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between his lips。
Talking around it； he said； “Rhaimes。 Damn。 I’d rather be replacing someone else。 His crew
aren’t gonna like this much。 Don’t expect I’ll get a very warm welcome。”
“They’re a young crew。 New meat。 They didn’t have much time with Rhaimes； so you should be
all right。 Besides； they need someone with plenty of combat experience and the stones to get them
through whatever’s coming。 If not you； then who？”
Holtz had no answer for that。 He was too busy processing it all。
“Anyway；” said Wulfe。 “Your new crew is in A…barracks； so you won’t need to move your stuff
far。 General deViers is supposed to arrive tomorrow。 You won’t have much time to get to know
them before we roll out； so you’d best start now。”
Holtz nodded； unable to hide a degree of nerves。 The side of his face that looked like hashed
grox barely moved anymore； and showed little emotion； but Wulfe had had enough practice in
reading the other half to know that Holtz saw the announcement for the mixed bag it was。
“Just remember；” Wulfe told him； “you’ve been through much more than they have。 You’re in
charge。 Tank men live or die by the decisions of their commander。”
“No pressure； then；” Holtz replied with literally half a grin。 “Only joking； sarge。 I appreciate
your confidence。 If it’s all the same to you； though； I’ll head to the motor pool first。 Make a bit of a
farewell to Last Rites II and introduce myself to the new girl。”
“Sounds like a plan；” said Wulfe； clapping his friend on the shoulder。 He returned Holtz’s brief
salute； and then watched him walk off in the direction of the motor pool； wishing him all the luck in
the galaxy。 Command was hard on any man； but far harder on those new to it。 The lives of the crew
and the survival of each precious war machine were heavy burdens to bear。 Sometimes； Wulfe
envied the men under his command。 He remembered the freedom that came with being on the
bottom rung of the ladder； of having someone else make most of your decisions for you。 It was a
good place to be when you had good officers。 Wulfe trusted van Droi that way； and knew that van
Droi； in turn； trusted Colonel Vinnemann； but the chain of command went much higher than that。
Major General Bergen had a good reputation； but was it justified？ It was hard to tell。 Officers at
such a senior level were so distant。
All Wulfe could say for sure was that command would be hard on Piter Holtz。 At least in the
early days。 He would sink； or he would swim。 It was as simple as that。
Wulfe walked back over to the soldiers jostling around the cages； noting how the crowd had
thinned further now that others had begun drifting away。 It took much less effort to get to the front
of the crowd where he found Siegler and Beans talking animatedly about the creatures in front of
them。
The ferocity of the imprisoned orks was impressive given their pitiful condition。 The two
monsters sat in their steel cages； legs reduced to tattered stumps； bellowing and spitting at the
smaller； weaker humans that surrounded them。 Beans was stepping in towards the cages to get a
closer look when Wulfe grabbed him by the back of the collar and said； “No you don’t； trooper。 This
is close enough。”
The new gunner looked disappointed and perhaps a little angry； but he said nothing； merely
stepping back into line with all the other men。 From the same distance； Wulfe eyed the greenskins
coldly。 One was larger than the other； though not by much。 Its skin was a darker brown； too。 Both
had the nightmare features that had been burned into Wulfe’s brain since his first encounter with
their kind： tiny nose； deeply…sunken red eyes； wide jaws rimmed with razor…sharp fangs。 Their hides
looked as hard and coarse as an adult carnotaur’s； covered in red dust； lined with cracks。 On their
massive shoulders； great patches of dead skin were peeling away。 They looked as dry as the desert。
So Golgotha is not being particularly kind to them either； Wulfe thought； though I notice the
blasted ticks don’t bother them。 I wonder why。
98
Wulfe’s first deployment as a tanker had been as part of the operation to defend Phaegos II
against ork incursions from the Ghoul Stars。 That was more than twenty years ago； a different time；
a different segmentum； and here he was still fighting the same foe； still losing more friends to them
each time they clashed。 It sometimes seemed as if all mankind’s efforts； all the blood spilled； all the
battles won； all of it might count for nothing at all。 In galactic terms； had anything really changed？
Had anything he had done ever made a blind bit of difference？
Dangerous thoughts； he cautioned himself。 If every Guardsman doubted the necessity of his
actions； the Imperium would crumble and die。 Of course he had made a difference。 He had killed
thousands of mankind’s foes in his time。 If every man in the Guard accounted for the same number；
the green tide would surely be overcome someday。
Wulfe wanted to believe that； he really did； but it was a struggle。 For every victory in the history
books； how many losses went unpublicised？
As he studied the darker of the two orks； his eyes locked with the creature’s。 Immediately
perceiving a challenge； it began roaring at him and hammering its head against the bars of its cage。
It grunted and hissed and bellowed at him in what Wulfe supposed was the orkish language。
Commissar Yarrick； the stories said； could understand this bestial gibberish； but Wulfe had never
met anyone else who could。 No one ever admitted as much； anyway。 It was a horrible sound；
something wild canids might make as they guzzled meat from a fresh kill； but there was definitely a
syntax in there； however unrefined。 Wulfe instinctively knew that he was hearing language。
With the force of its violent motions； the dark…skinned ork’s wounds had begun to bleed again；
but the flow was slow。 The blood that oozed out was thick and sticky。 Wulfe thought he understood
why。 It was the low availability of water here。 It changed the blood of those that lived in the desert；
making it clot far more quickly： a water…conservation mechanism； a survival mechanism； and that
