Author's Notes:

So here it is, the first chapter in the Mass Effect/ Warhammer 40k crossover I teased back in... October 2016? Well, it's here now. Finally decided to start putting it out.

Some basic guidelines for this story:
MaleShep (had considered FemShep, but I don't want to dabble in the footsteps of The Mission Stays The Same. That story did quite a bit of inspiration for me, but I don't want to infringe on its excellent writing and character-types).
It's not a grand-fleet arrival story. Just a handful of people being introduced to the ME setting.
I have a huge chunk of this story done so far, and will be slowly letting it out since I tend to rewrite and edit each chapter dozens of times. So a lot of it is already set in stone-ish, but things can definitely change depending on what people think.

Feel free to PM any questions, requests, etc... This story is purely a for-fun (as opposed to the TWiF series which is a bit more serious for me).

Cadia, Segmentum Obscurus

340.40M

Kane checked his hellgun battery one final time. It took an extreme force of will to not let his impatience show. The young men, boys really, surrounding him in the Chimera's troop compartment looked amongst each other with the distinct aura of men terrified. They murmured Litanies, whispered prayers, rocked back and forth as best they could given their restraining harnesses. Some checked their equipment, counted their magazines. One idiot was wiping his standard issue combat bayonet on his pants leg, attempting to clean away the imaginary grime. The Chimera rumbled to the right, skirting an unseen crater, and the motion made the Whiteshield slip. The knife cut, and he yelped in pain before sheepishly shoving the bloodied blade back into its scabbard.

Their fear was understandable. They were Whiteshields, and this was their first true battle. Yes they were Cadians. Yes they had grown up with war as a reality. Yes, they had trained for this since birth. But they were mortal men and they were now flying into the face of a terrible foe that wanted nothing more than to utterly devour them, both physically and spiritually. If they were not terrified than they were already dead. Fear would make them cautious, wary of their fragility. Kane did not need dead heroes. He needed soldiers.

The bass echoes of the raging battle seeped through the transport's thick walls, reminding them that the enemy was impatient to greet them. Kane felt the raucous vibrations of artillery shells bleed through the thrum of the Chimera engines and the grinding of the treads. He had but to close his eyes to picture the terrific scene outside. Mud and grit spewing into the air, superheated shards of metal spinning in all directions, fire burning so hot it melted the very earth. Bodies incinerated, lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Landscape remoulded in damnable craters.

A hare wouldn't have lasted thirty seconds in these killing grounds.

The Traitor's first shell had launched close to an hour ago. They had heard the sounds of war-thunder from their staging point behind Line Red. And in their Chimeras they had listened as it grew steadily louder. No one knew how long the barrage would last, perhaps a day or perhaps a few more minutes. One could never tell. There was no logic to the wars waged by the forces of the Ruinous Powers. Sometimes they threw ceaseless hordes of cultists to bury the enemy in death. Other times they launched lightning raids with elite forces. Still other times they summoned vile Warp energies that erased entire cities from physical existence.

What they did not do… was shoot an entire sector's worth of artillery into an isolated position on the Imperial line without a plan to crush right through it. Their desperation could be felt in the savageness of their bombardment. Mortars, siege guns, missiles. Every weapon of war that could be brought to bear, all directed at the thin stretch of trenches where noble Guardsmen held their ground against the tides of darkness.

Every hour the Guardsmen stood shorted the momentum of the Enemy and gave the loyalist armies time to recover. It was true, painfully true, that Imperial Command was reeling. The invasion had come so suddenly, without warning. Even the dozens of Astartes Chapters and Naval fleets that stood guard over the Eye of Terror had been caught wrong-footed. Days later, they still struggled to amass the force and strategy necessary to drive back the Enemy. The battles had been ruthless, breathless, following so quickly after each other that the strategists scrambled just to match the Enemy on the field. This bombardment was their first real break since the landings.

Personally, Kane hoped it would end soon even though a ground assault would follow right on its heels. The best weapons and training in the galaxy meant little if death could strike from above at any moment. All soldiers hated incoming artillery just as much as they loved outgoing. A rifleman couldn't compete with a screaming shell. The sooner the shelling ended, the more men they would have to repel the next assault.

Kane leaned back against the hull and closed his eyes. He thanked whoever had designed the Kasrkin armor for implementing a tinted face-shield. He got quiet with the prospect of battle. While some of his Kasrkin brothers made noise and bragged about their upcoming kills, he sat and thought. And his thoughtful face was a scary one to the uninitiated. It was cold, angry. If the Whiteshields saw that face their tenuous morale would snap.

He was not scared; Karskin never feared an enemy they could shoot at. But he was resigned. His lips moved soundlessly in one of the many prayers from The Valorous Path, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought about the maps he had seen in the briefing room. He considered the various ways one of the Enemy shells could vaporize them in an instant. The average life expectancy on the Cadian frontlines so far was two hours.

The Cadian frontlines. The thought made bile choke his throat. It had been centuries since the Archenemy had landed a sizable enough force to establish a beachhead on their home world. It had been much longer since they had the forces to mount a full ground offensive. Less than a month ago a ragtag collection of eight cruiser-sized transport ships blasted through the naval blockade and crashed on the barren southern plains. The majority of their fleet had been destroyed or fled, but those eight transports and a Traitor Astartes strike cruiser landed an estimated four hundred thousand soldiers. Within two months they had overrun three Kasrs, with the help of monumental uprisings by Chaos cults, and annihilated a full Interior Guard army of two hundred thousand on the field of battle. If the Sector Command hadn't already been scrambling to organize a swift counter-offensive, the destruction of the Guard army would have caused quite a panic. Instead it merely hastened the assembly of two reprisal Armies and led to the premature graduation of one thousand Whiteshield companies from training. They were one of those thousand companies, and they were the first one to be sent into combat.

His particular training company had been in the early stages of its first battalion live-fire cycle when the mustering occurred, so their final combat tests never came through and the company shipped out without so much as a single round of final marksmanship testing. The heavy weapons were assigned at random to the trainees who were given an inadequate completion course in their systems while on the way to the staging fields. The bulk of their supplies had been left behind, and on arrival their officers had scrambled to find ammunition and equipment for the company. It was a mercy that, even without training completed, every single boy in the company could be called proficient with his weapon. It did not matter if they were ungraduated. They were Cadians. Every single one of them was an expert on the range, and all had a smattering of heavy and special weapons training.

Even with the rushed final training, they were better trained than ninety percent of post-graduation Guardsmen around the Imperium. Cadians were born and bred to be soldiers. What they had missed would come along soon enough once the lasers started flying. The men had proven adept and quick to learn in training. But Kane had his private doubts. He had seen veterans of a dozen campaigns break at their first encounter with the Ruinous Powers. The Archenemy stood in a league of its own, so indescribably powerful and vile that the Imperium's other enemies could not compare. These raw recruits were in for the shock of their lives. Probably the end of their lives, too.

Command had only reinforced his doubts when the officers came back with the bare necessities for their unit. Ten magazines and one fragmentation grenade per man, two thousand rounds per heavy bolter, twenty missiles for their two launchers, and only two ration packs each. The message had been clear enough to a veteran like himself.

They weren't expected to live past the day.

The revelation had not surprised him. Cadian battlefields had a well-earned reputation for being merciless meat grinders. Any Cadian would rather die than surrender a single meter of their homeground, and the Enemy was fearless and single-minded in its hatred of the servants of the Golden Throne. Cadia showcased warfare in its purist form: the worst of the Archenemy versus the finest of the Imperium. Here were the battles where men fought until their ammunition ran dry, their weapons had broken over an enemy's skull, their knives were stuck in someone's ribs, their shovel had snapped in half and their bodies were shattered in a hundred places. Units were not decimated on Cadian battlefields; they were wiped out.

The company commander had not been given an explanation for their unusual deployment. Had there been time the officer cadre would have met and grumbled about it, but there was no time. All that mattered was getting their men to the front lines in one piece. Still, Kane wondered. There were plenty of better trained and better supplied units that could have been ordered up and stood a real chance of surviving. Hell, there were more expendable units available too. He could not understand the strategic reason behind their specific orders. An ill-equipped Whiteshield unit could not be expected to hold out for long. Especially against the kind of forces they were fighting. The official military reports claimed that the Archenemy had lost over five hundred thousand men in the opening months of the ground campaign. Kane knew those numbers held little hope of accuracy. It was impossible to count the traitorous dead because there were always so many, and many were devoured in their own sorcerous machinations. That and he knew that Imperial strategists loved to pad the numbers for the sake of morale. There was also no way of counting how many their ranks had swelled by as every infernal cult in the region rushed to join them.

Accurate or not, it didn't do them a lick of good. All it would take was a few hundred to overwhelm their position. He reviewed the numbers in his head for lack of something better to do. One hundred ninety four Whiteshields. One company commander, three platoon officers, and Kane. Four heavy bolters and two missile launchers in the heavy weapons platoon. Their armor was generic Cadian flak, and they had only two support weapons per rifle platoon. They could hold against five hundred or more, but that would be pushing it. Kane had yet to see the Traitor Legions skimp on manpower.

As a lowly Whiteshield cadre sergeant he had no business understanding the Grand Plan of whatever pompous overlord was running this campaign. All he had to understand was the paper-sheaf with their orders that had been handed to him. Reinforce the salient. That was what the God-Emperor had decreed for them. That was their mission. And that would be their grave when it came to it.

Their destination was an entrenched position forward of Imperial Line Red. After the destruction of the Ninth Interior Guard Army, the initial Line Blue had been abandoned. While the Archenemy overwhelmed Kasrs Rento, Flar, and Yuuton, Imperial forces established a second defensive position codenamed Line Red to contain the threat. The survivors of Line Blue had retreated fifty kilometers to Line Red, hounded by traitorous warbands the entire way. By the time the Kasrs had been pacified, Line Red held over half a million Imperial soldiers.

The idea, Kane assumed, was to let the Archenemy break themselves on Line Red, then sweep them back into their landing zones where they could be boxed in and slaughtered by massed artillery. It was a somewhat risky venture, because the Imperial forces were spread across a lengthy distance and could only bring a portion of their might to bear at any given time. If the Traitor Legion concentrated its entire force on a few locations, it would crack Line Red in half and only serve to repeat the loss of the Ninth. Only, this time there would be no organized retreat to another defensive position. What little Kane had gleaned told him that everything was being placed on Line Red. There would be no reserves, no backup plan. It was an all-or-nothing gamble.

