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right that we celebrate。 Tonight； we mark the true start of our holy quest with the best that our
circumstances allow。 Look at you； the Emperor must be gazing down on you with pride； seated here；
dressed so smartly； so ready and willing to be about His divine work。 He’ll be prouder still when we
find our prize。 What a moment that will be！ One for the history books； indeed。 I’m sure you’ve all
dreamed of it as much as I have： the fame； the glory； Army Group Exolon recovering the legendary
Fortress of Arrogance from right under the nose of the old foe。 Yes！ For ever after； men will read of
our exploits with awe。 Let none of you doubt that。 There is no cause greater than that which inspires
one’s fellow man。”
He scanned the faces around the table； daring anyone to pay him less than full attention； and was
pleased to see every eye； including several unblinking mechanical ones； turned in his direction。
“We could not have asked for a higher honour；” he told them。 “I’ve heard mutterings among the
men； just as you have； talk of wishing to join Commissar Yarrick and our Cadian brothers on
Armageddon。 Such talk is to be expected。 Exolon is； after all； a fighting man’s army； and our men
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want to make a difference。 I appreciate their eagerness； for I too would see us lend Yarrick’s forces
our much…needed strength sooner rather than later。 But all things in their proper time。 We can offer
so much more by claiming victory here。 Through the successful recovery and restoration of The
Fortress of Arrogance； this army will provide our Imperial brothers — not just Cadians； but all men
of the Imperium — with a renewed strength of purpose and determination that no amount of
reinforcement could possibly hope to offer。 The Fortress is not just another Baneblade battle tank；
as you all should know。 She is a symbol of everything the Guard stands for： of strength and honour；
of courage and duty； of unbending resistance against the foul traitors and alien hordes that strive to
wipe our race from the face of the galaxy。 I say her recovery is long overdue。 So； join me in a toast。
Fill your glasses； all of you。”
DeViers waited as his guests sloshed cool golden liquor into goblets of fine black crystal。 They
were senior officers for the most part。 His three divisional commanders； having changed out of their
field tunics and into their finest dress uniforms； all looked splendid。 The gold accoutrements on their
lapels and breast pockets gleamed brightly in the light of the overhead lamps。 The other officers
present were regimental commanders from the 8th Mechanised and 12th Heavy Infantry Divisions；
some of them colonels； the rest majors。 They had also smartened themselves up adequately； though
more than a few bore grisly facial scars that somewhat ruined the overall effect。
Even with their battle…ravaged features； they were far easier on the eye than the three hooded；
red…robed figures that sat among them： Tech…Magos Sennesdiar； Tech…Adept Xephous； and Tech…
Adept Armadron； the three most senior members of the Adeptus Mechanicus present at Hadron
Base。
DeViers had felt it only proper to invite them； absolutely certain that they would decline。 He
would not have asked them otherwise。 Propriety had backfired on him； however； as all three had
come。 He still couldn’t understand why。 They had expressly told him that they wouldn’t be able to
eat the food his chef prepared。 One of them — the perpetually wheezing； twitching Armadron —
seemed to lack anything that even approximated a functioning mouth。 From what deViers had
glimpsed so far under that shadowy hood； it appeared that the adept’s entire head was encased in
twin hemispheres of steel； absolutely featureless but for a single glowing green eye。 In terms of
aesthetics； the other two weren’t much better。
Sennesdiar； the highest ranking of the three — though his robes bore no markings to denote this
— was also the largest figure in the room； his misshapen bulk nearly twice the mass of anyone else
present。 His robes were perforated all across his back； allowing a number of strange serpentine
appendages to fall all the way to the floor where they coiled around the legs of his chair； their metal
segments gleaming in the light。 Sennesdiar’s face — what little could be seen of it under his cowl —
was grotesque； the flesh pale and bloodless； little more； in places； than flaps of skin stapled over dull
steel； and his tiny mouth was a lipless slash that reminded deViers of nothing so much as a fresh
stab wound。 The effect was a mask that made a mockery of human features。