wasn’t the only gift the hard desert life had given the greenskins。 These two orks were distinctly
different from those he had encountered before。 They were leaner； almost wiry by greenskin
standards； though still far larger and more powerful…looking than any human。 Somehow； they
seemed faster and all the more deadly because of it。
He was about to turn away； to lead Siegler and Beans off at last； when someone began shouting
from the rear of the crowd。
“Make way！ Make way at once； you damned fools。”
There was no mistaking the cold； crisp voice。 Wulfe knew that it was Crusher even before he
saw the stiff peak of the man’s black cap moving towards him over the heads of the others。
Crusher violently thrust his way to the front row。
“Commissar Slayte；” said Wulfe with a nod。 “Come to view the exhibits？”
“Hardly； sergeant；” hissed the commissar； clocking Wulfe’s stripes。 “I’m here to put a bloody
stop to this nonsense。”
The commissar swept back the folds of his long black coat and drew a bolt pistol from the
holster at his thigh。 The motion was smooth； well…practiced。 Wulfe knew what was coming。 He
stepped away。
One of the lieutenants from the 303rd saw it coming； too。 He protested。 “Come now； commissar。
You can’t mean to spoil the fun prematurely。 It’s good for morale to see our enemies caged and
helpless。 You must agree。”
Crusher didn’t even glance at the man。 Instead； he took aim at the smaller； lighter…skinned alien；
eased a black metal finger back on the trigger of his pistol； and loosed off a barking shot。
Wulfe had been about to shout； “Stand back！” to Siegler and Beans； but it was too late。 The bolt
punched a coin…sized hole in the ork’s skull and detonated there； showering the closest men with a
foul spray of blood and brain matter。 The men behind them； shielded from the spray by their
luckless comrades； laughed out loud。 The headless ork body slid down to the floor of its cage。
Seeing the slaughter of its foul kin； the darker ork began thrashing madly。 Slayte calmly turned
towards it and repeated the exact same procedure。 Those in the front rows of the crowd pushed
99
backwards。 There was another loud crack as the bolt pistol fired and； again； the air filled with a
bloody mist。
Crusher holstered his pistol； turned and addressed all those present。 “Damn your eyes； the lot of
you。 Have you forgotten the principles of intolerance set forth in the Imperial Creed？ Perhaps the
sting of the lash would help you all to remember。”
The crowd parted wide for him as he stalked off； calling out as he went； “Suffer not the alien to
live！”
“Damn it；” said one of the lieutenants from the 303rd as he dabbed at his bloodstained tunic with
a handkerchief。 “Which regiment is that bastard attached to？ I feel sorry for them。”
“That would be my regiment； lieutenant；” said Wulfe grimly； “the 81st Armoured。”
“Colonel Vinnemann’s lot？” asked the other officer。 “Throne help you； sergeant。 You’ve got a
bad one there。 Execute many； does he？”
Wulfe shook his head。 “He likes his punishments； does old Crusher； but the colonel can usually
talk him down from a killing。 The alternative isn’t much better； mind you。 He gives out a hell of a
beating。”
“Is that why you call him Crusher？” asked the first man。
“You didn’t notice； sir？” said Wulfe； surprised。 “His hands。 Augmetic replacements； both of
them。 He lost his organic pair to the jaws of a bull carnotaur some years back。 Not that he
complains。 He caught a deserter back on Palmeros in the first months of the campaign and forced us
all to watch the execution。 The boy was nineteen。 New meat。 He saw his cousin get killed and lost it。
Commissar Slayte crushed his skull with one hand。 Broke it like it was an egg。”
The officers from the 303rd both frowned and shook their heads。
“Those boys in the 259th Mechanised aren’t going to be pleased；” said one。 “They had the killrights
to these two。 They made the capture。”
“Might as well disperse； you lot；” shouted the other to the grumbling crowd。 “Nothing much to
see now。”
The troopers moved off trailing a palpable air of disappointment and resentment。 For a short
time； the imprisoned enemies had offered a distraction from the biting of the ticks and the coughing
and sneezing caused by the dust。 Wulfe stayed a moment longer； staring in silence at the headless
alien bodies。 Siegler and Beans waited for him a dozen paces away； also silent。
It’s not enough； thought Wulfe。 No matter how many we kill； it’s never enough。 They keep
coming。 We send troops to purge them from one world； and another falls at our backs。 Can we ever
break the stalemate？ Will we ever do more than just survive against them？
He reached a hand up and stroked the scar on his neck。 Where had all his faith gone？ Aboard the
Hand of Radiance； Wulfe had always turned to Confessor Friedrich for spiritual strength。 There was
a man he could talk to。 Despite being a year younger than Wulfe； the priest had a calm wisdom
about him that Wulfe envied； though he wasn’t prepared to drink quite as much as the priest did to
achieve it。 As he led Beans and Siegler back to the barracks； he considered seeking out the priest；
but it was already late。 He would have to wake his crew at sunrise tomorrow。 General deViers
wasn’t about to let them rest up。 That was fine with Wulfe。 The hardest part of any soldier’s life was
down…time： too much time to think； to notice the little things。 Typically stoic men would begin to
grumble。 Colonel von Holden was a stark example and he wouldn’t be alone。 Dissidence was far
from exclusive to the officer class。 Fights would start breaking out。 There would be more incidents
of drunkenness。 Some would turn to less legal distractions。 Before you knew it； the commissars
would be executing men left； right and centre。
It was just as well that the bulk of the 18th Army Group would be moving out soon。 Nothing
cleared the mind like going into battle。
100
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was still early； but the day was already uncomfortably hot。 The Golgothan sky was lighter than
Lenck had ever seen it。 The