Alexander Tripe had followed Adamus Luchance's every move in one capacity or another for close on thirty years, but it wasn't until recent months that the Chaos lord had become his chief focus. During his time with the Ordo Xenos, Adamus had been little more than a side-project, a topic that Tripe investigated recreationally, supplying his findings to Inquisitor Laguanus, though most of the notes were ignored.

Laguanus was an older Malleus conservative, who had in a long and illustrious career of over three hundred years killed many lords stronger and older than Adamus. To Laguanus, Adamus Luchance was a minor footnote in the waning years of his career, his last triumph.

As it turned out, that was completely accurate. Laguanus died on Titan, close to the Grey Knights he had worked with so much over the centuries. The Knights had honored Laguanus with a home in their fortress monastery, and it was in that spartan chamber that he died, executed by a servitor.

Two attendants had dragged the tainted servitor to an incinerator, while the slave babbled the same name time and time again; Adamus, Adamus, Adamus.

The case went to Laguanus's chief interrogator assistant, a weasel of a man named Quixos or Quion or some damn thing, who lasted about six months before he led himself and a trio of Grey Knights into a trap on a backwater space station somewhere near the Ghoul Stars. By all accounts, Adamus's strike cruiser opened fire on the station, obliterating it, the Grey Knights, the newly christened Inquisitor and the Ordo Malleus speed frigate that had ferried them there.

From then, no one bothered trying to bring an end to Adamus except the Grey Knights, who had moved the matter internally, keeping it independent from the Ordo Malleus as a whole. The Knights of Titan were notoriously independent, and their frankness with the matter was not at all surprising.

Tripe kept tabs on the ongoing issue, until finally Adamus was involved in a run-in with the Battle Saint on the planet Morahame, a pleasure world in the Ultima Segmentum. The details were sketchy, but Adamus's name was definitely attached, and that peaked Tripe's interest.

Now working for the Ordo Secretes, Tripe had the resources and the motivation to take the task on headfirst, and for the past two years had worked as exclusively as his position would allow, working his way to the heart of Luchance's labyrinthine manipulations.

There had been so many close calls, on worlds like Severus, Vallion, Kkrakorto, Amitin, and Horth, so many near-glimpses and half-heard phrases, so many destroyed temples, broken caverns, so many instances of arriving just after his quarry had gone, the battlefield still smoking.

And that was the worry, Tripe realized. The worry that Sylvann would be more of the same, just another world of missed chances and botched opportunities.

As the Alterian armor crawled across the wastes, Tripe stood up in the Chimera's cupola, looking out across the plagued deserts toward the hives in the distance.

"Will this world be different?" he asked the ork next to him. "Or will we fail again?"

Gort didn't respond, because Gort didn't hear him. The ork leader was too busy sleeping against the ceramite wall, his massive legs slung up on the cargo bench.

Green is Best

Chapter Four: Rekonnaissance

Maxwell Phellan stood in the lead Chimera, the front bumper of which was just fifty meters behind a row of ork attack cycles. The cycles belched smoke and threw ash high into the air, and the roar of their engines echoed across the landscape. As far as outriders went, the Marauders were about the least stealthy Phellan had ever seen.

"Colonel?" said a voice.

"What is it, Chayman?"

Trooper Chayman adjusted his voxset over his shoulder and looked back at his commanding officer. "You've spit on the decking, sir."

"Did I?"

"A lot, sir."

Phellan looked down. The decking between his boots was beginning to puddle with saliva. It vibrated in time with the engine, creating quick ripples.

"So I have," Phellan said.

"You okay, sir?"

Phellan looked at Chayman. In the Alterian tradition of service, most castermen were younger, the teenaged children of the noble families. In order to hold any kind of political power on Alteria, it was necessary to have served in the Guard. The system, of course, was rigged so that the noble-born were given easy jobs, and fifteen year-old Chayman was no exception.

That said, the lad was very conversational, and Phellan had learned to confide in him during the downtime. Besides, Phellan planned to retire at some point, and having a nobleman amongst his friends might come in handy.

"Not a bit, Chayman," he said. "I don't know if this is a shock to you, but I don't much like being near a xenos without shooting it, much less following the damn things in a convoy."