Even so, it was a good plan. The Imperial Guard's main advantage was sheer firepower, and no one held a defensive line like the Guard. And while the Archenemy could show masterwork brilliance in the field, restraining thousands of demented soldiers almost always proved beyond their capabilities in extended battles. Once the blood was let, control became nearly impossible. Competent Imperial tacticians could play that to their advantage.

If that was in fact what they were planning, of course. The only fly in the ointment was that not all of the Line Blue units had followed through on the order to retreat. The 94th Cadian Shock Troops and 248th Interior Guard Cadian Siege Company refused to give ground. Their trenches stood only five kilometers from Line Red, close enough to cause a significant disruption in battle plans. Unless the Lord General was willing to call in artillery on an Imperial position, the Traitor Legion could come within spitting distance of Line Red before the defenders could engage. Friendly fire was a fast way to break morale, and the Guard needed as much as it could get at the moment. The last thing they needed was panic and discontent spreading through the ranks. That was how the Ruinous Powers snuck in.

Their break from the order of battle had undoubtedly caused a stir in the command tents, but if the Lord General understood anything it was the passion with which Cadians held the line. Instead of abandoning them to the Traitor Legion, he ordered reinforcements sent out to aid them. Probably just to serve as another speed bump in the traitors' advance. Or maybe to give them a juicy target as bait. What Kane did know was that Command did not expect the defenders to last long, so the 675/w9 was about to see the beginning and subsequent end of its glorious incarnation. Two days might have been a bit optimistic. If the Archenemy hit them hard with even a thousand men, they wouldn't last beyond a few hours.

There was another reason he doubted how long they would last. Intelligence had done a good job keeping everyone in the dark, but before they boarded the Chimeras Kane stole a minute with a unit of Tallarn cavalry scouts and confirmed the rumors he had been hearing.

The Traitor Marines were original Legion. The World Eaters. The name sent a chill down his spine, but only for a moment. That was a name worth fearing. A single squad of those fiends would tear through the company without so much as pausing to piss on their corpses. The chance of encountering them was miniscule, but years of campaigning had taught Kane to expect the unexpected. And they had very little weaponry that could kill those ancient hellfiends. If they fought the Traitor Marines, they would certainly all die.

There were worse ways to die, he knew that. If his death came at the hands of the Archenemy's finest warriors, then so be it. Better them than a lowly cultist or a slobbering Ork. His men wouldn't see it the same way, but they had nothing to compare it to. All they would know would be death.

He knew very little about the details of the grand campaign and that was to be expected. What he did know was that the eventual Imperial counterattack would strike with the fury of a thousand Terran suns. There were companies from eight Loyalist Astartes chapters present in the staging grounds. Eight. The firepower held by even one of those companies left Kane impressed. Why hadn't they sent one of them out to hold the line? Space Marines could have done it much better than Whiteshields, and even stonewalled the Enemy's advance without trouble. Hell, all eight companies of Space Marines could probably charge straight from Line Red and keep going until they killed every single warp-twisted enemy on the planet.

In addition to the Loyalist Astartes, the ranks of the Imperial Guard contained the finest warriors from the every system. Mordian riflemen, Krieg combat engineers, Tallarn scouts, Elysian gravtroops, and more. Thirty loyalist worlds had supplied troops to the defense of Cadia, and that was before factoring in the numberless ranks of Cadian soldiers. And there were even more on the way. The nearest Kasrs to Line Red had devoted their entire industrial capabilities into the rapid manufacturing of war supplies. They could have conquered ten worlds with the amount of troops collected here.

Which was what made the Archenemy's threat so terrifyingly real. Assume half of the invasion force had died in entry or in the following battles. Hundreds of thousands had certainly died. But what of the Cadian population? How many thousand had joined the ranks of the Archenemy after the Ruinous Powers had infested their streets? And how many warp-spawned beasts prowled their ranks? Conservative estimate, the Enemy would have upwards of six hundred thousand bodies, human or otherwise. This battle would be spoken of for ages.

The scale of this war was so vast that Kane knew he could never understand the intricacies of the Lord General's plans, even if he lived through and then read the histories written of it afterwards. In the grand scheme of things, this unit's stand would never be remembered. It was a little thing, the life of a Whiteshield training company. They would be wiped out and replaced in the time it took the Lord General to shit on his ivory throne. But that was the reality of life in service to the Emperor. Lives only mattered in service rendered, and the Enemy was ever ravenous. If it took a thousand souls a day to keep the Emperor's Throne tended, then it took a trillion a day more to maintain Imperial territories. What was two hundred compared to that? It was a humbling thought, and one that he had more or less repeated to himself a thousand-thousand times since his first oath.

There is no greater homage a man can pay, Kane reminded himself, than to die for the Emperor's Honor.

He ran a hand along the length of his hellgun. The weapon was thoroughly blessed and prayed over. The fine-sheen of sacred cleaning oils still glimmered on the tip of the barrel. It was excess, and one that would have been looked on disapprovingly by the Engineseers, but every Guardsman had his quirk. Kane's was to especially bless the barrel. It was a tradition he had gleaned from Colonel Gainer, the man who had trained Kane's Schola class how to shoot the eye off a rat at two hundred meters. His thumb rubbed clockwise across the oil and spread the remainder over the now-dry vents. That little tingle of assurance ran through his arm and he broke the frown that marred his face. It would not fail him in the battle ahead. He might not understand the grand campaign, but as long as he had faith in his lasgun he was good to go. If anything would get him through this fool's run, it would be his wits, his gun, and the Emperor's blessing.

Emperor's blessing. Kane sincerely doubted he was important enough to earn that privilege. That kind of thing was reserved for Saints, Astartes, and Heroes. He wasn't any of those. Hell, he wasn't even a proper Kasrkin anymore. He was a damned cadre sergeant for a bunch of teenage soldiers. Soldiers like him weren't important to anyone but the men they stood beside.

"Battle lines are in sight" the driver announced over the internal vox. Everyone turned to look at the voxbox. One was so pale Kane thought the boy might pass out in his seat. "One minute to drop off. Emperor bless, grunts."

The Chimera lurched suddenly to one side. A muffled explosion rang outside the vehicle and the shockwave hurled the men against their restraints. Several broke. One Whiteshield was alert enough to grab a handrail, but the others tripped and fell face-first into their comrades on the opposite wall. Someone threw up. The sound of vomit splashing on the hard rubber floor cover set many of the others to retching. Kane held back from ordering them to suck it up. It would do no good. Instead he pounded the top of the compartment to gather their attention. They picked up their weapons and held them in white-knuckled grips.

"Remember what we taught you" He barked. Kane knew the other officers were giving this same speech in their own Chimeras. "Stick to your team, take careful shots, keep your head down! This is no worse than your training. The Enemy is expecting us to roll over and die for them. How about we punch them straight in the teeth instead?" He took a breath and studied their reactions. They could not see his eyes through the closed visor, but Kane turned his head so they would know he was watching. It brought them a small measure of courage. A couple flashed weak smiles and hooted with what little enthusiasm they could drum up. That was enough for him.

"When you get out of the Chimera, get into the trenches! Do not stop for anything. If the man beside you falls, keep running. If you get hit, crawl. If you drop your weapon, don't turn around to grab it. You will make it into that trench or so help me I will shoot you myself. Do you understand?"

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the squad. The Chimera bucked again, losing momentum so suddenly that the soldiers were thrown up against each other. This time Kane could smell the ozone come boiling into the compartment. Heat washed over them and buffeted the men nearest the driver's hatch. They skidded forward a few more meters before stuttering to a halt. He instinctively unbuckled as the Chimera jerked into a downward angle. Stumbling forward over the Whiteshields' feet to get to the hatch up front, Kane banged once on it and felt the handle. It was jammed and hot.

"Driver, get us moving!"

There was no response. A quick feel of the steaming hatch itself told him they no longer had a driver. Dwelling on the turn of events would have done no good. In a heartbeat Kane had adjusted and turned to face the Whiteshields. Pointing to the far door, he barked for them to move.

"Get those open. We've got to leg it. Move! Move! Move!"

The men leapt to the order, moving with the alacrity that only adrenaline could provide. One shoved the hatch down and the others ran out and scattered in textbook formation. Kane ran right behind them, shouting the order to continue on before he touched dirt. This was combat drill, not deployment drill. The kind of shells that were falling would wipe them all out if a single one hit in the center of the formation. Gesturing to each side, he ordered them to spread in a line and start hoofing it. The Whiteshields stood about for a second to catch their bearings. The more alert ones started off without so much as a "Yes Sarge!" Growling under his breath, he shouldered through the remainder and took in the situation in a glance.

The driver's compartment was crumpled in, shattered by an unexploded artillery round. They were still seventy meters from trenches. Two other Chimeras were down, one smoking and belching flame as the ammunition inside cooked off. He recognized the size of the explosions that tore the wreckage apart. The heavy weapons platoon was out. The other crawled forward on the last legs of its own momentum. The doors opened and a dozen men stumbled out. They were dazed and falling about like drunks on shore leave. A few had the wits to begin limping towards the trenches. Then a trio of explosions flashed in their midst and sent bloody chunks of meat flying through the air. Kane could smell the cooking flesh from a distance. Not a single man remained standing from the entire Chimera.

"To the lines" he shouted, pointing ahead.

The rest of the squad started moving. Some sprinted, others picked their way forward at a jog. There was no wrong answer except to stay put. Artillery rounds continued to fall. The other Chimeras were already reaching the lines where the defenders greeted them with cheers. The first two arrived and deposited their loads before turning around, but the third one to reach was thrown high in the air by a ground-shaking explosion, flipping end over end, and landed on the far side of trenches. Battered soldiers crawled out and were dragged into the trenches by the 94th Guardsmen. Another lost control and careened straight into the trench network, taking out a stubber emplacement and crushing the crew even as they scrambled to safety.

His whole body crackled with energy. The ground was rough and jagged from craters. Blood and water had turned the field into mud and guck that sucked at his boots and slowed us down with every step. Trooper Kirt had already lost a boot to the mud and staggered forward with one of his buddies slung over his back. The two men disappeared in a flash of fire and blood. Kane charged straight through the steaming red cloud left in their wake, trusting the ancient adage that artillery never strikes the same spot twice.

The company vox operator had been on Kane's Chimera and was one of the frontrunners despite his heavy gear. He was making good progress until a nearby mortar shell threw out a hail of shrapnel his way. Kane watched him spin a sudden jerky circle, arms twirling like a dancer in an opera. His throat, chest, and thighs were flayed to the bone. Blood sprayed across Kane's visor. The Whiteshield's eyes were wide and pleading as he tumbled onto his back. Kane dropped to a knee beside him. The others started to look back, but he motioned for them to go on.

