multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the

ever-present threat from aliens, heretics,

mutants - and worse.

To BE A man in such times is to be one amongst untold

billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody

regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

Forget the power of technology and science, for so much

has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the

promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim

dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst

the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and

the laughter of thirsting gods.

PART ONE:

PREY

'In human terms, the pursuit requires a most singular talent for empathy. It has long been my observation that the greatest of hunters are those who understand how it feels to be hunted...'

-Lord Devisies Beloch, allegedly the

'SkinRipper' of Pilotr Planus, speaking at

an Inquisitorial tribunal prior to execution.

ZSO SAHAAL

It was not a gentle awakening.

In the dark, in the spine of the great shattered vessel that had delivered him, the hunter surfaced from his slumber with a hiss. He gagged on dust-dry lungs, pulled a rattling breath through parched lips, tipped back his head, and screamed.

He had been human, once. Even now, through a haze of time and trauma, he recalled how it had been to awake as a mere man: senses flickering to life, memories accreting, dreams receding like echoes. And all of it without panic, without horror; a shadow-gallery of clumsy, flawed processes for clumsy, flawed creatures.

Not so now. Here in the dark, in the smoke and filth and dirtied snow, such gentle comforts seemed an alien indulgence.

The hunter tore his way to alertness with a feral shriek, and his first thought was this:

It has gone. Someone has taken it.

The hull was cracked.

Blasted apart where tectonic forces had played along its seams, its frescoed surfaces lay lacerated; ragged edges gathering forests of icicles. Beyond the fissures the night swarmed with snow: thick eddies undulating like the surface of an inverted ocean. Lightning flickered in the distance, shooting long shadows across the huge vessel's broken corridors.

The hunter scrambled from the crippled hull without pause, casting out his senses, seeking movement. To his nocturnal eyes the ship was an empty city: a landscape of broken towers and plateaux brimming with snow, cocooned by a curtain of ice

Locating the thieves required little effort. Picking their cautious way along the ship's surface, each inelegant footstep was a thunder-strike in his ears. Protected from the weather by shaggy overcoats, eyes made beady and black by crude snow-goggles, they seemed to the hunter reminiscent of ancient primates: grizzled ape-things investigating a hulk from the stars. He, then, was a demigod hunting monkeys.

The fools. The thieves.

They had taken it.