Chayman shrugged. "The Inquisitor trusts them."

"I can't believe you said that."

"Why shouldn't we, sir?"

Phellan turned to the boy. "You have a primer, right?"

"Absolutely, Colonel."

"In there, does it not expressly say that we should never trust the xenos?"

"It does, Colonel."

"And where does it expressly say that we should ever trust an inquisitor?"

Chayman frowned. "I don't believe it does, sir."

"Exactly, Chayman." Phellan turned back to the front. "And we won't, either. From now until I tell you, trust no one who isn't an Alterian."

The convoy pulled out of the wastes and into a narrow gorge. The walls of the gulley vaulted above them in minutes, and the wind from the outside wastes ceased its constant buffeting. The outriders' engine noise compounded in the closer confines, and the Chimeras formed up two-by-two in order to fit. The outriders came to halt in the middle of the gorge, and Phellan ordered an all stop over the regimental vox. Slowly, the Chimeras ground down into motionlessness, their engines silenced.

The outriders got down from their cycles, pulling at their leather greaves and hooting to each other in some kind of alien battle-cant, and Phellan spat on the deck again.

Chayman spoke up again, trying to lighten the mood. "Well, Colonel, at least you only have a few to deal with, huh?"

The big ork named Gort stood up from his Chimera and howled something into the air, and a moment later, the ribbed erosion ledges in the cliffsides were filled by well over three thousand additional Marauders.

Their equipment ranging from stubbers to colossal, anti-tank laser contraptions, the orks aimed down at the convoy in ready stances. Green laser targeters played across the Chimeras, chasing one another. Several of the greenskins laughed at the stupidity of it.

Chayman chuckled. Phellan shot him a glare, and the casterman shut up.

"Frigging orks," Phellan grunted.

(' ')

Gubbs's kompany returned to the gorge at dusk. They came quietly enough to avoid notice by most of the orks. Those that did spot the kommandos acknowledged them with little more than a grin and a nod—Gubbs's game was a well-known tradition in the Marauders, and no one wanted to spoil it.

None of the humans knew of their presence until they popped up at the heart of the Chimera parking area, and even this was only because Gubbs was sure he had won and that hiding didn't matter any more.

Standing, the kaptain threw his stealth helm back and shouted. "'Ey, looks like da Boss ain' so good wit' keepin' 'is eye open, don' it, Gaz?"

The Alterians snapped around, lasguns weaving into position. Gubbs's kommandos ignored them.

"Yeaher, Kaptain."

"Looks like I'z winning 'gain, don' it, Gaz?"

"Sure, Kaptain."

"Not a one uv us gotz snatched, did we?"

"Not a one, Kaptain."

"Oh really?" Gort lumbered out from behind a Chimera, one of Gubbs's kommandos held in his hand. The ork looked sad, hanging from the scruff of his neck in the grasp of the much larger Warboss. "Guess 'gain, Gubbs, 'cuz I gotz dis'n 'ere easy 'nough."

Gubbs threw down his stubber and grunted out a curse. "Who's it? Who's it? Dat Urks?" Urks, did youse git caught 'gain?"

"Yeaher," Urks said from Gort's hand.

"Urks, youse a useless Git, youse know dat?"

"Yeaher, Kaptain," Urks said. "I'z surry."

Gort dropped Urks and walked over to his second, setting a meaty palm of Gubbs's shoulder. "I win 'gain."

"Yeaher, youse win."

"Good." Gort leaned in. "Real quick, 'fore Tripe asks: good er bad?"

Gubbs shrugged. "'Pends on how much work youse wanna do."

Gort frowned. "Lotsa fanks, Gubbs."

"Youse sarkasms ain't 'preciated, Boss."

Gort stood to his full height just as Tripe walked up from his personal Chimera. The Inquisitor's armor was spotless, and he wore a fresh cape, unblemished by the ash that had coated his previous one on the overland trip to the gorge.

"Ah, hello, Kaptain," Tripe said. The Inquisitor made an effort to put the orky accent on the hard 'k', as a way to fit in with the Marauders. He had always done so, and it had always aggravated Gubbs to no end. "I trust your scouting went well?"

