The fresh squad of Scions gleamed, armour spotless despite the filth, and stood rigid as statues despite the unyielding heat and encroaching humidity. I’ve heard tell that Scions are forged by training so demanding that few common soldiers could even survive it. The way they stood spoke of an inherent sense of superiority. What made it worse was they were justified in such sentiment.

I have heard Scions dismissed as glory-hogs by our more urbane troopers, and worse by those with coarser tongues. Once, I might have smirked at such insults. I knew of many who garner favour through privilege and rank, avoiding the dirty, inglorious tasks that the rest of us undertake, with little gratitude or recompense.

No longer. Not once I’d witnessed those bloodied, broken men staggering from the Valkyrie, their comrade draped between them. I like to think he somehow survived, that a chirurgeon stemmed his wounds and healed his sickness. But I did not see him again.

The Tempestor leading the relief squad saluted, Taton returning the gesture with his remaining hand. The package was retrieved and promptly sealed in a gene-locked cask. Both squads wordlessly departed, leaving the ground crew to tend to the Valkyrie.

‘You’re welcome.’

I glanced to the open cockpit. Shard was lounging in the flight seat, staring after the departing Scions. Behind her the navigator dismounted the vessel, tearing his helm from his head.

She caught my gaze and frowned, arching an eyebrow.

‘Something bothering you?’ she asked. ‘You have a face like a kicked dog.’

I hated her then. The smugness. Did she know I had lost vital footage, as well as a prized relic? It did not matter, for it was not as though she would care either way. I rounded on her, but the rant died in my throat, for I suddenly saw the empty seats on the Valkyrie, and remembered the soldiers scrambling through the swamp to retrieve their dying comrade. None of them had uttered a word of complaint. Why should I?

But she would not let it be, calling after me as I turned away.

‘Hello? I asked you a question. Manners dictate you provide an answer.’

I froze, fists balled. I had no idea what I expected to do with them. It was years since I had thrown a punch, and I knew a trained soldier would effortlessly dismantle me.

Of course, that realisation just made me angrier.

‘My problem?’ I said. ‘My problem is I am supposed to be producing a pict on the glorious Aeronautica Imperialis, the heroes who defend our skies from xenos and heretic alike. I came to bear witness to their trials and victories. I came here for a true picture of war.’

‘And how is that progressing?’