The man moaned weakly, grasping at his arms. Kane shoved his hands away and sliced through the straps holding the vox to his back. It came off easily, already loosened by the explosion. The sound he made might have been one of horror and betrayal, but Kane did not stop to listen.

"Your soul to the Emperor's side" he muttered. The dying trooper reached after him as he hurried off after the others, dragging the vox along. If the trooper was lucky another explosion would kill him before he bled to death in the mud and mire of the field. Slow deaths were the worst kind.

The barrage was growing more intense. The heavy guns were lightening up; the lighter guns were growing heavier. Kane could pick out the ordinary mortar rounds landing in little spurts amidst the volcanic siege shells. Three more from his Chimera died before reaching the lines. The Whiteshields slid into the trench with care, somehow finding the sense of mind to watch their step. Kane did no such thing. A cluster of men stood by watching him come in. He hurled the vox to them and dove in feet first. Someone caught him midair, hurling him around in an arc and using his momentum to toss him against the edge of the trench. The result was he slammed hard into the dirt, but Kane was still on his feet and scanning the trench even as he regained his balance.

"You're the fracking reinforcements?"

The gruff voice came from Kane's right. Moments later the source of the noise made itself apparent. It was an infantry officer with scuffed armor and a hasty bandage wrapped around his left calf. The bandages were stained deeply with blood. A lieutenant insignia showed on his chest pips. Kane tossed a crisp salute, drinking in the state of the men around him as he did. Their faces were grim but determined. The officer's helmet was cocked slightly off-center, matching his give-them-hell appearance.

"What made it across, lieutenant." He dropped the salute and looked around, canvassing the area for his charges. It was hard to count all of the Whiteshields; they were already being shoved into firing positions by the seasoned riflemen of the 94th. Kane did not see his own officers anywhere. Now did he see any of their precious heavy weapons, either. "We took casualties on the crossing. I believe we lost our heavy weapons section. Have you seen any officers about?"

"Haven't seen another officer yet" the man growled. He pointed without further preamble. "You're a Kasrkin, aren't you? So you know the drill without needing to be told. How good are these Whiteshields?"

"Good enough" Kane answered. "They'll hold. Are you the officer in charge?"

"Highest ranking survivor. Arnalt" the man replied. They all glanced over in the direction of an explosion. It had landed very close, erupting just over the lip of the trench to shower them with mud. Now that there were no more Chimeras to take shots at, the majority of the shelling resumed landing in and around the trenches. Mostly mortars now. The big guns had fallen silent. Even the Whiteshields knew what was coming next. The lieutenant glanced up and down the trench line as if seeking inspiration.

"Frack it, I'm assigning you to my staff." He chuckled dryly. "Follow me. We need to go coordinate with the Jay-Cee. Oh, and thanks for salvaging the vox. Ours is scattered in about a hundred pieces somewhere over there, along with the operator."

Their heads remained low as they sprinted along the trench network. There were two kilometers of line to hold. It was a small amount on an ordinary battlefield, but here it might as well have been half the world. Kane got a good look at how few men were left as they crossed the lines. Men were grouped in twos and threes at regular intervals, but the space between each group was alarming. There couldn't have been more than a few hundred left. Perhaps half of the Whiteshield company hadn't survived the crossing. Without heavy weapons, this position struck him as solidly indefensible.

It was painfully clear that the 94th was nowhere close to combat strength. Flak-armored ordnance staff armed with battered lasguns made up a good portion of the defensive line. Many of the defenders were walking wounded, and a few of the more critically injured ones had been laid in positions where they could still shoot even if they were immobilized. There was no triage center, no reserve team. Every man was on the line. Kane looked around for heavy weapons buried into hardpoints. None. The question was, were they destroyed or out of ammunition? Considering the fighting these men had been through, either option seemed plausible.

"Are those the 248th?" He gestured towards a pair of men jostling an empty promethium drum into their cover. Freshly packed earth leaked out of a hole shot through the container. They were reinforcing their position with anything they could find.

"The 248th was stationed on Line Blue" Lieutenant Arnold said. "Most of their vehicles were destroyed in the initial assaults. One Griffon made it to this point, but it was rendered inoperable yesterday. They've held the line with the rest of us since."

"And they volunteered to stay?"

"We volunteered them" the man said, his voice full of steel. "Though they didn't need much convincing. They left a lot of comrades behind. They've more than proven themselves as frontline soldiers."

"Honorable" Kane muttered. It struck him as bitterly ironic that these artillery crewmen had more combat experience than the infantry company he had brought in to reinforce them. The state of their line left him unimpressed and morbidly certain of the outcome of this next assault. His old company of Kasrkin could have held the line. A full-strength Cadian battalion could hold it indefinitely. But not these men. Not this pitiful collection of soldiers.

Another explosion sent smoke billowing into the trench. He saw one of the Whiteshields emerge out of the dust, flamer tank jiggling loosely on his back. The man staggered to the side as they approached, a terrified but excited grin on his face. A second Whiteshield hurried up and set about strapping the flamer down tighter. If took some fumbling, but they managed to secure it before he reached them. Flashing nervous grins, they huddled against the lip of the trench and waited for the bombardment to cease. Somewhere further down the line he heard a man screaming, whether in pain or fear he could not tell.

"What are we expecting?"

"So far, we've seen mobs of infantry. They're the usual fodder: ragged cultists and traitorous Guardsmen that sold their souls to Chaos. For the most part they're mindless rabble, few weapons. We've been mowing them down in droves, but there's always more. With luck, that's all we'll see. What are the reports from Command?"

"Not my business." Kane shook his head. "Suffice to say that when the Lord General unleashes the armies behind us, these louts will be swept back to the misery they came from."

"When will that be?"

Kane didn't answer. The lieutenant had the wisdom to not repeat the question. There were rank-and-file soldiers around and the news wouldn't do them any good. Sometimes it was best to let them hold to whatever foolish hopes that remained. Throne knew that if he had told the Whiteshields, some might have broken where they stood. There were limits to discipline, even among Cadians.

Understanding the severity of Kane's silence, the lieutenant nodded determinedly. "Then we will hold the line to give them as much time as we can."

Agreeing quietly, Kane surveyed the soldiers. They were all exhausted, walking on pure adrenaline. "And you know they will hold to the last?"

"They will" the lieutenant assured me. "Even if they lacked the will, she doesn't."

Kane turned to watch a black-clad figure striding down the trench line towards them. Men darted to the sides, nodding and saluting as their tasks allowed, all showing proper reverence to the menacing figure clad in a stifling black coat and crimson-banded cap. In a sea of dark green armor, the iconic uniform stood out like an Ork among Eldar.

The title Commissar conjured the image of a noble and cold-hearted defender of the Imperium, armed with chainsword and bolt pistol, standing vigilant over the ranks of the Guard forces that held the line against mankind's enemies. A commissar was pristine, unflappable, a pillar against the foe that showed no sign of weathering. They were incorruptible and untouchable.

The commissar before him had none of those qualities. Not at first sight. She was a small thing, standing just shorter than his shoulder, with a battered and mud-stained coat that had clearly seen much combat. An elegant sword hung at her hip, bolt pistol holstered on the opposite side, with a bandolier of grenades slung over one shoulder and a well-used lascarbine clutched to her chest. Her left hand was bandaged, her face darkened by soot and grime. Exhaustion read on her face and in her posture, the overly rigid set of her spine telling him that sheer willpower kept her composed. The startling aspect of youth peeked out underneath the signs of battle though, revealed in a brightness that could not be diminished by her fatigue.

As she approached she lifted a hand to remove her wheel cover. Kane watched in silence, uncertain of her intent, but she merely wiped her brow with the back of her dirtied sleeve before replacing it on her head. Loose strands of oily black hair fell across her face, highlighting the paleness of her skin underneath the dirt. Her hands trembled just slightly. Examining her more closely, Kane noted that her pupils were dilated too. Some sort of drug, quite possibly morphia or stimms. Her hand did not look too bad. Stimms, then.

"This is Junior Commissar Arietta Blake" Lieutenant Arnold said by way of introduction. "She was attached to the 94th a few months ago under Commissar Oden. I regret to say that Oden has gone to join the sainted martyrs, but Madam Blake's presence has been most welcome."

Kane saluted respectfully. The Junior Commissar, as her rank denoted, was young. She must have been in training under the deceased Commissar Oden, preparing to be promoted to her own unit when her mentor approved. He guessed her age somewhere around nineteen, possibly even younger. Under the grime and weariness she still bore signs of the last remnants of baby fat on her face and shine in her eyes. She had a femininely strong face with violet eyes, coal-black hair, and skin so pale she looked ghostly. For a short moment he allowed himself to try and remember where he had seen that before. Northern stock. Hardy folk, the northerners. A bit fatalistic, but stubborn when it counted.

"Madam Commissar" he said in greeting. She returned the salute crisply, tired muscles performing the motion with lifeless mechanical precision. Her eyes raked over his armor for a unit marking before turning to Lieutenant Arnold. The brief movement pulled back her cape, revealing a dented breastplate bearing what appeared to be a family coat of arms. Ostentatious, but effective judging by the scratches that marked where it had saved her life.

She did not waste time on introductions nor pleasantries. "The right flank is dangerously low on bodies and ammunition, lieutenant. They will not hold against another assault as they are. I see reinforcements have arrived?"

"Pitifully few" the lieutenant answered. "A single company, lost their heavy weapons and officers on the ride across. This is…"

"Troop Sergeant Kane, Madam Commissar." Some of the weariness drained from her face, replaced by the glimmer of hope that Kane knew was about to be dashed.

"When we requested reinforcements I did not realize they were sending us Kasrkin. Finally some good news."

"Sorry to disappoint, Madam Commissar." Kane gestured down the lines. "I'm only cadre. Your reinforcements are Whiteshields fresh out of training. They're set up along the line that way. Took significant casualties getting to you and we're minimally equipped. As the lieutenant said, our heavy weapons section never made it across. Managed to bring a few flamers and grenade launchers, but that's it for firepower. These men will stand their ground and they're ready to die for the Throne though. You can be sure of that."

A disappointed grimace slugged its way across her lips, but she nodded and looked back to the lieutenant. The artillery had begun to slacken. The enemy would be coming soon. Kane shifted to recover his balance when he tripped on a jutting bit of dir- that was a leg. Blinking in surprise, Kane surveyed the trench again and realized that the ground was lined with the dead. Scores of slain soldiers, stripped of armor, weapons, ammunition, and anything useful, lay shoulder to shoulder along the rear wall of the trench. Most were recognizable, but some were so badly burnt or hacked or blown apart that he could hardly tell they were human. The line continued unbroken in both directions. These were the men that had already fallen. The dead far outnumbered the living.

