speckling the windows with tiny droplets of moisture. 'It's much more what I'm accus­tomed to/

'He wants to keep us contained/ I point out to him. 'Of all the places we've been, this is the best one to get lost in. Billions of people live on Typhos Prime; a man could quite happily dis­appear here, never to be seen again/

'Hey!' whispers Gappo urgently from the other side of the aisle. There's an emergency exit down these stairs!'

We cluster round and have a look. It's true, there's a small door at the bottom of a flight of four steps.

'Reckon it's locked?' asks Franx in his now-familiar wheeze. I test the handle and it turns slighdy. I look at the others and grin widely. Gappo glances over the top of the surrounding seats and then crouches down again.

'No one's paying the blindest bit of notice/ he says with a smile and a mischievous look in his eye. 'I don't think anyone will miss us/

'We're moving at a pretty rate/ Linskrug says, pointing to the blurred grey shapes of the outside whizzing past the windows.

'Hell/ coughs Franx, rubbing his hands together with glee. 'I can live with a few bruises!'

I look at each of them in turn, and they meet my gaze, trying to gauge my thoughts. They know my track record on escape attempts, and how I keep nagging them not to get stupid. I guess I've been half-hearted in my own attempts to escape, because I think a part of me agrees with the Colonel. Perhaps I have wasted the opportunity the Emperor gave me, reneged on my oaths. I never intended to, of that much I'm certain, I joined up with the purest of intentions, even though I wanted

to get the hell off Olympas. But as they say, the road to Chaos is paved with good intentions. But then again, how much blood does the Emperor want from me? It's kind of a tradition that an Imperial Guard regiment serves for a maximum of ten years at which point it can retire, maybe returning home or going off to join the Explorator fleets and help claim a new world for the Emperor. A lot of them won't spend half mat time fighting. I've been up to my neck in blood and guts, see­ing men and women and children dead and dying, for nearly three years now. Haven't I had my fair share of war? I think I have. I think I've made the most of my Last Chance. The Colonel's never going to let us live; he wants us all dead, that much I'm sure. I'll let the Emperor be my judge, when I die, hopefully in the not so near future.

'Frag, let's do it!' I whisper hoarsely before twisting the door handle fully The emergency exit swings open and I see the black of the road tearing past the opening. Somewhere at the head of the roadster there's a shrill whining. The door must have been alarmed. I take a deep breath and then drop out of the doorway feet first. Thudding down onto the road, my momentum sends me rolling madly, pitching me into a shin-high kerbstone. Glancing up the road I see the others bailing out after me, slamming uncomfortably to the ground. I jump to my feet and set off towards them at a run.

*We did it!' screams Linskrug, eyes alight with joy. There's a few people walking past on the pavement, swathed in high-col­lared raincoats. A couple turn to look at us. 'Schaeffer will never get that thing turned around in time to catch us/

Just then there's a screech of airbrakes and a black-painted armoured car slews to a halt in front of us, twin cannons on its roof pointing in our direction. A man jumps out of the back hatch, bolt pistol in hand, dressed in a commissar's uniform. His face is pinched, thin-lipped mouth curled in a sneer.

'Please try to run/ he growls as he walks towards us, bolt pis­tol held unwaveringly in front of him. 'It would save me lots of problems/

None of us make a move. Ten black-clad troopers pour from the armoured car, thick carapace breastplates