"Yeaher, youse could say dat," Gubbs replied. He put his helmet in the crux of his arm and tried to act more like a Beaky, just as Gort had instructed all the kaptains to do when in Tripe's presence. As the Boss said, it made them look more presentable, whatever the sog that meant.

Tripe smiled. "So, should we go over this in more detail, then?"

"Yeaher," Gubbs said. "We'z got picts an' such."

"And I have a hololith." Tripe gestured to his Chimera. "If you would, gentlemen?"

(' ')

When Tripe wasn't around, the Marauders didn't have war councils. They didn't need them. Killing was killing; every ork knew that. Talking about it beforehand just got in the way of things. If something went wrong and a few of the boys got chewed up, then it didn't matter, 'cause they'd be back in a few and killing again, and that was that, unless they were fighting the metal boys, but that never happened.

How the Boss kept his head in these meetings was beyond Gubbs. Even with his mind occupied by narrating the picts on the screen, it took all the kaptain's concentration to keep from itching the part between his arse cheeks where a little lump of poo was making its itchy home on a boil.

"So dis 'ere's da out fence uv da city," Gubbs said. He focused on the pict of the hive city, not of the little turd that wanted so badly to be flicked and pulled at with his fingers because it felt like it was burning a hole through his 'ardpants just with the furiousness of its itchiness. "Next."

Fert, who with his too-big-for-his head Terminator helm was acting as a translator between the hololith and the orky pict machine, banged his head with a rock. The image flickered out to reveal a floorplan of the hive city in as perfect a detail as Gubbs could manage with a scrap of chalk and some dried parchment.

"Da easiest 'proach is 'ere, in da west. Da gate got whopped in 'it an' 'un a while back, an' dey still ain' fixed it none. Only fing guardin' it's a buncha Chosen, but dey ain' dat big a deal."

Across the table, the humie colonel looked up. "How many Chosen, captain?"

The humie didn't try to sound orky when he said the rank, but Gubbs still didn't like him. For one, the colonel tried to make the rank sound like an insult, and for two, he was trying to make Gubbs count.

"Dunno, mebbe a cup or two," Gubbs said. The humie frowned and arched an eyebrow. Gubbs thought that meant he got it.

Tripe spoke up. "What about the enemy commander? Did you get any information on him?"

"Uh, yeaher," Gubbs said. "Fert, skip tru da next few, right?"

"Yeaher, Kaptain."

The picts flicked past quickly, until one came up. Gubbs told Fert to go back to it, and the gretchin did, letting it resolve as clearly as the crude capture machine would let it.

Tripe pounded the hololith, denting it with his neo-steel glove. "He's here! Gort, when can your Marauders attack?"

Gort shook himself out of the half-sleep he had been in for the past half-hour and looked at Gubbs. "Whataya fink, Gubbs? Mornin' sound good to youse?"

"Yeaher, we'z can do mornin'," Gubbs replied. "Gotta check wit Dorf, though, make sure 'is boyz're ready to take down da tanks."

"Dorf's ready," Gort said, turning back to Tripe. "Mornin's good, Boss."

"Perfect!" Tripe shouted. "Everyone, please, clear out. I have work to do."

Colonel Phellan raised a hand. "Excuse me, captain? What did you say about tanks?"

But Gubbs was already gone, three meters outside the Chimera and running a finger down the back of his 'ardpants and sighing with the kind of pleasure that only comes with scratching a bad itch.

(' ')

After everyone else had cleared out of the Chimera, Gort remained in place, hunched to keep from hitting the roof as he looked at the Inquisitor. "Boss, what's it?"

"Adamus is here," Tripe replied.

"Oh."

"We're close, Gort. We're so very close." Tripe looked up at him. "Tomorrow. Do you realize that we could have him dead by tomorrow morning?"

"Yeaher."

Tripe sat down on one of the troop benches and folded his hands between his legs. He looked up at Gort again. It was as if he couldn't decide what to look at. He was completely giddy.

"We've got him."

"Yeaher we do, Boss. But I'z gotta know one fing."

"What's that?"

"Who's dis Adarmus, anyway?"

Author's Note: Now that we're back in the present-day of the story, the plot can move forward. Expect lotsa dakka next chapta.

Oy, and pleaze revs da fic. Makez it real flash fer me.

Later.