"Then we shall hold the right flank, for there the fighting will be the fiercest. The sergeants of the 94th will commandeer your soldiers and put them to use. I hope your assignment to training cadre has not dulled your prowess, Sergeant Kane."

"Just made me eager to put the fear of the God-Emperor into some heretics" He promised. The answer satisfied her.

"To the lines then, gentlemen. Voice your prayers if you desire, and prepare for a battle that will glorify He-On-The-Throne."

She swept down the trench with fire in her step. Every man she passed turned to salute her, and Kane noticed something that made him give the young Commissar another look. They were not saluting out of fear, like the soldiers of so many units that he had fought alongside. These men respected her, were encouraged to see her walk past. A few exchanged words with her, and she appeared to know most of them by name. One tossed her a lasgun battery fresh off the little fire they had created in a hollow. She caught it and shoved it into a pocket with a nod and a blessing that left the man grinning from ear to ear.

The 94th was chock full of grizzled veterans but they were looking up to a kid-Commissar, and a woman for that matter. She must have proven her worth many times over on the battlefield to earn that kind of respect. Cadians accepted commissars more readily than other worlds' units, but that did not mean they were greeted with open arms. The quality of Cadian blood demanded the best. An inferior commissar did not last long. This Madam Blake seemed a cut above to have garnered such goodwill so quickly.

"Madam Blake appears to have a reputation with the men" he muttered to Lieutenant Arnold. The officer grinned, nearly bursting with pride.

"She was a bit of a rough fit at the start, but since this damned invasion she's earned her place. Commissar Oden bit it at Line Blue and she's stepped in admirably. Yesterday she threw herself into a crowd of cultists that were mobbing the last heavy bolter emplacement. Killed six of them with her power sword before we could get a team over to reinforce the position. She's not afraid to dirty her hands, and she's got a good head on her shoulders. Understands when to prod the men and when to let them have their way. Hell, I'd take her over a squad of Kasrkin. No offense intended" he added hastily.

Kane took none. Years on the frontline of so many warzones had taught him that the right person in the right place could have extreme effect. Sometimes only one was needed to turn the tide. "Sounds like you struck Ad."

"More or less." The lieutenant pushed to the wall as a shell screamed close by. It exploded just a few feet away from the trench. Shrapnel rained down around them, spattering into the mud in a hellish rain. Kane slapped the lieutenant's shoulder and they hurried off after the Commissar, who had walked through the rain without flinching. She huffed impatiently at the delay before continuing on.

The final barrage shell exploded somewhere behind them. In the wake of the shelling descended an oppressive, choking silence. Blanketed by smoke that rolled in like a fog, the Cadians found themselves surrounded by an unnatural quiet. Kane turned and looked back on the 94th. There were no cries of reassurance from the Cadian lines, just the barking of sergeants and corporals as they checked on their men. Even the Whiteshields knew what was coming next. Weapons were primed and men threw themselves into their firing positions with frantic prayers crossing their lips. The silence would only last a few minutes, and when it was over there was a butcher's bill that needed filling. And they were the pen that would fill it out.

"Prepare yourselves" Commissar Blake cried. Her voice boomed down the trench, augmented by a hand-speaker she had produced from her belt. "The Archenemy is coming, brave soldiers. He thinks we are weak and beaten and ready to surrender. He thinks our faith is shaken by a paltry barrage of guns. Let us prove him wrong today! When the Enemy comes he will find our guns hot to greet him! He will find our hearts filled with the steel of the God-Emperor's fury! Let every man here take account today, and find himself not wanting. The Golden Throne is watching, men of Cadia! The Imperium of Man is watching! The Angels of Death themselves stand by in the heavens, ready to bring the fallen to eternal glory!

"Guardians of the Eye of Terror! The Emperor will lead us to glorious victory today, of that I have little doubt. We will reap the Foe as they come and create such ruin that even the vilest offenders will weep for fear of our wrath! And when the last body falls, the Enemy will know who we are! Who are we?"

"THE EMPEROR'S FURY! AVE IMPERATOR!"

The cry rose from every throat along the lines. Cheers rang out in its wake, and men whooped and hollered as they made their final adjustments. Kane felt a little touch of thrill himself. Her command voice was a very stirring one and she knew the right words for the situation. She could have had a grand career in the Guard, if circumstances had been different. Her death here would be a tragedy for Cadia. So much potential lost.

Finding a firing step on the line, Kane stood to and peered out at the carrion-ridden battlefield. Corpses littered the ground as far as the eye could see. He saw many clad in Guard armor, those that had been slain as they retreated, but by far the majority wore little more than rags or makeshift armor. Those were the Archenemy's men, and their numbers were uncountable. It was as if a godly hand had scooped up an entire Kasr's graveyard and scattered ten generations of corpses across the shattered land. There had to be well over thousands slain. Several wrecked vehicles were scattered through the carnage as well. Some Chimeras here and there, a few Griffon siege vehicles, and lots of trucks. Several ugly armored vehicles lay about in various states of destruction. The numbers bore testament to the resolve of the 94th and those that stood beside them.

"That gun" Lieutenant Arnold said, coming up beside Kane. He tipped his head towards the hellgun in Kane's hands. "Can be a game changer here. Save your ammunition, Sergeant. Prioritize your targets and leave the regular scum to us."

"Define priority targets." Kane saw the first hints of a dust cloud in the distance. Setting his eye to the scope, he began to check distances and landmarks. There were a lot to choose, so he settled with those things most directly in front of them. "I thought you said these were mostly mobs."

"They are" the lieutenant agreed. "But they are not completely without leadership. Be on the lookout for large mutants and any who look like leaders. That's how we've gotten them to retreat in the past. Once their leaders go down the rest panic and retreat."

"Retreat?" Kane looked away from his lasgun and tossed the officer a questioning look. Not that the lieutenant would be able to see it through the tinted visor.

"I know, it's strange." Lieutenant Arnold shook his head. "Nothing they do makes sense. My guess would be that the ones we are facing aren't wholly bought into the taint yet."

"Native Cadians, perhaps?" The thought rankled Kane's gut, but he held no delusions. Every Cadian had experienced the taint of Chaos in one form or another, whether in the fight against the darkness or in the perversion of those around them. Cultist uprisings were a fact of life. Once the Archenemy had arrived, countless traitorous Cadians must have swarmed to their banners.

The Commissar cut in suddenly, voice dripping with acid. "It is not our place to presume at the origin of our foes. Push everything from your mind but the fight ahead. Heresy lies in idle thoughts."

Kane looked back down his sights. not wasting the energy to reply to her admonition. It pleased him to be around professionals again. Cadre to the Whiteshields had reminded him of his earliest Schola days. Filled with helpless fumbling and incompetence tempered by passionate faith. The familiar ring of steel in the Commissar's voice reassured him that he was not the only warrior on the line. Even if she was relatively new to actual war, every Schola graduate could be considered equal to a hardened veteran.

Dialing his hellgun lasgun to low power, he would be shooting at soft targets after all, Kane focused his attention on memorizing the layout of the ground ahead. Knowing the terrain was half the battle, especially on the defense. Drive the attackers into lanes of fire, chase them away from sheltering cover, pin them in the open and they were dead before they could reach the lines.

The terrain around the trenches had been transformed by the heavy shelling. It was an attacker's heaven, with plenty of churned up craters to provide cover to a smart enemy. Thank the Throne that the forces of Chaos derided such things as weakness. Best sort of enemy was the one that charged head on. Beneath the craters and wreckage of war, he noted a regular pattern in the destroyed vehicles. There was a discernable line aimed in their direction.

"Lieutenant," Kane glanced over his shoulder, "This position is on a road."

"It is." The lieutenant set his chainsword on the lip of the trench so he could check his sidearm. Inspecting his magazine critically, he grimaced and slotted it into the laspistol. "Damned inconvenient, isn't it?"

"We should have more men at this position."

"We used to." Giving his chainsword a test rev, he shrugged and indicated the pile of corpses lined against the back wall. They were more tightly concentrated here than in the other sections of the trenches. "Lost a good deal of men here."

"Reinforcements would be appropriate."

"Can't afford to take anyone else off the line. Before your Whiteshields got here, we were spread too thin to hold back a gaggle of schoolchildren. Appreciate your help, of course, but all your men are just plugging holes."

"No reserve force, then?"

"No." The lieutenant grimaced. "We don't have even a man to hold back. It's just us anchoring this position."

"Then we will hold it as we are" Kane agreed.

"That we will" Junior Commissar Blake said, taking a place at Kane's side. She settled her lascarbine into a niche that served as a firing point, tipping the weapon back and forth to inspect it for damage. A long hastily wrapped strip of plastape connected a second power pack to the first, flipped upside down for a swift reload. Kane had seen veteran infantry use that trick before. It was effective, providing the heat of the pack did not melt the plastape off.

The lascarbine could not have been part of her initial kit. Perhaps as a Commissar Cadet she had carried one, but any self-respecting Commissar swore by their sidearm. A lascarbine lacked the finesse their position required. It was not her original weapon; that much he knew. The infantry all carried the Kantrael MG or the M36. Ordinance crews used the lascarbine because it was easier to carry and less cumbersome. A better personal defense weapon.

A barely noticeable flicker of eye movement was the only indication that the Commissar had observed his attention. Easing the lascarbine on its side, she turned and regarded him openly, stern appraisal etched securely on her face. Set against her sweat-slicked midnight hair, her face radiated a corpse-pale glow. Dark streaks under her eyes stretched like battle wounds across her skin.

"Something on your mind, Kasrkin?"

"Just studying your piece, Commissar. Haven't seen many of your type to carry a longarm."

"Sword and bolter are my preferred choice" she conceded. "But the numbers we are facing require something more." She ran a hand solemnly over the stock of the lascarbine. "This soldier gave his life for the Emperor, and his weapon remains. It is fitting to honor his sacrifice by continuing to slay the Enemy in their name."

Grandiose, but appropriate, Kane thought. She could do without the formality and just say that the lascarbine had more ammunition and better range.

"What was his name?"

"Trooper Reinhart." Her eyes flashed in challenge. She lifted the weapon and showed a dog tag wrapped around the trigger guard. "Gryphon mortar operator. He operated the mortar until they were overrun. Shot over a dozen times before he finally went down, and hurled himself at the Enemy with their last mortar. In death he took many with him."

Kane nodded in respect. "He would be honored to know that his weapon is still finding use."

A sharp exhale shook her narrow frame. Shifting slightly, she adjusted her posture for a better fit against her firing step. "I'd suggest you return your focus on the enemy, Sergeant."

