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from step to step； enjoying the steady rhythm of the exercise； his thoughts dwelled on the Golgothan
orks。
They’d had thirty…eight years of freedom to spread across the land； turning every scrap of
captured or abandoned Imperial technology to their needs。 Even taking into account the
unprecedented hordes that had left this world and the surrounding systems to join Thraka’s
onslaught of Imperial space； there had to be literally millions of orks still present； perhaps billions。
Who could say for sure how many？
31
Army Group Exolon was nothing in the face of such numbers and anyone who said otherwise
was either a propaganda man； a fool； or both； as they so often were。 Despite the general’s grand
speech about the importance of their quest； Bergen still shared the most fervent hopes of his men
that this would all be over quickly so they could join the fight on Armageddon。 That was a fight
worthy of his beloved armoured division； for if Armageddon fell； Holy Terra； the sacred Cradle of
mankind； would be under direct threat for the first time since the divine Emperor had walked the
stars。
There could scarcely be a greater danger to the preservation of the Imperium in these dark times。
As Bergen reached the top of the stairs； breathing heavily； his forehead damp with sweat and his
quadriceps burning； he stopped and turned to look down on Hadron Base。 It ething； he
admitted。 It sat shimmering like an island of light in a sea of absolute darkness。 His gaze crossed the
small airfield in the north…east quarter； its hangars nearing completion and awaiting the arrival of the
Vulcan gunships that the commodore had promised。 To the south of it； scores of water towers and
storage silos stood in tight； ordered rows like men under close inspection。 On the east side； next to
one of the base’s massive reinforced gates； were the motor pool and mustering field。 Both were
large and well lit； and filled with red…robed enginseers busily tending to row upon row of transports
and war machines。 There were hundreds of men in rust…coloured fatigues down there； too： troopers
from the support echelons hefting ammunition and supplies back and forward； working hard against
the clock。 Large Guard…issue trucks — the ever…reliable Thirty…Sixers — were being driven into
position so that fuel drums and supplies could be hoisted onto them。 Scores of Sentinel walkers
squatted in groups like flightless birds at rest； legs folded beneath them to allow for oiling and final
weapons checks。
To Bergen； all this was a beautiful sight； something he appreciated every time he saw it； and he
stood watching； motionless； for long minutes。 He felt lucky； in many ways； to be the man he was。
From the age of six； from the moment that his mother had explained his destiny to him； that he was
already marked for military service； the Imperial Guard was the only thing that had given real
meaning to his life。 It was the Guard that had shaped and defined him。
He turned from his view of the base below and moved to the parapet wall； looking out into the
black of the night。 To his left； rows of Earthshaker guns sat silent； their machine…spirits resting until
called upon to commit the explosive； long…range slaughter at which they excelled。 Some of the guncrews
were absent； sleeping in their barracks or getting fed； most likely。 Sirens would call them
back to their stations in the event of an attack。 Other crews had to remain on duty shifts。 They sat by
their guns； smoking； playing cards； a few of them sharpening knives or practising close…combat
techniques with their fellows。 Others moved in pairs along the wall； men on patrol duty；
occasionally lifting night…vision magnoculars to their eyes and then dropping them again。 Nothing to
see out there。
Footsteps sounded behind Bergen and he turned to find a short； scruffy trooper looking up at
him with a pipe of styrene cups in one hand and a green flask in the other。
“Care for some hot caffeine； sir？” asked the trooper a little nervously； eyeing the bright golden
glyphs on Bergen’s collar and the bands at his sleeve。
Bergen smiled。
“Are you sure it’s hot； son？” he asked。 There was no steam rising from the flask’s open lid。
The trooper nodded earnestly。 “My sergeant says it’s the atmospheric pressure； sir。 Stuff doesn’t
steam here。 Not at normal temperatures； leastwise。 He says if it’s steaming； it’ll put you in the medblock
with burns。 Can’t pretend as I understand it myself； but I’ll take his word for it； sir。 He’s a
smart one； is my sarge。”
Bergen smiled； but refused a cup all the same。 Any more caffeine tonight and he wouldn’t sleep
at all。
“What’s your name and outfit； son？” he asked。
“Ritter； sir。 Two…one…five…three…five。 With the 88th Feros Artillery。”
32
“So these are your guns？” said Bergen； jabbing a thumb over his shoulder。
The little trooper looked proud。 “Sure are； sir。 Proper beauties； ain’t they？ I’m hoping to crew
eventually。 I’m just support right now； though。”
“They’re not half bad； private；” said Bergen； glancing over his shoulder at them。 “Not bad at all。
You must be proud that your regiment is part of this operation。 One for the history books； this。”
“I suppose so； sir；” said Ritter。 “I mean； I just go where the regiment goes。 So long as me and
my mates are together； I don’t mind where。 The air here stinks a bit； though。 And… well； there’s no
girls except them Medicae nurses。 And it’s only the officers have a devil’s chance with any of that
lot； isn’t it？ Even the rough…looking ones。”
Bergen laughed。 “Glad you’ve got your priorities straight。 A man has to keep things in
perspective； eh？”
“Too true； sir。”
“Well； you’d best get back to it。 I bet some of your mates could use a good shot of caff to keep
them awake。 Keep your chin up； soldier。”
“Right； sir；” said Ritter。 “Thank you； sir。” He fumbled with the flask and cups for a moment so
that he could throw up a stiff salute before moving off to serve the gun crews he so hoped to join。
Bergen watched him go and then started walking anticlockwise along the wall in the general
direction of his quarters； gesturing for the men he passed not to rise on his account。 Talking with
Ritter had lightened his mood。 There was an undeniable value； he believed； in taking the time to talk
with the rank…and…file。 Their answers were often refreshingly honest； unshaped by the hidden
agendas that tightly governed the words of most career…minded senior officers。 Some of the younger
troopers were blessed with a shining optimism — born of blissful naivety； he supposed — that he
couldn’t ever remember having possessed。 Perhaps it was a class thing。 Until the day he entered
cadet school； his family； saints rest them； had worked tirelessly to prepare him for a life of war。 The
old phrase “harder than a Cadian grandmother” was born of fact； as the network of deep scars on his
back attested。
As he walked further along the wall； his thoughts shifted to General deViers； and the upturn in
his mood was suddenly reversed again。 Mohamar Antoninus deViers。 Alarm bells had been ringing
in Bergen’s head for months。 There were no two ways about it； the general had been swiftly losing
his grip on reality since the destruction of Palmeros。
It should have been the old man’s crowning glory； the Palmeros campaign。 He was long overdue
for retirement and； if he had only managed to turn back the orks and save the majority of the
planetary populace； he would certainly have received the coveted Honorifica； and would probably
have been granted an Imperial title。 Lord General Mohamar deViers： that would have gone some
way towards satisfying his lust for fame。 Instead； Ghazghkull Thraka had smashed the planet apart
with seventeen massive asteroids； killing billions of loyal Imperial citizens and wiping a civilised
world from the star…charts。 DeViers had been forced to pull out fast with none of the everlasting
glory he had anticipated。 Perhaps he had imagined that the Palmerosi people would build statues in
his honour。 Yes； thought Bergen； he would have been looking forward to that。
Without victory； there were no statues。
Humiliated； the old man had scrabbled for another cause