The Taurox Prime rocked back and forth as it passed over a hole in the road. Drummer Boy and everyone else riding in the passenger compartment were jostled around. Above their heads, the intermittent mesh nets strung from side to side swayed around. The cans of ammunition, rations, water, and medical supplies the nets held rattled. Rucksacks and haversacks, hung on hooks mounted on the hull, swung back and forth.

  Although the interior did not have many viewports, the brilliant morning sunlight was filling up the Taurox. Drummer Boy watched the particles of dust swirling around the heads of his compatriots. He sat diagonally from Marsh Silas, who was riding in the passenger seat. This Taurox Prime fulfilled a command role and was thus outfitted with an Augur Array suite, signal boosters, and even a small orbital relay. Drummer Boy’s station in the vehicle allowed him to monitor the sensors while Marsh, sitting with his elbow on the center console, had access to the communications terminal. He held the handset connected to it up to his ear underneath his helmet. Above the console, 1st Lieutenant Namgung, who not only served as the vehicle commander but the platoon leader for their Taurox Prime complement, was standing up in the hatch. Womack, the driver, was idly talking to Marsh Silas.

  Walmsley Major was sitting across from Drummer Boy. His head was tilted back and his eyes were shut, but his hands remained fixed to his Hot-Shot Volley Gun. Beside him was Commissar Fremantle who was busily logging the preliminary after-action report. The man, though he had an edge, was quite efficient. Honeycutt was next and he was sifting through the contents of his first aid kit. He groaned and lifted his hands in aggravation.

  “Missing something?” the Voxman asked the medic.

  “I lost my scissors. Blast, I must have left them when I was treating that gash in Hawthrone’s leg.”

  Major Haight certainly delivered his intelligence. He linked the traitors who captured him to another heretical outpost in the countryside. Their early-morning raid wiped out the platoon-sized garrison, recovered a cache of Imperial weapons, and demolished the cave system they occupied. The only casualty was Hawthorne, who was wounded by a heavy caliber round between the plates of his leg armor.

  Drummer Boy dug into the satchel on the right side of his belt and pulled out his own first aid kit. He rummaged until he found his own pair and handed them over. “I can get a new pair when we get back to the FOB,” Honeycutt insisted.

  “I’d rather you have them and not need’em instead of not having them when you need a pair.” Honeycutt pursed his lips momentarily, then snatched them from his fingers.

  “When did you get so bloody smart, boyo?”

  Drummer Boy smirked and leaned back. He dug into one of his pouches and procured a packet of lho-sticks. He put one to his lips and searched for his lighter, patting himself all over. A flicker to his right caught his eye. Jacinto reached over with his forefinger which balanced a small flame. The white-haired, pale-skinned psyker nodded eagerly and smiled. Drummer Boy leaned forward and gingerly pressed the end to the flame. Smoke drifted up, he inhaled, and the end glowed orange.

  “Thanks, fella,” he said. Jacinto beamed happily and snapped his fingers, causing the flame to vanish.

  “M-m-my p-pleasure,” he stuttered. Commissar Fremantle looked up, his purple eyes burning with indignation.

  “Psyker, cease your tricks. Your powers are only tolerated in combat.” Jacinto shrank at this, dropping his head so his long, thick locks covered his face. He suddenly looked very small in his khaki duster coat and Carapace chestpiece. Fremantle huffed and returned to his duties. “Remember your place, creature.”

  Cornelius, the platoon preacher beside the Commissar, put one of his heavy hands on Fremantle’s shoulder. He was a tall, large fellow with a dark complexion like the Commissar’s. He had a lined, squarish, wise-looking face, black stubble that was turning gray along the chin, and flat hair. His outfit was very modest: a set of khaki shield-robes.

  “Dear Commissar, surely you must be referring to any of our present party, for we are all creatures of the Emperor, are we not?” he said kindly.

  “We?” Fremantle sniffed. “Preacher, we are human beings. We are the most illustrious and superior race within the galaxy. To compare us to the likes of creatures is certainly sinful, yes?”

  “Is a human not also an animal? Regard our erstwhile canid companion.” He motioned towards Freya, who was sitting between Cobb’s legs at the back of the APC. She tilted her head to the side and her tongue lolled out of the other side. “She eats, drinks, sleeps, wears armor, and serves the Emperor. Why, she even speaks, doesn’t she Lance Sergeant?”

  “Aye, preacher. Freya, yip!” At his command, the canid barked once. “Good gal!”

  “See?” Cornelius laughed. “She’s not so different from us, just like young Jacinto is quite similar to the rest of us. The Emperor binds us all, as Marsh Silas likes to say.”

  “Preacher, if I may, I am very surprised to hear this from one who occupies such an eminent station,” Fremantle said as he put down his data-slate. “Is the Munistorum not tasked with the hunting of psykers? Are we not taught to loathe the psyker?”