Choosing to not reply, Kane went back to watching the incoming cloud. The Enemy was advancing now, using the smoke raised by the bombardment to mask their movement. He could see shapes in the smoke, lots of shapes. There were no vehicles at far as he could tell. This would be a pure infantry battle. That gave them slightly better odds of survival. Infantry were much easier to kill.

"Hold your fire" the lieutenant ordered. Someone behind relayed the command over a crackling vox. Kane his head and noted that another Guardsman had come up carrying the vox they had brought in. "Wait until I give the order."

Kane continued searching the cloud through his scope. The Guardsmen had themselves in good hands.

"Is that what I think it is?"

A handful of larger shapes were beginning to make themselves known among the horde. He focused on those, knowing with certainty what would require his attention. His scope did not have much magnification, but it was enough to make the targets visible in the mad throng. Powerful, lumbering, superhuman forms. Dwarfing the raging cultists around them, they wore plate armor covered in spikes, trophies, and vicious runes that sent jolts of pressure through his skull. He averted his gaze, sending his eyes drifting across their weapons and snarling faces. Inhuman sneers bared frightful teeth. Blood sprayed from their whirring chainblades.

"Emperor's mercy flow from the heavens" Kane murmured. The lieutenant shot him a sidelong look, startled by the sudden invocation. "The Emperor preserves his children with the fires of His holy wrath. Many are the heretic that seek to torture our souls. The Emperor is a bulwark that brings salvation…"

He ran through the litany as he changed the hellgun back to full power. The lieutenant saw the subtle motion and recognition dawned in his eyes. He swallowed hard and leaned back into his weapon. Though he could barely hear Kane's words, he knew the hymn and he joined in. Kane heard the Commissar doing the same. Their three voices cut an eerie choir in their small portion of the battlefield. The Commissar's rich alto, the lieutenant's tenor, and Kane's vox-adjusted bass gave the litany a dirge-like quality. It was supposed to be a petition for safekeeping. None of them expected an answer.

The Enemy infantry rushed ever closer. Random shots began to punch into the trenches, kicking up little puffs of dirt in pale mockery of the earlier barrage. They were poorly aimed, low-caliber rounds. Dangerous to exposed flesh, but against their hardened armor the Cadians had little to fear.

Kane concentrated on the towering Chaos elite tearing forward in great strides. They overtook their slower companions with ease, racing to the battle on wings as swift as horses. Each carried an arsenal in bolters, chainblades, grenades, and other explosives. He could see three. Three of the Traitor Marines amidst a horde a thousand times their number.

Those three were more dangerous than the entire horde.

"On your shot" the lieutenant said. Kane nodded, already having marked his target. He had picked the nearest, a creature of such stature even among his comrades that the Kasrkin knew he had command. The ceramite-clad giant ran unhelmeted, his face a battlefield of scars and weeping sores. Something glowed in one hand, perhaps a plasma weapon. Interesting. Kane shifted his aim between the Marine's head and the weapon. Either one could have spectacular results. Both were nearly impossible shots.

Over Alchera, Amada System

SR-2 Normandy

2185

Shepard stood by the galactic map and looked down at his bridge crew. The officers went about their business with hidden urgency, tackling the mundane running of one of the galaxy's most advanced stealth ships as if they were operating basic 20th Century computers. Hushed small talk bounced about the CIC, their only open acknowledgment of the pervading sense of security that graced this mission. Mission wasn't even a good word for it. This was a tribute, a final goodbye. This was a solemn job, and one that had been put off for far too long.

It did not matter that the Normandy SR-2's crew was Cerberus and those they honored were Alliance. What mattered was that they were fellow humans, soldiers and sailors lost in a battle against a terrifying foe. The dead were to be revered for their service no matter which uniform they wore. This crew, this Cerberus crew, understood all too well the implication of this visit. It was more than a salute to those that had passed on. It was more than a pilgrimage to the resting place of their predecessor ship. It was more than a sober warning of the severity of their larger mission.

This was the place where their commanding officer, the one who now stood at the commander's helm with hands grasped firmly on the railing, had died. Not a man or woman aboard held any illusions about the sanctity of their task here. This was the place where humanity's greatest hope had been snuffed out, and where that same great hope had been snatched from Death's grasp and brought back in what could only be described as a miracle of modern technology.

Despite their carefully maintained composure, Shepard knew the whispers that circulated amongst the crew. Some refused to believe that he had died, instead holding to the theory that Cerberus had recovered his dying body and nursed him to health over time. Cynical, but understandable. As a one-of-a-kind success, Shepard acknowledged their skepticism with grace. He doubted he would have believed it himself if he had not been personally involved in the affair.

Others claimed that Shepard's return went beyond scientific explanation, that his life was the result of divine intervention. Those ones fairly worshipped the ground he walked on, speaking his name with reverence and awe. God forbid someone would go and start a cult in his name. Shepard was well-versed in humanity's history. A Cult of Shepard could lead to more hell than half of Earth's wars put together.

The remaining crew did not know what to make of him. Some feared him, others feared whether or not he was up to task. Certainly there were a few crewmen who had come to Cerberus from less-than-stellar backgrounds. Shepard's reputation would have the former criminals quaking in their boots.

Whatever their origins, whatever their beliefs regarding Shepard, he had no doubt that this crew was capable. The Illusive Man had made good on his word: the best ship, the best technology, the best agents. He would not skimp on the personnel. Not with this much on the line. They were professionals first, personal lives second. That did not mean they were automatons, but that was for the better. Shepard could trust in their humanity. He couldn't have done that with the faceless fanatics his team had battled during Saren's campaign.

As his gaze drifted across the new faces, taking pains to place names with faces that he had yet to memorize, he asked himself for the hundredth time, had this been a good idea? To go to such a place, with a crew he barely knew. The full weight of what they were doing had not sunk in yet. He wondered how badly it would shake him when it finally did. He knew the stories of hardened veterans breaking down when they returned to visit their fallen comrades. He knew the pain of seeing the dead. How much more so would this strike him?

Two years… he still could not imagine it. Lost in space, burned to cinders in atmospheric reentry. As dead as a biological being could be. He knew the stories in the ancient religions about resurrection and the return of the dead. To have it actually occur, much less on himself... it was not something easily comprehended. The memories were not there. It was not as if he could remember being dead. He had seen some of the records; those they allowed him to see. The science was beyond him. But the facts were there. Somehow, they had discovered how to bring him back.

The unending questions had eaten away at him, gnawing constantly at his confidence. The Illusive Man had known it would, any sane person would, and had seen fit to send him a way of alleviating his stress and fears. Yeoman Kelly Chambers, his assistant, psychologist, therapist; always in easy reach if he needed her. From her console beside the helm she plodded away at a neverending stream of tasks that ranged from crew health reports to administrative mumbojumbo. She worked tirelessly, always eager to answer a question, remind him of a name, to talk through his worries. And she did it all with an irresistible smile.

That smile. Shepard tried to think if he had ever seen her not smiling. In the few days since he had met her, the answer had been a resounding no. Her spirit was powerful and filled with cheer. It was rare to meet an optimist in this day and age, but Kelly Chambers defied all expectations. If her spirit was as durable as it appeared, she would be a great asset if only for her ability to not be dismayed.

Ordinarily he would have welcomed her cheerful grin. Today was different. Shepard's nerves were on edge. His jaw was starting to hurt from how long it had been clenched. His stomach fluttered with each passing hour that drew them nearer to the planet. A pervading sense of wrongness scratched at his spine. It was as if some greater power did not want him returning here. His resurrection had been unnatural, a direct act of defiance against Death itself. That made him an anomaly in the universe, a creature of unnatural origin. And the universe did not want him to forget that.

He had not slept well. Fragments of nightmares screeched through his mind at night. There were no clear images, but he woke several times with the horrible sense of loss and pain coursing through his body. His exhaustion left him irritable. The waiting left him anxious. He needed something to do. He needed action. He needed to get into a fight and put someone's head through a wall. In the short time he had been alive, again, he had visited one planet and three space stations, not to mention having spent a good portion of his first day fighting for his life.

The Illusive Man had thrown him straight into the fray, not giving him time to rest and recover. It was probably for the better. The shootout at the space station had left him wired. The subsequent investigation of the colony Freedom's Progress, and his encounter with Tali, had nearly stopped him cold. The confusion in her voice, the betrayed anguish when she saw him with Cerberus agents, that had hurt. It had been the knife in his gut that had driven home his new role in the galaxy. Even if he was not working for Cerberus, he was working with Cerberus.

The stigma rankled at his sense of honor. It gave him that nagging question in the back of his mind: how far would the ramifications of his actions stretch? Whether or not he approved, Cerberus would have claim to "the Great Commander Shepard" under their banner. Would his name be used to lure good people into an organization that had less than noble intentions. Was his name going to be used in terrorist actions?

The Collectors were the only reason he was not hunting down the Illusive Man. Once this was all over, he was going to have a very interesting chat with him.

It would take a long time before he grew comfortable on this ship, if that was even possible. The eyes on his back would always bother him. Miranda Lawson, Jacob Taylor, Kelly Chambers, and God only knew how many more of them. He held no delusions about that. The Illusive Man had all but told him he had spies onboard. He just hadn't said what kind.

With all the questions and mystery, hindsight continued to remind him that the Council's reaction to his audience had been more or less justified. Their actions, or lack thereof, in his absence had left him stunned. Two years of potential lost because the bureaucrats of the Council had not wanted to deal with the harsh reality. How many millions would die in the future because of those two years lost? Their hesitation infuriated him. His gut reaction had been to call them cowards and fools, to wish them a speedy journey to whichever hell they claimed faith in. But he had held his composure. He knew it would get him nowhere. Politicians were politicians were politicians.

It was astounding enough that they had not tried to have him arrested. Someone had pre-briefed them on his alleged ties to Cerberus. The resulting meeting had been chilly to say the least, so cold and distant that Shepard had felt the unease from across the communications channel. They had questioned his return with such petulant disbelief that Shepard had almost hung up on them. Short memories were the bane of his career. Just over two years ago he had saved their lives, at the cost of too many human ones. And this was the respect it had earned him? Criticism, disbelief, disloyalty. It sometimes pained him to remember that the aliens were no better than humans. Down at their core, every race was selfish and rotten.

Needless to say, it had not been a very pleasant conversation for either side. There had been accusations. There had been insults. Shepard had eaten a whole slice of humble pie to endure the Council members. God-damned Udina had sat through it all with that false smile and smoke-camaraderie. Played it safe to both sides, as the snake would.

