partition grates were so thin they could hear the scrape of heavy boots above.
Somewhere between mid‐sublevel 12 and some unclaimed corridors, a patrol of Plague Marines strode directly overhead. The squad froze, the shadows of the patrol ghosting across the tops of their helmets. Risking an upwards glance, Krateus counted seven Plague Marines, the sacred number of Nurgle.
They waited until the steps had faded before they began moving again. Krateus thought briefly about moving ahead and ambushing the patrol. They would need the weapons once they reached the docking hangar, but he dismissed the thought. They were too far away and the alarm would be raised too early.
Leaving the sewage main behind, the squad began to pick their way through the smaller, upward‐slanting sluice pipes. It was tough, the drainage systems tight and narrow, and for once their bulk did not aid them.
Krateus led the way, as he would need to disable the high‐torque circular saws that lined the tunnels at the entrance. The fan blades shredded organic waste with powerful motors, buzzing to life when their sensor pads came into contact with any material. Being
‘disposed’ was a common method of culling unwanted slaves through the torque‐saws.
Krateus reached out. Sensing movement, the saw began to spasm, oscillating back and forth with jerky, vicious chops. Jamming his fingers into where the blades connected to the motor, Krateus began to fidget the central shaft with his free hand. Sparks hissed like water droplets as the motor began to grind Krateus’s armoured fingers. He worked quietly, trying to tear out the wires from the axial casing. The torque‐saw squealed as his wedged digits began to give out. Finally, Krateus found the wires and clawed them out with the tips of his fingers, breaking their fibrous bunches.
The torque‐saw died. Krateus pulled his hand from the blades. Four of the fingers on his right hand were missing. Blood drooled down his forearm and leaked from his elbow.
Proud of his work, the sergeant waved his squad onwards with the stump of his right hand.
There would be a time for healing later, perhaps even some augmetic implants, but for now he gave his fingers no second thought. The body was a tool to survive and preservation of non‐vital body parts was mere social conditioning.
The Traitor Marine was functional as long as his primary heart still beat. As his wounds began to coagulate, Krateus had already forgotten how many fingers on his right hand he once had. He knew only to keep moving.
IT WAS NOT long before Squad Hezirah reached their intended destination point. Sub‐hangar 6 was a minor docking berth. It was essentially a void‐shielded garage that held a trio of 121
Hag interceptors and a lone Thunderhawk: the Sleepwalker. The armoured compartment was lightly guarded by two Plague Marines, their silhouettes murky and indistinct under the low, red phos‐lights.
Hezirah fanned out wide, sprinting behind the heavy fuselage. Keeping to the shadows when they could, shifting their weight lightly despite their size, they crept past the interceptors. The Hags were servitor‐crewed, a swarm of vector‐thrust light strikers utilised to hunt down incoming space ordnance. These would be of no use to Krateus.
He moved on to the larger Sleepwalker, signalling for his squad to remain stationary.
The gunship was heavy‐muzzled, with a brutishly stubby wingspan and thickly plated fuselage of scratched umber. Using the gunship’s pectoral fins for purchase, Krateus pulled himself up by his arms until he was almost chin‐level with the cockpit. The gunship squealed softly as he did so, the tiny creak of metal on metal. Krateus held his breath. But the Plague Marines did not seem to notice. Krateus closed his eyes and counted to five before he dared to move again.
Peering into the cockpit bay, he checked the console and almost swore aloud. The fuel gauge sat on empty.
Empty. Krateus felt much the same as he lowered himself down to the decking.
Refuelling would be difficult without fuel servitors, and that was assuming the supply lines had not already been locked.
‘Empty as we feared?’ His bond, Cambysses, appeared next to him.
‘Contingency,’ Krateus affirmed.
Flexing the piston muscles of his forearms, Krateus with Cambysses at his side rounded the Thunderhawk and stole closer to the Plague Marine sentries. The enemy stood impassive, their backs against the wall, boltguns snug against their chest plates. Auspexes hung from their war belts, the screens greened out on standby.
Krateus knew what to do.
Without warning, he burst into a sprint, darting out from behind the Sleepwalker. He rushed for the cover of a