  “Indeed, psykers pose many dangers,” Cornelius astutely answered. He motioned towards Jacinto. “If he were to ever succumb to his own powers, then it would be necessary to render a swift, merciful execution for his and our sake. Yet, during my days in the Shock Troops, I fought alongside many a psyker and their powers often saved us. And when I donned this garb, I heard the confessions and prayers of so many more and do you know what I realized? A pysker is just as capable of piety to our Emperor just as any normal man. Would you not agree, Knight-Lieutenant?”

  “You’re damned right I agree,” Marsh said over his shoulder. “Fremantle, remind me to tell you of Inquisitor Barlocke, my friend and mentor. He was a great psyker and a greater man. The Emperor never had a more faithful servant.”

  “Sir, I understand, but that was an Inquisitor,” Fremantle protested. “But this thing is—”

  “Commissar, he ain’t a thing,” Drummer Boy interrupted. “He’s a man and a soldier in this platoon.”

  “A Ssss-Sss-Savant Mili-i-i-tant,” Jacinto added shyly. After giving Drummer Boy a sharp glare, the Commissar picked his data-slate back up.

  “That may be, but his powers are nonetheless unnatural.”

  “Or maybe, sir, his powers are gifts granted by the God-Emperor,” Drummer Boy proffered. Cornelius smiled at that and nodded.

  “Well said, well said, indeed,” the preacher praised.

  “Well said,” Fremantle echoed. “Can’t say the same for the psyker; the only time he doesn’t stutter is on the battlefield. If he can’t be expected to master speech, how can he—”

  “That’s enough, Commissar,” Marsh snapped over his shoulder. His sharp tone silenced the entire cabin.

  The engine rumbled, the treads growled across the pavement. They cleared another bad patch of roadway and the ride became very smooth. Drummer Boy decided to close his eyes and lean in his head back. Just as he did, there was a thunderous explosion and the Taurox halted.

  “Red Six, this is Red One, we hit a mine, no casualties but our vehicle is in-op, over!” Yoxall reported. They heard bullets ringing against the hull.

  “Roger, Red One, wait one,” Marsh Silas said. He turned around in his seat and pointed at Drummer Boy. “Get the CO on the line and tell him we’re in contact. Then get some artillery on-line, ” Marsh ordered calmly before returning to his own handset.

  “Yes, sir.” He adjusted the frequency on his Clarion Vox Array and keyed his handset. “Avalanche Six, this is Red Six Rho…Avalanche Six, this is Red Six Rho…” All he heard was static. When he lowered his handset, Drummer Boy heard Marsh also struggling with his own communications. “...sir, I think our comms are being jammed.”

  “Jammed? How could they be—” A detonation far behind them cut Marsh Silas short.

  “A rocket just hit the rearguard’s tricks, they’re immobile! It came from the right, on the right—” Namgung shouted from the hatch. Suddenly, there was a violent explosion outside their vehicle. Everyone was thrown around. Drummer Boy’s helmet struck the hull, sending a shock through his head. It felt as though his teeth were rattling. Namgung dropped from the hatch, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

  “Man down! Honeycutt, tend to that man,” Marsh Silas ordered. “Someone, get in that turret and return fire!”

  “I have it!” Cobb yelled, pushing through the jostled occupants. Drummer Boy heard him rack the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter and start sending bolts down range. He heard the tremendous reports of Taurox Battle Cannons, Storm Bolters, Heavy Stubbers, Autocannons, and Gatling Cannons. Large caliber rounds started to hammer the armor plating of the APC. Marsh took one look through his viewport and then turned around. “Alright, we’re blocked to the front and rear, we can’t drive out of the killzone. We’ll dismount and assault the ambush points. Any operable vehicles need to turn and support the infantry.”

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  “Sir, if you go to the head of the column, I’ll go to the rear and get everyone out!” Drummer Boy yelled, painfully aware their comms were down.

  “Do it! Let’s go, Bloody Platoon!”

  Womack opened the rear compartment. Drummer Boy was out in a flash. The sound of so many heavy weapons exchanging fire was deafening for a moment. But the shock subsided. As rounds skipped across the pavement, he bolted for the next Taurox Prime and slammed his fist on the door.

  “Get everyone out!” he shouted. As the Kasrkin exited the APC, he ran to the next and the next one. All the while, bullets cracked by his head and bounced off his armor. Shoulder-fired rockets hit the vehicles or shook the ground around them. Lasbolts sheared through the air, scorching Taurox armor and hitting Kasrkin—though these lasers did not penetrate, the shock was enough to stagger or topple a man. By the time he reached the last vehicle, which was heavily damaged, all the Kasrkin were already out. Some went prone on the road to return fire while others scrambled into the roadside ditch.