All that work, all the lives sacrificed. And this is what it got him. They trusted him just fine when the truth was shoved in their faces, but the instant they couldn't physically see the problem he must have been crazy. One would think that the stakes he had gotten them through would have cemented their belief in his judgment.

But the Council continued to choose the overly cautious route over the efficient one. It was so much easier to believe that the Collectors were not behind the problem. Just like it had been easier to believe that Sovereign had been an advanced geth dreadnought. Their lack of spines disgusted him. Even Anderson had been cautious about his story. Anderson! The man who had mentored him, stood by his side when the Council wanted to ground him. He was on his own again, Shepard realized. The reinstatement he had received was a token gesture that the Council hoped would get him off their backs. They didn't care about the Collectors, or the lost human colonies. They cared about their positions. Well, that wasn't fair. Anderson cared, but there was only so much he could do.

His talk with Joker afterwards hadn't helped his mood. The good-hearted but crass pilot had told Shepard bluntly where the Council could stick it. They had enjoyed a laugh, shared some memories, and walked away with a nagging sense of having been wronged. It was not a feeling that Shepard could afford to keep, and he spent a long night trying to force it away. The anger did not want to leave; he knew he had every reason to feel justified. He had done so much, and now the Council wasn't repaying him.

But it wasn't the Council's job to repay him. He was a Spectre, he served them. It flowed both ways, but there was a clear chain of command. They had done more than enough in their own minds: humanity now owned a Council seat, human-alien relations had improved dramatically, and dreadnought restrictions on the Systems Alliance had been lifted. Shepard hadn't done any of it for himself, he had done it for the galaxy. He didn't need, or even want, to be singled out for repayment. What he wanted was for the galaxy to be ready. And it wasn't.

"Shepard." Joker's voice cracked on the overhead speaker. Shepard shook himself from his reverie and checked the system map. The Normandy was approaching the atmospheric insertion point, gliding through low space. It was a quiet run so far. Far quieter than his last first-run on the Normandy. Eden Prime seemed like a lifetime ago. It literally was; a smile teased at the corner of his mouth at the thought. Lifetime. The only man in existence who could use that phrase and actually mean it.

"Go for Shepard, Joker."

"Approaching the drop off now. The away team is geared up and ready for you in the hangar."

"Understood. Inform them I am on my way."

He double-checked the groundside map against the one on his omnitool to ensure it had updated before turning away and heading for the elevator. Kelly wished him a goodbye and he spent a moment returning it. Her smile remained, but he could read the guarded expression in her eyes. She was worried for him. The entire crew was worried for him. This might have been a simple memorial trip for most of them, but it had the potential to go badly.

Shepard knew the unspoken fears. This would be an emotional strain that many wondered if he was ready for. He had only been "alive" for a few days, and he was about to visit the scene of his death. He wondered himself if he was ready. It would be surreal, he was sure of that. The whole thing would be like an emotional ten-rounder with Leonard "Lefty" Lyons. The old Shepard would have been able to handle it just fine, all things considered. The man who had read the Eden Prime Relay, stopped Matriarch Benezia, repelled the Geth on Feros, and defeated Saren and Sovereign could take on anything.

Now everyone wanted to know if the new Shepard was as tough as the old one.

"The ship is yours, Joker. I'll see you when I get back."

"See you on the flip side… Shepard."

Joker's momentary hesitation made him wince. Joker was one of the only familiar faces on the ship. The pilot's slip only drove home how uncomfortable he felt. Eventually things would normalize. Eventually he would find closure. But not today. Dear God, not today.

Shepard took the elevator straight down. The slight tug of instinct slid his hand to press the main deck, where Doctor Chakwas was. Her presence had helped soothe some of his fears about Cerberus. Her wisdom and kindly manner could help soothe the nervousness in his belly. But he couldn't. This was his test. This visit was for him. If he relied on others to make it through, what would that say about him? What would he say about himself?

His hand fell from the panel and sought out the comforting weight on his hip. The Carnifex was new to him. In the past two days he had put several hundred rounds downrange with it, but there was only so much he could do in the simulators or the limited range onboard. He would not need it, not here. It was just another reminder of his newness, of his gnawing insecurities. He would have preferred an Avenger. The ubiquitous Alliance weapon had served him well in his campaign against Saren. It would have been improper to bring it. The dead deserved the respect of a solemn visit. To come ready for war would be a travesty to their memory.

There would be no trouble. Scans showed the crash site was clear of life signs. The area had been untouched for some time. In the first year, some interested parties had descended on the site, but aggressive Alliance patrols had driven them off. The Alliance satellites in place ensured that any straggler pirates would be interdicted before they could launch any operations to disturb the site.

Miranda greeted him as he entered the hangar. The raven-haired Cerberus operative had been responsible for his return. From what little he knew about her, she was the Illusive Man's right hand, an incredible scientist, a vicious warrior, and a stone-cold spy. She had been honest about her job, at least. Warned him upfront that she sent regular reports to the Illusive Man. Shepard still did not know what to think of her. Miranda was 'built' to be superior, and she carried that arrogance as tight to the chest as she wore her Cerberus jumpsuit. The smug sneer that constantly tried to peek out around her frown ruined some of the appeal, but Shepard was holding off on any judgment. She had reason to be arrogant. Her aloof disapproval was only natural for a woman of her 'origin.'

Her compatriot, Jacob Taylor, was easier to understand. Former Alliance, disillusioned by the bureaucracy, hoping to do good in the galaxy. Shepard did not agree with his decision to join in with Cerberus, but he respected the man's record. He was a straight shooter, carried himself like a man with a strong moral compass. His military training had kept as well. That made him dependable, even if his colors were Cerberus.

The Cerberus operatives had donned black-and-gold environmental hardsuits for this visit. It was unnecessary, the surface was near enough the Terran standard. Shepard saw they had laid out an identical suit for him. The Cerberus logo gleamed defiantly on the shoulder plate. Hiding his grimace, Shepard strode past the suit and ducked into the waiting Kodiak. It would be a cold day in hell before he donned Cerberus colors.

Following silently, perhaps understanding his desire for quiet, the Cerberus agents piled in behind him. Miranda's frown had deepened, and the brooding look in her eyes told him that she had noticed his snubbing of the hardsuit. She kept her thoughts to herself, choosing instead to pointedly ignore him. Sitting with a rigidly formal posture, she activated the visual feed on her helmet and synched herself with the Kodiak's systems.

"EDI swept for sabotage left behind by any scavengers. It looks like the site was left more or less alone. The Alliance never released the location of the Normandy's dest-" Jacob caught himself, his unease cutting through. He corrected himself, for Shepard's sake of course. But it just reminded Shepard of what they were visiting. The man's unwillingness to speak it aloud struck him as a bad omen. "...of the site. Site should be clear.."

"Thank you, Jacob." Shepard rapped the hull, alerting their pilot that they were strapped in. The crew chief, Hawthorne, palmed the button to drop the hatch before settling back into his seat. Hawthorne was former Alliance as well. He still hadn't lost the wide-eyed stare that expressed his amazement at Shepard's presence. Didn't stop him from being an excellent crew chief.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, Shepard."

"You don't have to hold back" Shepard assured them. "I died, and I'm back. Thanks to both of you. I'm not some glass vase that needs to be coddled."

"That remains to be seen" Miranda whispered quietly. Her voice was loud enough to be heard. That was intentional. Everything she did was calculated. "We lost at least two months of final tests. Your psyche seems stable, but this will be a major incident."

Shepard chose to not comment. Instead he kept his tone light and cheery. It did no good against the ice-cold composure that was Miranda. He was beginning to wonder if she ever smiled. Certainly not recently, or in public. In many ways she was the polar opposite of Kelly Chambers. Changing his attention to the armorer, he nodded.

"Jacob, how are you feeling?"

"I don't like shuttles" Jacob replied, his voice steady. "Be better when I get good earth beneath my boots."

"You and me both" Shepard joked. He wished that he felt the same confidence.

Cadia, Segmentum Obscurus

340.40M

"Opening fire" Kane announced. His finger flicked the fire selector down to low power, no sense wasting ammunition, and closed back on the trigger. Whispering a prayer for aim, Kane squeezed gently and launched the first Imperial shot of the battle. A dazzling scarlet beam whipped across the battlefield and struck the helmetless Traitor Marine full in the chest, winking out of existence when the laser splatted harmlessly against the Marine's ceramite armor. It hardly slowed him down. Through the scope Kane saw the monster's eyes narrow. Though they were separated by hundreds of yards and Kane was well hidden in the trench, the Traitor Marine's gaze settled unerringly on him. His mouth opened in a bellow that was too far away to hear. The meaning was not lost. Adjusting his charge, the Traitor Marine headed straight in his direction.

That suited Kane well enough. It was easier to hit a target coming straight on. The overconfident warrior must have thought it a misfire, a jumped shot. Astartes were tougher that tanks and harder to kill, but they shared a universal arrogance in their abilities that made them easy to bait. A skilled soldier with the right tools could take one down. Not easily, but it could be done. This was as good a place to test that theory.

The Traitor Marine waved a massive chainsword as he charged, scattering his lesser allies like ninepins in his haste to join in battle. Too impatient to wait for them to clear a path, he hacked and slashed his way through the raving horde, killing a swath through his own forces. That brought a grim smile to Kane's mouth. If only the Enemy spent more time killing each other. it was one of the few pleasant sights in the galaxy.

"You missed" his commissar ally hissed. Her incredulity poked its head through her exhausted composure.

"With respect, ma'am," Kane hardly needed to explain himself to her, but the conversation helped soothe his mind. He shifted his aim, tracking the incoming Traitor Marine as it grew larger in his scope. "I hit exactly what I was aiming for."

"I expected better from a Kasrk-"

Resetting the hellgun to full power, Kane rested his sights on the Traitor Marine's bellowing mouth and released a single shot. The savage scarlet beam that erupted from his weapon was larger, darker, and far deadlier than the previous shot. At full power, hellgun possessed incredible anti-armor qualities. The intensity of the laser bolt gave it the power to punch through light vehicular armor. Not quite as effective against Astartes armor, but he wasn't aiming for armor.

The Traitor Marine could have dodged. He could have deflected the shot with a cut of his chainsword. He could have shifted his gait to take the shot on his heavily armored shoulder. He could have done a hundred things to avoid the incoming beam. In his arrogance, he chose none of those options. The first shot that had struck him had been weak, pitiful. It could have done little more than scar his thick skin. What did he have to fear from such a helpless weapon wielded by such a helpless ma-

The fully-charged hellgun beam struck his head like a missile. Entering through his open, snarling mouth, it severed his spine and punched through the back of his neck in a fountain of superheated blood and gore. His body snapped backwards, going stiff in the blink of an eye as life fled the unholy monstrosity. Feet skidding forwards, he hung suspended in air for a breathless moment. Then his armored corpse toppled backwards, crushing the hapless cultists that followed in his wake.

