Sergeant Neelan spat. The gooey phlegm struck a desiccated shimmer eel skull and stuck there. The snub-nosed soldier grunted. “Can’t believe they’re sending us after a sodding Space Marine,” he said. “What in the four hells do we do if we find him, anyway? Ask him nicely to come back with us?”

  It seemed a fair question. They carried some heavy armaments. Davis, their heavy-weapons man, toted a B7-pattern rocket propelled grenade. But most of the men carried standard issue lasrifles, including Corporal Aimes. Thinking about trying to take down a warrior of Adeptus Astartes with one of those made Aimes shudder.

  “Keep your macabre thoughts to yourself, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Mathis ordered. Their unit commander, a husky man in his forties, Mathis was a cool man under pressure. He was a testament to uniform he wore. Aimes thought so, anyway.

  The commander used a handheld scanner to probe the target building. A single dot flashed on the device’s small display. “Anyway, this one seems like a dud. Only one inhabitant. Witnesses said the Space Marine had one or two others with him.”

  The structure being scanned was a greasy, dilapidated hab unit, the kind of place junkies and gangers used to stash their hauls. Such activity was not particularly common this high up in the city, but it did sometimes happen. Narcotics flowed up and down between the undercity and the surface.

  It had always been ducal policy to turn a blind eye towards this illicit traffic. Over the past several months, however, Captain Derrida had initiated an investigation into the problem, closely tracking movements between sublevels. That was how he had known about this place.

  “Just one?” muttered Davis. “Well then, I say we pack up. There must be other spots to check, right?”

  There were. Earlier, Aimes had caught a glimpse of the mission dossier on the lieutenant’s data slate. If their orders mirrored those assigned to other teams, then Captain Derrida had issued hundreds of search warrants. Maybe thousands.

  Mathis shook his head. “I’d like that fine, Davis, but not before we know who is in there.”

  Neelan exchanged a grim smile with Davis. “He probably ate them.”

  “Space Marines don’t eat humans!” Aimes objected.

  “Yeah? How should you know? Thrones only know what the things eat.”

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  “Up yours, Neelan.”

  The sergeant’s mouth twisted into a cruel grin. “Careful, kid. We’re all pals, here. But you’re talking to your superior officer. Don’t forget that.”

  The platoon commander ignored his men’s bickering. That was his style, Aimes knew. Mathis liked to stay above this kind of thing. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Davis, you’re in the back. I want you to hit that door with the Arr-Pee-Jee if you see so much as a glimmer of ceramite. Neelan, left flank. The rest of you, fan out. Not you, Aimes, you’re with me. I want that lasrifle pointed where I can see it.”

  The insult stung. It had been an accident. Aimes was still a rookie when it happened, and Captain Derrida had been fine. Admittedly, if he hadn’t been wearing that special armor…

  “This is Lieutenant Inar Mathis of the Lucean Defense Force,” announced the commander. His voice, relayed over his uniform’s lapel vox, boomed out of the drop ship’s external speakers. “Come out with your hands up.”

  Hab lights burst into life all along the street. Silhouettes peered through windows. The lights flickered out just so soon as each occupant discovered they were not the subject of the order. Still, Aimes thought he spotted a few brave or foolish individuals continuing to watch. Curiosity, it was a tough drug to kick.

  The door in front of them did not open. Whoever or whatever was inside, it intended to stay there. Mathis repeated his order. He spoke more forcefully this time, warning that he was licensed to use deadly force if warranted. The door did not budge. Mathis swore. “All light arms, volley on my mark.” Aimes felt his finger tighten around the trigger. “Mark.”

  The door exploded into the hab, flying off its hinges in shattered plasteel fragments as thirty-two planetary guardsmen opened fire. Smoke drifted lazily out from the empty doorframe. The street was silent, save for the whirring engines of the Arvus dropship and, somewhere, the noise of a crying child.

  No one emerged from the hab.

  Mathis ran the scan again. A single dot flashed defiantly.

  “Thrones,” breathed Aimes. “Why doesn’t he just come out?” He was sweating, profusely so.

  Mathis snarled, losing his composure. He growled into his vox, “Davis, punch it.” Aimes flinched, his eyes closing.

  Nothing happened. Aimes opened his eyes.

  “I said fire, Davis!” The lieutenant whirled. “Damn it, man, are you—” Mathis stared down at his chest, where a long, jagged clawblade now protruded. His eyes rolled back into his head as he toppled to the ground, dead.

  Four meters away, an armored giant stood over the decapitated body of Patil Davis, a second clawblade held in one massive hand. The other hand gripped a B7-pattern rocket propelled grenade launcher.

  Aimes had never seen anyone use an RPG before. As it turned out, the sight would be the last thing he ever saw.