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about time someone spoke his damned mind around here。”
There were five other men seated at the table。 Four of them looked desperate to be somewhere
else。 The fifth was Colonel Pruscht； commander of the 118th Cadian Lasgunners。 He was a heavyset；
dark…eyed man with a neatly trimmed beard。 Calmly and quietly； he stood and addressed his
angry peer。
“Calm down； von Holden；” he said； hands raised in placation。 “You don’t want trouble。 Think of
your men。 You don’t want them to see you like this； do you？ Let’s put this one down to strong drink
and forget about it。 We can’t have you talking like—”
“Like what？” exploded von Holden。 “Like someone with a bloody brain？” He spun and cast his
bleary gaze over men at the other tables。 “Who among you has the gall to deny it？” he yelled。
“Where’s your damned integrity？ You all feel the same。 I know you do。 Armageddon is where we
should be； fighting where it counts； where we can do some bloody good。 Not out here on this
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backwater。 Men dying of dust and bug…bites and Throne knows what else。 And all for a bit of scrap
metal no one gave a flying damn about until now。 It’s been forty blasted years。 DeViers should—”
“Should what？” demanded a sharp； clear voice from the door of the mess。
Wulfe turned his head and saw Major General Bergen standing in the doorway flanked by two
commissars。 His heart skipped a beat when he recognised one of them： Commissar Slayte。
Crusher！
Some men in the regiment boasted that they were afraid of nothing； but they stopped boasting；
all of them； when they met the man known informally as Crusher。 He was the commissar attached to
Wulfe’s regiment； and to say he was unpopular was an understatement of titanic proportions。
By the Eye； thought Wulfe； that colonel has dropped himself right in it。 Open dissent in front of
commissars？ I don’t want to be around for this。
“Please continue； colonel；” said Major General Bergen； striding into the room； removing his cap
and overcoat。 The electric lamplight glinted from the medals on his chest and the golden boards on
his shoulders。 The commissars stalked silently forward at his flanks； like a pair of sleek attack dogs
just barely held in check。 “I’ll be happy to pass on any recommendations you or anyone else has
directly to the general for his consideration。”
Von Holden； his face turning redder by the second； stuttered and looked desperately at Pruscht
for support。 Pruscht； though； seemed to know better。 He sat back down in his chair and sipped from
his glass。
With Major General Bergen in the room； Wulfe felt extremely self…conscious。 This was no place
for a noncommissioned man； despite Captain Immrich’s earlier welcome。 It certainly wasn’t right
for a sergeant to see a decorated colonel like von Holden being dressed down。
But the dressing down never actually came。 To everyone’s surprise； Major General Bergen
walked calmly over to von Holden； picked his chair up from the floor； and politely invited the
colonel to sit back down。 Speechless； perhaps taking this for the calm before the storm； von Holden
did so； all the while gaping at the higher…ranking man。
Wulfe glanced discreetly at Commissar Slayte while this was going on； but the man’s face was
emotionless and his gaze was fixed straight ahead。 If he had noticed Wulfe and van Droi； he didn’t
let on。 Perhaps he was waiting for a cue from the major general； some sign at which he would
pounce on Colonel von Holden and drag him away。 The sign didn’t come； and the only movement
Crusher made was the flexing of his metal fingers back and forth into fists。 Wulfe knew that the
action was habitual。 The man probably did it in his sleep。
Van Droi turned his attention back to Wulfe and said； “Best get yourself away now； Oskar。 Go
about the business we discussed。”
“Right； sir；” said Wulfe。 “Be glad to。” As he rose； he offered a quiet farewell to the other men at
the table； “Have a good evening； sirs。”
A few； Captain Immrich among them； smiled and nodded back。 Wulfe saluted； turned； and
