Helsreach

me. 'Save your words for the others, brother.'

I tolerate such familiarity from him.

But he is wrong.

'Not tonight,' I tell him, and he doesn't look away from the skull I wear as my face. 'I swore to the humans that the sun would rise over an unconquered city. I do not mean to break that vow. And you, brother, will help me keep it.'

Bastilan turns away at last. What closeness had been near to the surface cools fast, leaving us distant again. 'As you command,' he says.

'Make ready to jump,' I vox to the others. 'Nero. Do you stand ready?'

'What?' He lowers his narthecium, retracting surgical saws and cutting blades. I see the empty sockets for gene-seed storage withdraw and lock under smooth armour plating.

'I need you, Nero. Our brothers need you.'

'Do not lecture me, Reclusiarch. I stand ready.'

The others, Priamus especially, are taking note now. 'Cador is dead. Two- thirds of the Helsreach Crusade will not live to see the coming dawn. You will carry their legacy, my brother. Grief has its place - none of us have suffered such losses before - but if you are lost in sorrow then you will be the death of us all.'

'I said I stand ready! Why do you single me out like this? Priamus is likely to see us all dead because he cannot follow orders! Bastilan and Artarion are not half the fighters Cador was. Yet you lecture

me

about being the weak one, the crack in the blade?'

My pistol is aimed at his head, at the faceplate marked white as a symbol of his expertise and valuable skills.

'Bitterness is taking root within you, brother. Much longer, and it will bore through you, hollowing out your heart and soul, leaving naught but empty bones. When I tell you to focus and stand with your brothers, you respond with black words and treacherous thoughts. So I tell you again, one last time, that we need you. And you need us.'

He doesn't stare me down. When he looks away, it's not in defeat or cowardice, but in shame.

'Yes, Reclusiarch. My brothers, forgive me. My humours are unbalanced, and my mind has been adrift.'

'A mind without purpose will walk in dark places,' Artarion quotes. A human philosopher; one I don't recognise.

'It is fine, Nero,' Bastilan grunts. 'Cador was one of the Chapter's finest. I miss him, just as you do.'

'I forgive you, Nerovar,' Priamus says, and I thank him on a private vox-channel for not sounding like he is sneering for once.

The Thunderhawk slows, thrusters keeping it aloft as we make ready to jump. In the air around us, snapping explosions decorate the sky.

'Anti-air fire? Already?' Artarion asks.

Whether they've beached several submersibles with surface-to-air weapons or taken control of wall defence cannons is irrelevant. The gunship swings violently, shaking as the armour plating takes its first hit. They're firing up through the smoke, tracking the gunship through primitive methods that are apparently effective enough to work.

'Incoming missiles,' the pilot voxes to us. The Thunderhawk re-engages its forward thrust, boosting forward. 'Dozens, too close to evade. Jump now or die with me.'

Priamus goes. Artarion follows. Nero and Bastilan next, launching out of the airlock.

The pilot, Troven, is not a warrior I know well. I cannot judge his temperament the way I can with my closest brothers, except to say that he is a Templar, with all the courage, pride and resolution that honour entails.

In a human, I'd call such behaviour stubbornness.

'There is no need to die here,' I say as I enter the cockpit. I have no idea if I'm right to say such a thing, but if this hope can be forged into the truth, I will make it happen now.

'Reclusiarch?'

Troven has chosen to wrench the Thunderhawk through evasive manoeuvres, rather than disengage himself from the pilot's throne and try to leap from the gunship. Both choices, such as they are, are likely to fail. I still believe he chose wrong.

'Disengage

now!'

I haul him from the throne, power feeds snapping from connection ports in his armour.

He spasms with the electrical feedback of an unsafe and flawed disconnect, half of his perception and consciousness still melded with the gunship's machine-spirit. His protests are reduced to garbled, wordless grunts of pain as his armour's power supply kicks back in and the union with the gunship's systems dims.

The Thunderhawk tilts, diving from the sky on dead engines. Nausea fades as soon as it threatens, balanced by the gene-forged organs replacing my standard human eyes and ears. Troven's genetic compensators take a moment longer to adjust, ruined by the disorientation of the severed connection. I hear him grunting through his helm's vox-speakers, swallowing his bile.

This freefall will delay the missiles' impact. I hope.

In this weakened state, he's easy to drag from the cockpit to the open bulkhead. The visible sky is twisting as the gunship plummets. Mag-locked step by mag-locked step, my boots adhere to the iron floor, preventing the spiralling death-dive from hurling us around the cabin.

As I face the air-rushing portal, my targeting display overlays the spinning sky. I blink at a flashing rune of crossed blades pulsing in the centre. A propulsion gauge spills across my retinas, and the jump pack weighing my shoulders down whines into life.

'You'll kill us both,' Troven almost laughs. I spare no more than a second's thought for the two servitors operating the other flight stations.

'

Brace,'

is all I have time to say. The world around us dissolves into jagged metal and screaming fire.

O

nce the noises

had faded and the air reeked of the powdery, familiar scent of bolter fire, Jurisian hauled himself back to his feet.

The immediate area around him was illuminated by flashing sparks and energy flares vented by his broken servo arm and savaged armour. The expulsions of electrical force from wounded metal were bright enough to leave violent smears across his sensitive eye lenses. Jurisian blanked the filters with a command word, restoring standard vision mode.

A moan of pain emerged from his vox-speakers as a harsh crackle. Even with no one nearby, it shamed him to voice his weakness in such a way. He would seek out the Reclusiarch and perform penance when… Well, there would be no

when.

This war would never be won.

Retinal displays showed in grim detail the damage to his internal biological and mechanical components. The Forgemaster spared several seconds to examine the flashing warning runes, indicating leaking vital oxygenated haemo-plasma from areas near several organs. Jurisian felt a grin steal over his face as his pain-drunk mind latched onto an altogether more human explanation.

I'm bleeding.