  Drummer Boy took cover behind one of the APCs. He hadn’t realized that Fremantle and Jacinto had come with him. They peaked around the side of the vehicle. About one hundred meters away was a berm parallel to the road. Muzzle flashes appeared across the crest as well as dust clouds from where rocket positions. When he looked back up the road, he saw gunfire from a small, vegetative rise on the right side of the road.

  “They’re conducting this ambush just like we would!” Fremantle exclaimed.

  “I need to get back to Marsh,” Drummer Boy said. “I’ll be back, Commissar!”

  He tore across the pavement. Bullets pinged off his plates. A lasbolt struck his pauldron and Drummer Boy was spun around. Before he picked himself up, a pair of sturdy arms lifted him off the ground.

  “Go, my child!” Cornelius shouted over the noise. With a smile, he marched in the other direction holding an autopistol in one hand and a chainsword in the other. “There are the foes of your Emperor, soldiers! Set your sights upon him, mark him for death! Fire away with righteous fury!” He walked as if there were no lasbolts or bullets in the air! Drummer Boy did not have time to gawk, though.

  He spotted Marsh in the ditch with his magonoculars. When he jumped in beside him, the platoon leader sat him upright.

  “Those men are wearing Cadian uniforms!”

  “Friendly fire, sir!?”

  “There’s no reports of any other units in this area.” Marsh grabbed the laud hailer from Drummer Boy’s equipment. “This is Knight-Lieutenant Cross! We are Kasrkin of the Red Banner Regiment! Cease fire immediately and put down your arms!” His voice carried high, high above the din of battle. But the stubber fire intensified around their position, kicking clots of dirt through the air.

  “Sir, I don’t think they’re friendly!” Drummer Boy yelled.

  “I got the fucking message that time!” Marsh hollered back. When returning fire from their own line in the ditch attracted away the majority of enemy shooters, they got back up. “Alright, I’m going to take 1st and 2nd Squads against the positions to the front of the column. Everyone else is going to hit that berm! I’m putting Walmsley Major on this end of the line, I want you on the other end with your laud hailer: when you see me wave, you get’em moving, got it!? And one of those positions has the jammer, we have to disable it

  “Got it, sir!”

  “It’s a long run—I know you can do it!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Drummer Boy got out of the ditch and sprinted once again. He ran harder than he had before. All the other Kasrkin and vehicles around him were true blurs, He could feel sinews throughout his body bulging. The biological enhancements he received propelled him forward like a flash of lightning. Tracer rounds were just brief smudges of light across his vision. The projectiles flying from the Taurox Primes’ missile launchers were gray splotches.

  He slid across the last stretch of pavement and ended up in the ditch at the end of the line. Waiting for him were Fremantle, Jacinto, and Cornelius. “We’re assaulting, wait for the Lieutenant's signal,” he told them.

  “P-p-preacher?” Jacinto stuttered. “W-wi-wi-will you-u-u b-be safe?”

  Cornelius boomed with laughter and put his hand on the back of Jacinto’s neck.

  “My lad, I need no armor save for these robes and the Emperor’s love. I shall not fall this day!”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to—” Drummer Boy started, but the preacher held his pistol up confidently.

  “Son, my first action was in the Pandorax Campaign; I am ready, and so is the Emperor!”

  “That’s it, he gave the signal!” Fremantle exclaimed, watching the other end of the line through his magnoculars. Drummer Boy equipped the laud hailer.

  “Alright Bloody Platoon, let’s give them everything we’ve got! Charge!”

  The Kasrkin gave a great roar and charged ahead. As bullets and shells flew over their heads, they ran onto the open ground. The green line surged forward, covered by the ordinance of their convoy. Shells, Gatling Cannon rounds, and missiles bombarded the berm, creating huge clouds of dust. Enemy fire abated some. Lasbolts and bullets deflected off their Carapace Armor. Squad leaders shouted for the men to carry on but they needed no encouragement; Bloody Platoon was catapulting across the field and they stormed up the berm.

  Drummer Boy ran with his Mk. 2 Hellgun up. When they were within range, he squeezed the trigger. A persistent volley of red light emitted from the barrel and skimmed across the top of the berm. Silhouettes who had just been shooting disappeared. Some of the Kasrkin lobbed grenades as they ran and these detonated on top of and behind the berm. Dull thuds permeated the landscape and kicked up more dust.

  He hit the crest and crouched between two dead bodies. Traitor Guardsmen knelt on the opposite slope or occupied fighting holes dug behind the berm. Automatic weapons opened up on the Kasrkin. Drummer Boy simply guided his Hellgun from left to right, lancing countless heretics down. Some of the enemy threw grenades and one came right for Drummer Boy. The Voxman dropped his weapon, caught it, and whipped it back. It exploded at the foot of a fighting hole, riddling the occupant with shrapnel.