The death of the Traitor Marine sent a ripple of uncertainty and fear crashing across the nearby cultists. Some stumbled, others stopped in horror as their vile paragon fell. His death snapped them out of their mindless rage for a fleeting moment. For some, it was enough. They turned and ran, scuttling back in the direction they had come. Those behind them fell on those fleeing, cutting down the unworthy with screeching fury. Within moments, that entire portion of the Enemy line had descended into literal chaos.

"You were saying, ma'am?" Kane spared the commissar a glance. She and the lieutenant stared out at the confused brawl, speechless. "Gotta learn to bait them."

Lieutenant Arnold, recovering from his stupor a heartbeat faster than the commissar, turned back to the vox operator behind them. "Give the order. All soldiers, open fire. Heavy weapons on those damned giants."

There were few things more exciting to watch than the opening volley of lasguns. The light show was absolutely beautiful, so brilliant and dazzling in its destructive might. Sheets of blue death crashed into the oncoming cultist horde, dropping whole ranks at a time. Cultists fell in droves, tumbling and spinning in morbid dances as lasers punched through their bodies. For each the fell, dozens more closed in their wake. Kane held no illusions that the cultists would be beaten back by Imperial fire. This battle would be solved in close combat.

A single heavy bolter joined the cacophony, its comforting whump-whump-whump bursts cracking like heaven-sent thunder. It gouged at a Traitor Marine, shells cracking and bursting against his armor and exploding the cultists around it. The Traitor Marine angled his advance towards them. Knowing full well that they had a rat's chance in the Warp of killing the Marine, Kane tracked after the same target. Better to draw it over here where they stood a possible chance. If the commissar and lieutenant were any good, they could possibly take one down in close combat. Not likely, but his killing the first hadn't been likely either.

This one was helmeted, armed with a bolter, and utterly undisturbed by the hail of bolter shells striking him. Blood wept from his visor and mouth grill, gleaming darkly against his red armor. Kane's shots struck his side like hammers, drawing his attention and giving him a moment of hesitation as he decided which foe was more dangerous. Either, neither, it didn't matter. The one with the hellgun lasgun had taken down one of his brothers. That made him by default an enemy worth killing. Kane could imagine the cruel smile stealing across his fanged mouth at the thought of a worthy foe. Gracing the heavy bolter team with a cursory burst of bolter fire, silencing the heavy weapon with expertly placed shots, he turned towards Kane's position and rumbled forward.

Bolter fire raked the trench line, exploding against the dirt and flakboard. Though the Traitor Marine was running at full speed, his accuracy seemed hardly diminished. He sidestepped Kane's returned fire, dodging left and right without breaking stride. Though his ceramite armor would be proof against all but a lucky shot, this one understood that Kane's weapon had already felled one Traitor Marine. That made him dangerous, and begged for some measure of self-preservation. Even Astartes had some sense in that regard.

A bolt shell screamed past, slicing so close that Kane's vision blurred for a moment and a dull pain ripped through his skull. A muted scream came from behind him, cut short in a crumping explosion that threw blood across the trench. Lieutenant Arnold cursed and disappeared from the firing line, returning a moment later dragging the headless vox operator against the trench. He picked up the vox speaker with one hand and continued barking orders as he fired his laspistol at the onrushing horde.

Kane's continued fire did little against the Traitor Marine. The fallen Astartes dodged most of his fire, catching the rest on his most armored plating. If Kane had a squad of Kaskin brothers at his side, they would have laid waste to the bastard. Not even an Astartes could dodge that much firepower.

"Come on, you fracking dancer. Bite one for me." Kane growled as another shot missed. The dazzling beam carried on past the Traitor Marine and split a cultist's head like a melon. A wasted shot. His next trigger pull clicked empty, and he swapped out magazines without sparing a lick of thought to it. The Traitor Marine was too close to miss now, so Kane held down the trigger and hosed the target down. Sixty shots punched into and around the Traitor Marine, opening a few small gaps in his armor, but it did nothing to stop him.
As the Traitor Marine closed the distance he slung his bolter over his shoulder and drew a weapon more suited to close combat. Holding a gigantic chainsword in both hands, he roared a furious challenge that struck Kane like a physical shockwave.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

Kane leapt back from the trench as the Traitor Marine reached their line. At point-blank range, every shot hit. Power armor blackened and cracked under the tide of high power fire. Blood seeped from the dozen wounds that had punctured. One shot had knifed through his right eyepiece. It might as well have scratched an itch on his nose. The commissar and lieutenant scrambled back desperately to avoid him, firing their sidearms into his heavy armor as he hurled himself over the trench.

The impact of the Traitor Marine's body rocked them back on their heels. This one was huge, even for an Astartes. Foul energy poured out of the Traitor Marine in waves, turning the air icy and clawing at his courage. Just looking at the Traitor Marine made his eyes burn. Blood wept from his armor, coating him in a foul slime that fouled the air.

The Traitor Marine turned his way, chainsword swinging almost blindly. Kane's muscles slackened, his mind grew heavy under the intensity of the Traitor Marine's gaze. He stumbled, dropping to one knee as he struggled to resist. The fall saved his life; the growling chainsword hummed angrily over his head and tore into the trench, ripping out flakboard as if it were paper.

His hellgun felt unbearably heavy in his hands. It took all of his effort to lift it and take aim. The Traitor Marine continued to roar, his breath endless, his will pounding away at Kane like a hammer. He had encountered this before. Champions of Chaos that reeked of foul Warp power.

YOUR DEATH SHALL FEED THE GODS OF CHAOS!

A vicious hum stroked to life on his right. Junior Commissar Blake dashed forward, swinging her power sword with savage fury. Distracted by Kane, the Traitor Marine had left his back open. Her power sword screeched across his back armor, generating a trail of sparks across his plate. The shriek of the blade sang sweet in his ears, washing away the pain of the Traitor Marine's presence. He cradled his hellgun as the fallen Astartes spun back towards the Commissar, cutting from right to left with a powerful swing that would have torn her in two had she not ducked back and down, spinning acrobatically under the blade and regaining her balance in a dueling stance. Her stance indicated speed and defense. The Traitor Marine had reach, strength, power. Her only hope was in remaining out of his grasp. The odds were stacked incredibly out of her favor, but her fearless scowl gave no hint to any trepidation.

She spat on the ground between them. "I will end you, monster. Your existence is an offense to the Emperor."

The Traitor Marine laughed, his voice booming unnaturally loud in the trench. His voice sent them reeling, flooding their minds with terror and fright. Images of despair, broken comrades, shattered banners and demonic hordes strained at the corners of his vision. His limbs ached and burned as if fire flowed in his veins. He nearly let go of his hellgun lasgun in his instinctive urge to grab his arms.

YOU DARE STAND AGAINST A CHAMPION OF KHORNE?

"Bet your power-armored ass" Kane gasped, fighting through the pain. Pushing off the ground with all his strength, he hurled himself shoulder-first into the back of the Traitor Marine's knee. The impact nearly stunned him, driving the air from his lungs and cracking his shoulder. A kick from the Traitor Marine launched him into the air and slammed him against the trench wall. He could hardly breathe, some of his ribs had probably broken. When he landed on the dirt a groan exploded from what little air he retained. The Traitor Marine's boot lifted over his head, preparing to stomp down and end him.

"For Cadia!"

Lieutenant Arnold charged in with his own chainsword, howling desperately to distract the Traitor Marine. His blade whirred down, hungry for blood, but the Traitor Marine was too fast. An expert backhand knocked his chainsword high and severed his head in a gratuitous explosion of gore. His body lifted into the air and slammed down over the fallen vox operator, belching obscene amounts of blood from his gaping neck. Humans didn't have that much blood. Not unless the Ruinous Powers were at work.

Their only comfort was that the Traitor Marine's strike had thrown off his balance, if even for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, the commissar ducked under his outstretched arm and lunged for his midsection. The Traitor Marine shifted his footing, dropping his other hand to catch her blade before it could strike. Against any other opponent such a move would have earned the Traitor Marine an instant victory. His armor would stop all but a full-strength blow from her sword, and he had the speed to snatch it out of their hands before they could manage that. By rights, the commissar was dead.

Junior Commissar Arietta disagreed. Adjusting her strike with snake-like speed, she twisted her blade and ripped free of his grasping fingers, removing his trigger finger in a sizzling flash of power field rending ceramite. Then, backpedalling with a controlled swing to clear space between them, she whipped her sword up into an aggressive overhand strike that stopped his counterattack cold.

Kane watched out of the corner of his eye as he scrambled to draw his sidearm. Her skill was mesmerizing. The commissar's lips pressed together in barely contained fury at the laughing Chaos warrior before launching into another attack. Their blades cut the air in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse, with Commissar Blake as the mouse. She aimed for his chainsword first, trying to disable it and give herself the upper hand. The Champion was onto her game, but he appeared content with making her dance away from his own strokes. They were both swordmasters, but the Traitor Marine had ages of experience and size on his side. Kane snarled as he watched her lose ground. She wouldn't stand a chance on her own. Once he tired of this game he would kill her in an instant.

But she wasn't alone. Drawing his hellgun laspistol in a jerking tug, he sighted on the Traitor Marine's exposed powerpack and pumped the trigger mercilessly. One of his shots found its way into the power cells and set off a small explosion on the Traitor Marine's back. Flames licked out of his pack, sizzling loudly against the blood on his armor. An infuriated roar echoed in his ears. Driving the commissar back with a broad sweep of his chainsword, he whipped back to fix Kane with fiery rage. The fire did not appear to bother the monster. If anything, it made him more terrifying.

YOU ARE EAGER FOR DEATH, FOOL!

The Champion reached up and ripped his helmet free. His face was a mass of bloody scars surrounding eyes that burned with infernal fire. The fearsome scowl on his face sent another wave of dread surging through Kane's mind. The chainsword lashed out, aiming to split Kane down the middle. Rolling frantically out of the way, Kane lost his grip on the hellgun laspistol. He pushed awkwardly off the ground, stumbling further away in desperation to escape the shrieking monster. It did not chase him; Junior Commissar Blake made sure of that by setting upon him with a flurry of blows.