The last of the three； Xephous； was no better。 In some ways； he was actually worse； for his
complex arrangement of mandibles and visual receptors gave him the aspect of a nightmarish
biomechanical crab； and the intermittent clacking sounds that issued from him only added to the
effect。
By the Golden Throne of Terra； thought deViers； between the three of them； they’re enough to
ruin a man’s appetite。
The more human guests had filled their glasses and were pushing their chairs back so that they
might rise to their feet for the general’s toast。
DeViers turned his eyes away from the tech…priests； glad that the ever…considerate Gruber had
seated them among the men at the far end of the table。 Much nearer and； thankfully； much easier to
behold； were Bishop Augustus and High Commissar Morten。
The bishop； seated on the general’s immediate right； was a tall； almost skeletally thin man in his
late seventies with a prodigiously long nose。 His tanned skin shimmered with a coating of the most
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expensive and richly…scented oils； and precious gems glittered from the rings that graced each of his
long fingers。 Like the tech…priests； Bishop Augustus wore voluminous and finely made robes；
though his were a dazzling white； symbolising a spiritual purity far beyond the grasp of other； lesser
men。 That was worth a laugh； thought deViers。 If rumours about the bishop were true； he was
anything but pure。 On Cadia； he would have been publicly executed for his unorthodox
predilections； but； perhaps； deViers told himself； the rumours were exactly that： idle rumours。 The
bishop was a fine conversationalist； already winning smiles and laughter from a number of the
officers as they had listened intently to his anecdotes before being seated around the table。 It was
much more than could be said for his Martian counterparts。
The high commissar； seated on the general’s immediate left； was a striking figure of a man；
clearly of fine noble stock； dressed immaculately in his gold…braided tunic and black silk shirt。 Such
were Morten’s good looks that the only other man present whose features stood up to any kind of
comparison was Major General Bergen； whom deViers always thought looked just as if he’d
stepped straight out of a recruitment poster。
As was only proper； High Commissar Morten had dispensed with his stiffened cap while at the
table； but it was impossible to look at the man without seeing the ghost of it still perched firmly on
his head； such was the strength of his identity。 He was； in deViers’ opinion； the quintessential
political officer。 Unswerving and utterly uncompromising in his duty； he had served with the 18th
Army Group for the last eleven years and； though he and deViers had never developed anything that
could be called a friendship； the general enjoyed the man’s professional respect and returned it in
kind。
The absence of friendship was no great loss。 After all； deViers told himself； one must be careful
around these commissars。
All his guests were standing now； their eyes on him； goblets filled and at the ready。 DeViers
lifted his straight out in front of him； took a breath； and projected his voice。
“To success； gentlemen；” he said。 “To success and victory！”
“Success and victory！” they replied with fervour。 Excepting the Mechanicus； each of the guests
threw back his glass and drank。 When they had finished； deViers gestured them back into their seats；
smiling broadly at them。
Look at them； Mohamar； he thought； eating out of your hand。 To success and victory； indeed；
and to immortality； for I will have the glory I seek。 And Throne help any bastard that gets in my
way。
Major General Gerard Bergen looked down at his plate with absolute revulsion。 What the devil was
this abomination？ The starter had been bad enough — chilled bladdercrab with ormin and caprium
— so obscenely rich that he’d felt his stomach churning； though the general’s other guests had
seemed to enjoy it immensely judging by their praise for the general’s personal chef。 Now the old
man’s servants brought out the main course — quivering mountains of dark red meat that looked
dangerously undercooked。
The general’s adjutant； Gruber； placed himself on the old man’s right and proudly announced；
“Lightly roasted auroch heart stuffed with jellied grox liver and dogwort。”
Murmurs of appreciation sounded from around the table； but Bergen studied the thing on his
plate as if it were an alien life form。 It sat there glistening wetly in the light from the lamps； its
pungent aroma clawing at his nostrils。 He hoped the expression of delight he was struggling to
maintain wa