walked out of the door； relieved to be away from the officers’ mess and the tension inside it。 He
knew there were some good men in the upper ranks； but they made everything so bloody
complicated sometimes； not like the grunts。 You could speak your mind among the rank…and…file。
There might be the odd punch…up afterwards； but you didn’t have to worry about bloodlines； family
honour and all that career lark； and the bond of brotherhood shared between the men of the lower
ranks was one of those things that made life in the Guard more bearable。 Wulfe had always thought
so； until Lenck had shown up。
Wulfe was torn over that one。 The bastard had saved his life； but he was the antithesis of
everything Wulfe valued and respected。 He was a boaster and a manipulator。 Wulfe could almost
smell the cruelty within him。 Sooner or later； there would be a reckoning between them。 It was
inevitable。
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Wulfe turned his mind to the new gunner； Beans。 Was he as good a shot as van Droi said？
Would he fit in with Metzger and Siegler？ The lieutenant had a point； they weren’t the most typical
of tank crews。
He walked towards C…barracks； muttering to himself。
“Beans。 I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it does。”
Wulfe found Beans waiting for him outside C…barracks with his belongings already packed into a
canvas bag。 He was sitting on a concrete step； smoking a lho…stick； and examining the red dust that
had gathered under his fingernails。 Wulfe automatically assessed him as he drew closer。 Judging by
his smooth； open facial features； Beans was young； no older than twenty standard most probably。
His fatigues hung loose on a skinny frame。 He had rolled the sleeves of his red field…tunic up to
reveal heavily tattooed forearms but； if any of the tats were hive…ganger symbols from his life back
on Cadia； Wulfe didn’t recognise them。 That didn’t mean much； of course。 There were literally tens
of thousands of gangs in the vast； crowded fortress…hives where the men of Exolon had been raised。
“You’ll be Beans；” said Wulfe as he stopped in front of the trooper。
“Are you Wulfe？” Beans’ voice was high and he spoke with the soft； drawling vowels of a Kasr
Feros man。
“I’m Sergeant Wulfe； and you can call me sergeant； or sarge。 If you call me anything else； I’ll
break your teeth。”
Beans stood up； dropping his smoke at the side of the step and crushing it under a booted foot。
He was a good head shorter than Wulfe and had to look up at an angle to meet his gaze。 “All right；
sergeant。 Throne above。 I didn’t mean any disrespect； did I？ Don’t want to get off on the wrong foot。
I’m nervous enough already； by Throne。”
Wulfe nodded。 At least the trooper was frank。 “Why do they call you Beans？”
“It’s my name； isn’t it？ Mirkos Biehn。 Beans。 See？” Wulfe let the relief show on his face。
“What？” said Beans。 “Thought I was going to stink up the air in your turret？ Nah； it’s nothing
like that； sergeant。 Then again； I can’t promise I’ll be forest fresh all the time。 I’m only human。”
“I’ll make sure the rest of the crew don’t shoot you for your first offence；” said Wulfe。 “To be
honest； it stinks so bad in there when we’re on manoeuvres that no one would notice。 You’ll learn to
breathe through your mouth pretty quickly。”
Beans looked horrified and Wulfe couldn’t help but laugh。
“As for being nervous； Beans； don’t be。 My lot look out for each other。 It’s the first rule。 You’ll
be seeing proper combat on my crew。 Make no mistake about that。 But the lieutenant tells me you’re
a good shot； and he thinks you’ll fit in well。”
Beans brightened up on hearing this； as Wulfe had intended。 “The lieutenant said that？”
“He hasn’t picked out a bad gunner for me yet。 Both of my last two went on to command tanks
of their own。 That could be you in a few years if you do right by me。 Now； if that’s your bag there；
pick it up and follow。 We’ll drop it off at A…barracks on the way。”
Beans hefted his bag over his shoulder and fell into pace at Wulfe’s side。
“On the way where； sarge？” he asked。
“On the way to see some orks；” Wulfe answered。