His hand closed on the grip of Lieutenant Arnold's chainsword. It revved weakly at the press of the activation stud, but as Kane pulled himself to his feet it kicked back into high gear. The bloodthirsty growl of the chainsword gave him a rush of adrenaline. This was a weapon that could do something against the Traitor Marine. Fighting through the pain in his shoulder and ribs, he lifted it in a two-handed grip and brought it crashing down at the fallen Astartes' hand as his sword-arm stretched back to prepare a blow. The human-forged chainsword had little chance of penetrating the hardened ceramite chest armor, but against the soft black carapace between the gauntlet and vambrace it would do work.

And work it did, cutting into the surprised Traitor Marine in a grinding clamor of tearing flesh. The skin tore easily, superdense muscles and bones less so. Driving his weight behind the blow, Kane cursed and grimly forced the blade down until it ripped its way through the Traitor Marine's arm and his chainsword dropped to the trench floor with a clatter.

An unearthly howl split the air. Spinning against Kane's strike, the Traitor Marine grabbed him by the helmet, his massive fingers closing around him like a child picking up a ball. There were no words to describe the hate and fury that blazed in the monster's eyes. He emitted an unintelligible scream that drained the blood from his skull, making his vision go black even as the Traitor Marine's fingers began to press in a vice-like grip around his throat.

KHORNE WILL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL, PATHETIC MORTAL!

"To the Warp with you" a strong female voice cried. There was a solid crunching sound, then a shining blue blade exploded out of his chest armor. The Traitor Marine faltered, his grip slackening for a precious moment as his body registered the shock of losing one of his hearts. Kane fell, landing unevenly on his feet. Instinct guided a hand to his belt. Snatching up a krak grenade, he shoved it blindly at the Astartes and pushed away. He could hardly see, but between the Traitor Marine's legs, he thought he saw the commissar go flying backwards as if struck. A feminine cry rent the air asunder.

The krak grenade exploded at the Astartes' feet. His legs disappeared in the ball of fire and the monster toppled to the ground. Capitalizing on the fallen Astartes' predicament, Kane caught up the lieutenant's chainsword and launched a hasty overhand swing at the back of the Traitor Marine's neck. The chainsword sank into the spine, removing the howling monster's head from his shoulders. The head continued to shriek for several seconds before falling silent.

Junior Commissar Blake staggered to her feet, leaning heavily on the trench for support, and graced him with a respectful nod.

And then the Enemy soldiers were flooding the trenches. Kane recovered his hellgun laspistol and greeted the first one with a shot through the eye that tore the raving man's head clean off. Priming a fragmentation grenade, he hurled it over the lip of the trench and let the explosion take care of the ones behind. Then, switching his hellgun to the low power setting, he started putting rounds through them as they came over. Many fell, but more rushed in to fill the gaps. There were too many to hold off. Commissar Blake stood by his side, firing her lascarbine and bolt pistol in rapid bursts. A trio of Cadians rushed into the trench section, firing behind them as they retreated before a swarm of cultists that had already breached the trench line. Kane readied the bloody chainsword and threw himself into their midst, a fierce cry wheezing out of his battered lungs.

Time held no meaning anymore. His objective held no meaning. His allies ceased to exist as his mind became focused on one thing: survival. Hand-to-hand was mindless, gruesome, and as inhumane as combat could be. Wielding the lieutenant's chainsword, his combat bayonet, his hellgun laspistol, and finally swinging his hellgun like a club, he fought and brawled against the endless tide of foes. His world became a blur of bodies and blood. Heads rolled, limbs were severed, people were screaming and grappling in the mud. Only colors mattered. Green and black were good, red and blue were bad. Kill the first. Move on to the next. Find a third. Two at a time, parry and cut. Stab in the back. Block the axe. Slit his throat. Bash his brains in. And on it went.

It was a never-ending frenzy of death.

After what felt like an eternity, the rush subsided, and Kane found himself staring at a trench full of the dead and dying. Only three remained standing in a sea of bodies knee-deep: Kane, an exhausted Junior Commissar Blake, and a bloodsoaked Guardsman wearing Corporal insignia. The commissar's face was as pale as paper-sheaf and streaked with blood and gore. The trooper at their side had plenty of scratches and bruises, but he had dragged himself to a firing point and fired into the retreating Enemy with unrestrained fury. Kane thought he heard the man cursing as he fired.

He did not follow the trooper's example. The battle was over for now. The Enemy had run. Kane gathered up his precious hellgun magazines. Stuffing them into empty pockets, he collected everything he had dropped and hooked the lieutenant's chainsword to his belt. It had proven more than useful and Kane had a feeling he would need it again. The weapon was well-crafted and old; it appeared to be an inherited weapon that had been passed down for many generations. It must have had plenty of kills to its name.

"That's it?" Kane limped to the trench and eased himself beside the trooper, hissing through his teeth as the multitudes of wounds and pains came screaming back to reality. The horde had been scattered. Sporadic fire from the Cadian lines harassed them on their way. Pitifully few lasguns fired. He did not look forward to the roll call. If even one out of four men was shooting, they had less than a hundred bodies left on the line.

He did not understand why the enemy had run. Countless foes remained on the field, easily enough to drown them in sheer numbers. The Imperials were battered, bruised, near the breaking point. Why had they run? Those that had lost their minds to Chaos did not retreat idly.

"We beat them" the trooper crowed, gasping for breath.

"Hold that thought" Kane reprimanded, turning his attention back into the trench. He started walking through the dead, putting a laser through each body's skull. It was a gruesome but necessary work. There was no telling if some cunning cultists had decided to play dead amidst the carnage.

Junior Commissar Blake had fallen to a sitting position against the trench. She had one hand buried in her coat, the other held grimly onto her power sword. Her breathing came slowly and in ragged gasps. "We held them?" The disbelief bled through her tone. She lacked the strength to hide it.

"For now." Kane noticed a body twitching underneath one of the dead Guardsman. Kicking the Imperial's corpse aside, he finished off the moaning cultist with a judicious squeeze of the trigger. "Fracking buggers shouldn't run this easy."

"Easy?" The trooper managed a weak laugh. "They nearly wiped us out."

"Exactly. They shouldn't have turned back at the last minute."

The trooper swallowed nervously, his face paling as he realized what the Kasrkin was saying.

"What's your name, trooper?"

"Corporal Brunson, sir."

"Go take a walk, see who we have left. I want a report back in twenty minutes with armory, body count, and supplies. Understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

The corporal turned to leave. Kane noted that he had the marking of Siege Company. Not a line infantryman. The way he handled himself in the fight was a testament to his stock as a Cadian. There weren't many artillery crew that could stand toe to toe with the Enemy in close combat.

"Belay that order!" The commissar had pulled herself up to look over the trench. The effort pained her, left her panting for breath. Weakly lifting a hand, she pointed out towards the Enemy's lines.

Kane turned and saw the mass of retreating soldiers had begun to regroup. The faceless horde moved with surprising skill, suddenly organizing into solid blocks of infantry formations as if they were trained. The wild masses had vanished, replaced by something far more sinister. Kane did not like that. It took a special sort of evil to turn around the Enemy. Something bad was coming next.

Single lasgun shots continued to snipe out at them, dropping bodies as the cultists attempted to form even ranks. The shooting was disciplined, picking off targets with sharpshooter-grade skill. That was Cadian mettle at work, already recovering from the fight and rearing for more. The rate of fire increased some as more men rejoined the firing line. The cultists were barely in range, but mostly unarmed, so the vast majority of shots struck true. Had their situation not been so dire Kane might have smiled at the way the cultists milled about, filling the gaps as they appeared, waiting for some order that had yet to come. In truth, the Cadian fire did less than throwing pebbles into a lake. The Cadians could have killed a man with every shot and exhausted their ammunition, and still thousands would remain.

So why the hell were they standing about? Kane held his fire, choosing to conserve what ammunition remained for the next attack. It was much harder to recharge his ammunition than the basic lasgun cells. As it turned out, he thought with a sudden numbing dread, his weapon was useless anyways.

It came slowly through the smog-filled battlefield, its heavy footfalls announcing its presence long before it became visible. Earthshaking thumps that rattled loose flakboard and caused corpses to shift made his arms drop to his sides. He did not need to see it to know what it was. A god of war had arrived on the battlefield.

It came out of the smoke like a dream. Tendrils of black smog curled about its gigantic limbs, each larger than a hive block. Jagged crenellations and towers jutted from massive mechanical limbs, decorated with the vilest signs known only to the broken minds of Chaos. A dozen barrels, each as different from the other as a Basilisk from a Vendetta, protruded threateningly in the direction of the Imperial lines. Infernal light glowed out of its apertures. And a throng of monstrous creatures swarmed about its feet. It was far away, several kilometers at least, but Kane still had to look up to see its head. A true god among machines, a weapon of war that signalled the apocalypse.

An Imperator Titan.

He should have felt dread and despair. Kane sighed, instead feeling an overwhelming calmness wash through his veins. The certainty of their death stole away those fears. There was no chance of escape. No chance of life. The finality of death made it much easier to accept.

"So that's a Titan" the commissar breathed. Despite the war machine's twisted purpose, there was no denying the of its original design. A creature of war made by human hands, standing over a hundred meters tall with room to spare. A machine that could lay waste to entire hives by itself. "It is so large."

"That it is."

One of the Titan's weapons began to glow, its thumping power buzzing in their ears from so far away. Kane grimaced. The barrel began to slowly depress, aiming in their direction. "Frack you too, bastard."

"That Titan's aiming right for us" the corporal gasped.

"Test-firing its weapons" Kane assured him humorlessly. "Got to make sure its ready for the main battle."

The commissar's head drooped against her arm, her eyes growing flat and losing their shine. "It is a good death, to die in the God-Emperor's service."

Nodding quietly, Kane stepped over to her and helped her stand. She slumped against him, barely standing on her own. Her breastplate had been split in two, and blood darkened her coat. The paleness in her face was ghastly. "Easy there, ma'am. You can rest now."

"What is that gun?" Corporal Brunson pointed at the Titan. It didn't matter which one he was asking for. Kane hadn't a clue, and he did not expect it to matter. All he knew was the Titans carried weapons that broke cities.

"Warp blaster" the Commissar said wearily, sounding like a tired teacher addressing her petulant student. She took a long, rattling breath. "It tears a hole in reality, a split-second portal that drags everything nearby into the Warp."

"We could always charge them" Kane offered. Neither of the Cadians appreciated the idea.

Kane frowned when he realized he could see his breath frosting in the air. Ice began to creep into the trench, a purplish substance that was entirely unnatural. The temperature dropped noticeably. Off in the distance, the Titan's weapon rose to a whining crescendo. There was a snap of ear-splitting shrieking, a blinding light, and Kane welcomed his death.