Nem­etus hewed his blade through another beetle-like construct and kicked its twitching remains from the top of the berm that had been erected around the Orestes lifter facility. Its metallic carcass disappeared into the ether with an emerald glimmer just like all the rest.

He sighed. Two days of sporadic fighting, pushing out patrols and counter-offensives to protect the Oresteans while they improved their defences. More than forty-eight hours of bolter-fire and bladework and there was not a single alien body, limb or blood spatter to show for the honourable labour.

The lack of physical evidence made the whole experience unreal, ­coupled with the oppressive surge of the anti-soul effect with each enemy offensive. Nem­etus had not realised before how much satisfaction there was to be gained from seeing the enemy dead heaped upon the field of victory. To see their tanks burning, their soldiers cut down, was an account of the punishment meted out for defiance of the Emperor.

He was not a bloodthirsty warrior, but he did enjoy his calling. He remembered nothing of his life before he had been chosen to become a Primaris Space Marine, but he could assume that he had been no stranger to violence.

The Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes did not recruit pacifists.

Bright stars in the firmament of battle.

This was not a battle for glory, but the presence of the Ultramarines was certainly an inspiration to the Oresteans. Wherever the warriors of Roboute Guilliman passed, hearts were lifted and spines stiffened. Without them, Nem­etus was sure that all resistance on the surface would have crumbled, giving the necrons free rein to assault the orbital station with full force.

With the outer perimeter dyke now completed, the Oresteans had put down shovels and trenching tools and taken up their lasguns and shotguns again. Despite the bolstering presence of the Space Marines, their contribution was muted. The all-encompassing sense of hopelessness had disappeared; a less potent feeling of its return heralded each enemy attack.

Nem­etus could feel the despair growing again. He saw it in the sagging shoulders of the troopers from the facility, and in their shuffled step as they moved to firing positions in response to the bugles of their officer corps.

Their eyes told the story most clearly. Not the resigned detachment Nem­etus had seen in the gaze of soldiers of enduring service, but a detached disinterest. On the positive side, the cessation of feeling eliminated natural fear. But it did so at the expense of thought and passion, and hour by hour the lieutenant not only saw but felt the creeping doom coming back.

The roar of bike engines drew his attention to the return of Sergeant Vayoz and his outriders. They drew up a short distance from the seven-foot-high berm, the weapons of their mounts turned outwards.