Quite a crowd had gathered around the cages by the time Wulfe and Beans arrived。 Troopers were
jostling each other to get closer to the front where a couple of lieutenants from the 303rd Cadian
Fusiliers were trying to keep order； largely in vain。 Wulfe couldn’t see Metzger； Siegler or Holtz
among the crowd； so he and Beans hung back until two other sergeants arrived and began shouting
at their men。 “Playtime is over； ladies！”
“Back to the barracks！ Double…time it； you lot！”
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About twenty grumbling men pushed their way to the back of the mob and split off from it。 With
their sergeants leading them； they jogged off down dark； sand…filled streets。 Now； with fresh gaps
opening in the crowd； Wulfe and Beans pushed forward； using their elbows and shoulders to gain
ground。
What a lot of fuss； thought Wulfe； to see monsters I’ve had more than enough of； but he kept
pushing all the same； moving as if on autopilot。
A few rows from the front； he found himself standing next to Siegler and Holtz。
“There you are；” he said。 “Where’s Metzger？”
“Gone for a walk；” Siegler answered。 “Said this was bloody stupid。”
Wulfe turned to Beans and said； “Which should tell you that Metzger is the smart one。”
“I resent that；” said Siegler looking genuinely insulted。
“Me； too；” protested Holtz。
“Don’t kid yourselves；” Wulfe told them with a grin。
“Who’s the kid？” Holtz asked； turning a scowl on Beans。
“This is Beans；” said Wulfe。 “He farts a lot。”
“Hey！” protested Beans； but he caught a look in Wulfe’s eye and laughed。
“Holtz；” said Wulfe； “you and I need to have a word。 Come with me。 Beans； stay here with
Siegler。”
“Right； sarge；” said Beans。
Wulfe and Holtz broke from the group around the cages and moved off to stand at the side of an
old storage building。 Together； they leaned back against the pitted sandstone bricks。 Holtz reached
into his hip pocket； pulled out a smoke and placed it between his lips。
Wulfe decided not to mince words。 “You’re getting your own command； Piter。 Effective
immediately。 Van Droi thought I should tell you myself。”
The lho…stick fell from Holtz’s gaping jaw to the ground at his feet。
“You’re pulling my leg！” he said。
“I’m not。”
“By the Eye；” gasped Holtz。 “My own crate？ You mean that Beans kid is taking over on the
main gun？”
“Got it in one；” said Wulfe。 “The lieutenant rates him。 He scored high in the standard tests。
Apparently he’s a good shot。 But that’s not the point。 This isn’t about Beans。 It’s about you。”
Holtz barked out a laugh。 “There’s a hell of a difference between being a good shot on the
practice course and being a good shot in combat。 What if he gets the jinks？”
It was a legitimate concern。 Wulfe had known other crews that had taken on a new man only to
have him suffer the jinks。 It was a nervous condition characterised by sever twitches and spasms；
and it seemed to be brought on by the noise of the main gun or the impact of heavy enemy fire on
the tank’s armour。 Once a trooper contracted the jinks； he was as good as useless on the battlefield。
It took some men years to recover。 Others never did。
“You’re not listening； Holtz。 Forget about Beans。 I’ll deal with him。 He’ll be fine。 We’re talking
about you。 We’re talking about commanding a tank。”
“What’s to say？” said Holtz。 “Show me a man in this regiment who doesn’t want his own crate！”
Something in Holtz’s voice didn’t manage to convince Wulfe。
“Come on； Piter；” he said。 “Some men are happier taking orders than giving them out。 I
sometimes wish—”
“Which crate？” asked Holtz； talking over him。 “And why now？”
“It’s Rhaimes’ tank； Old Smashbones。 She’s a good； solid machine。 Hell of a service record。
Rhaimes is sick with the fines。 It’s serious。 Van Droi is treating this as permanent。 Says you might
make sergeant if you do your duty。”
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Holtz bent down； picked up the lho…stick at his feet； blew red dust off it； and popped it back
between his lips。
Talking around it； he said； “Rhaimes。 Damn。 I’d rather be replacing someone else。 His crew
aren’t gonna like