‘So far so good…’ Breve said, keeping the engine turning over. All across the camp, every trooper, every squad, every company of the Cadian 101st, ‘Hell’s Last’, was already moving with prompt efficiency.

Minka clambered back over the hull, dropping into one of the roof hatches and pulling the top closed to keep the dust out. The air-filters were already kicking in, blowing warmed air about their feet. It smelt of burning unguents.

‘Breve!’ Allun shouted. ‘Can we turn this thing off?’

Breve shouted something that Bergen, the front gunner, relayed into the cabin. ‘They’re overheating. If you need ventilation then open the hatches.’

Allun kicked the vents closed. ‘Last thing we need is cooking alive.’

They’d been on Malouri for four weeks, drilling incessantly and preparing themselves for the battle. There was a serious air to them now, underlined by the crackling static of orders that came through on the vox-unit.

It was routine traffic. Orders of the Day. Crude jokes. Mundane banter between the signal officers of the various companies. It went on and on until Colonel Sparker’s ident code cut through it all. All other voices fell silent.

‘General Bendikt commands.’ The attack on Traitor Rock was about to begin.

The interior of The Saint had been their home for years – mass produced, unadorned, utilitarian in every way, but home nevertheless. Every inch held some memory for Minka: the Black Five tally marks scratched over Baine’s head, old sentry rotas from their time on Potence, a few fading sketches of exercises on Crone B9 that she had engraved with her knife-blade, the scorch marks from when Dreno had accidentally discharged a las-bolt within the tight confines and miraculously no one had been more than alarmed and singed.

She took this all in. This was her squad and she was their leader, and they could not wait to get to grips with the enemy. It was not just her who felt it. A thrill went through the tight confines of The Saint. The months of travel and practice and training were over.

Even Baine sobered up. ‘So, this is it,’ he said.

Minka adjusted her helmet and slid the chin strap down. She nodded. ‘We’re going in.’

Two

TWO

Minka’s regiment, the Cadian 101st, ‘Hell’s Last’, had travelled to the planet of Malouri aboard the Endeavour-class cruiser Right of Will – a tough little scrapper that originally hailed from the shipyards orbiting Morten’s Quay, in the Agripinaa System.

The regiment had spent six months on the ice world of Crone B9. After successive campaigns on Potence, Leymas and Eastea, a spell of arctic training had raised their spirits. The air on Crone B9 was so still and quiet that they could hear the snow squeak under their boots.