  Just as he picked his weapon back, he noticed movement to his right. The body behind him moved. The Traitor Guardsman jumped up and kicked at him. Drummer Boy caught him by the leg and shoved him back. Just as he stumbled, the traitor was pierced by a growling chainsword. Cornileus ripped it back out and kicked the assailant down the slope. Flesh and blood coated his roaring blade.

  “The God-Emperor smiles on us this day! We shall not give into treason or heresy, not now, not tomorrow, not ever! Praise be to Him on Terra!”

  “Follow me, Kasrkin!” Commissar Fremantle yelled, holding up his own chainsword. He ran a retreating enemy through the back and shot several more down with his plasma pistol. Kasrkin overran the fighting holes, beating and stabbing the remaining ambushers to death. A group of the traitors banded together and attempted to retreat to the east, but Drummer Boy leveled his Mk. 2 and gunned them all down.

  He ran up next to the Commissar and, shoulder to shoulder, they advanced on the last positions. A figure jumped out holding a shoulder-mounted missile launcher. “Watch out!” Fremantle yelled and shoulder-checked Drummer Boy out of the way. The Voxman landed on his back and looked up just in time to see a shield of fire appear in front of the Commissar.

  After the rocket harmlessly exploded against his fiery wall, Jacinto brought the flames down. His eyes suddenly glowed white, then orange. A light emanated from his mouth. Streams of fire from his mouth and eyes poured from his skull and engulfed the heretic. The assailant did not even have time to scream before he was reduced to charcoal. The fire ceased and Jacinto’s eyes resumed their usual cloudiness.

  “Clear!”

  “All clear! Cease firing!” Fremantle yelled. “Squad leaders, get me a headcount. Medics, tend to any wounds. The rest of you, fan out and find that jammer!” As the Kasrkin started searching the corpses and the fighting pits, Jacinto helped Drummer Boy up. Then, the psyker approached Fremantle.

  “Com-Com-Commissar, ar-are you-u—”

  “Be off with you, psyker, I’m fine,” Fremantle snapped. Jacinto recoiled slightly and retreated towards Drummer Boy. The Voxman put an arm around him and led him a few steps away.

  “Are you hit?”

  “N-n-n-n-no.”

  “You did good.”

  “Is this the jammer?” Cornelius asked, holding up a metallic instrument.

  Drummer Boy hurried over and took it from him. It appeared like a Vox-caster, but it had two antennas with a band connecting them. Turning it over to access the control pad, he disabled the machine.

  “This is high-end equipment,” Drummer Boy said, running his hand over the Aquila stamp on top of the console. “This is something we’d use. This came from a Kasrkin arsenal.”

  “How could Traitor Guardsmen get access to that?” Fremantle spat. “Our arsenals are only accessible to regimental personnel.”

  “These men, they prepared their ambush very well,” Drummer Boy observed. “It’s like you said, Commissar, they did it just like we would. But they ain’t no Kasrkin, not by a damned sight. I give thanks to the Emperor they lacked Heavy Bolters; that would’ve been a truly hard charge.” Drummer Boy lowered himself into the hole Cornelius had found the device and dragged the body out. He took off his helmet as well as the balaclava he wore. Drummer Boy pried the eyelids open and found the iris to be blue. “He’s not a Cadian. Are they off-worlders who turned?”

  “Perhaps. These ones lack our eyes as well,” Cornelius added, examining a few other corpses. “Strange. It appears they all have blue eyes.”

  “They don’t have any regimental markings either. Or they were removed. No identification tags either,” Fremantle said.

  Drummer Boy remembered how many of the men had tattooed their names on other parts of their bodies or regimental numbers just in case they were killed and their tags were missing. He removed the chestpiece and tore the jacket completely off. Other than the bullet wounds in the abdomen he received from Cornelius’s autopistol, there were no distinct markings on the torso. But when he turned him over, he found an odd mark on his shoulder.

  It appeared as a curved teardrop, or perhaps a cold flame. Drummer Boy could not quite tell. A wavy, upper stream widened towards the bottom before hooking to the right, where the path was broken by a large, round circle. On the other side of it a sharp termination of that initial curve.

  Drummer Boy took the handset from his Clarion Vox Array and cleared. The channels were thankfully clear.

  “Hey, Red One, this is Red Six Rho.”

  “Go ahead, Rho,” Yoxall said over the channel.

  “Send Valens and his picter to the berm. I need him to take picts of some marks. Over.”

  “Solid copy, he’s on his way.”

  “My thanks, over and out.” He keyed it again. “Red Six, this is Red Six Rho, requesting your presence at the berm. Methinks these aren’t the kinds of traitors we’re used to fighting.”