Few had many months of life left beyond their return, for no one lived long in these awful times. Upon the fringes of Ultramar, monsters stalked. Worst of all were the Heretic Astartes and their lords, the traitor sons of the Emperor Himself.

A mortal man cannot triumph against beings who had lived for millennia nourished by hatred. Miraculously, Varens had faced them and lived. The chances were that his next encounter would see him dead.

He had never known any other reality. He was fully aware of the brevity of his life, so Varens enjoyed the view and the cold in a way that a man from a more peaceful age would not. Someone whose life was full of pettier concerns would take far less from the experience. Had he considered this, Varens might have taken comfort in how rich every moment was for him, but he lacked the individualism of men from those impossible years. He took pride in Ultramar and what he fought for. He looked at the view and was prepared to die for what it represented.

‘Humanity finds a way to live, even in the face of death,’ he whispered to himself.

‘What was that, my friend?’ said a gruff voice.

Varens started from the balcony rail. The speaker was a barrel-chested man, with a thatch of red hair peppered grey sticking up from his shift front. An unruly beard covered his chin, matching the band of hair circling his bald scalp.

‘Didn’t hear you coming,’ said Varens, ‘and that is a surprise.’ The man had a heavy build.

‘Don’t be fooled by this.’ The man slapped his ample belly with both hands. ‘No one ever hears me coming – it’s a knack I have. What were you saying there?’

‘Something our priest says a lot,’ Varens said. The newcomer looked at him for elaboration, but Varens was embarrassed to be caught in so personal a moment, though the sentiment was an approved one, and offered nothing more.

‘I am Varens,’ he said, ‘of Prandium II.’

The man grunted his disappointment at Varens’ reticence, but he was friendly enough.

‘Garstand is the name, Four Hundred and Fifty-Fifth Calth.’

He extended a beefy hand, its back thick with reddish hair. Varens shook. Garstand’s hand was warm in the cool evening.

‘Like the view?’ Varens asked.

Garstand pulled a face.

‘Do you not?’

‘Can’t say I care for all this open space,’ said Garstand. ‘I grew up in the arcologies, way underground. A view like this gives me agoraphobia. No roof!’

‘Then why come out?’ asked Varens.

‘I need a break from the groaning of sickly men,’ said Garstand ruefully.

Varens nodded. ‘It’s quiet out here.’

‘Too quiet.’

‘It’s better than the war.’