The extraction ship arrived after forty minutes. The crew had expected to find a squad under pressure, surrounded, decimated, perhaps already dead. What they found was a crater.
Where the Ork base had been, there was now a smoking expanse of molten scrap, burning wreckage, and a smell the extraction ship's pilot would later describe as “the end of my ability to eat meat.”
In the middle of the crater stood an Ork battle tank. News sat on top of it, polishing something that looked suspiciously like an Ork skull with gold trim. Maddog stood beside the tank, flamethrower slung over his shoulder, gazing at his handiwork with the quiet satisfaction of an artist standing before a finished painting.
“You're late,” Ace radioed.
The pilot stared through the windshield. “What... what happened here?”
“Cookout,” said Maddog.
The pilot didn't ask any further.
Three hours later, Logen sat in front of a data pad, trying to write a mission report that wouldn't get them all shot. It was harder than it sounded.
He was sitting in the sick bay of the cruiser *Unbeirrbare Pflichterfüllung*, which had taken them aboard because nobody else wanted to. The sick bay was small, sterile, and smelled of disinfectant. Logen liked disinfectant. It was the opposite of everything the Dumbhammers did.
“Mission report, Dumbhammer squad,” he dictated. “Mission: Reconnaissance of Ork presence in Sector Gamma-7. Mission objective: Determine enemy strength, map position, return undetected.”
He paused. Looked at the data pad. Deleted the last line.
“Mission objective: Determine enemy strength. Result: Zero. There is no enemy strength left.”
Someone cleared his throat behind him. Ace stood in the doorway, helmet tucked under his arm. The helmet now had eighteen dents.
“How does the report sound?”
“Like something that will get us hauled before a tribunal.”
“Then leave out the details.”
“Ace, the report *is* details. We were supposed to scout. Instead, we wiped out an entire Ork base, stole an enemy battle tank—”
“Archaeologically redistributed,” News corrected from the adjoining room.
“—archaeologically redistributed an enemy battle tank, and Maddog started a fire that could probably be seen from orbit.”
“It could,” Ace confirmed. “The pilot said so.”
Logen rubbed his temples. “And then there's the matter of Rick.”
They both looked at Rick, who stood motionless in the corner of the sick bay. Humming. His green eyes pulsed slowly, as if he were asleep—if Necrons could sleep. A dent from an Ork cleaver marred his metal shoulder. The dent was slowly repairing itself, living metal drawing together like healing skin.
“What about Rick?” Ace asked.
“He disintegrated forty-seven Orks. On a molecular level. The cruiser crew saw him. Three sailors crossed themselves. One cried.”
“Rick is part of the squad.”
“Rick is a Necron.”
“A converted Necron.”
“That is not a word that applies to Necrons, Ace.”
Ace shrugged. It was the kind of shrug that ended entire discussions. “Write in the report that he's a Servitor.”
“He doesn't look like a Servitor.”
“He looks like a very large, very metal Servitor.”
“With glowing green eyes.”
“Modification.”
Logen stared at him. Ace stared back. It wasn't a contest, because Ace never lost.
“Servitor,” Logen wrote.
In the cargo hold, Max had a problem. The problem was that he was trying to clean his equipment and dropped a grenade. The grenade rolled under a rack. The rack contained replacement parts for the cruiser's drive.
“Don't move,” said Athras.
Max didn't move. He stood there with his hands raised, staring at the grenade beneath the rack that hadn't exploded.
“Is it armed?” Athras asked.
“I don't know.”
“You don't know if your own grenade is armed.”
“They're all the same.”
“They're not all the same, Max. Some are armed and some are—”
The grenade exploded.
The rack toppled. The replacement parts flew across the room. A piece of metal struck a pipe, the pipe burst, and a jet of coolant shot out and hit Max in the face.
Athras stood three steps away, completely dry, and looked at Max, who stood there dripping and covered in soot.
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Good.” Athras turned around. “I'll inform Logen. Not about you. About the pipe.”
“Athras?”
“Yes?”
“Don't tell him it was a grenade.”
“Max, he'll know. He always knows.”
Troubax sat in the cruiser's communications room doing what he did best: scanning frequencies. His fingers glided over the controls, and his mouth was mercifully closed for once because the cruiser's communications officer was sitting beside him, watching him with an expression wavering between fascination and horror.
“Did you really sing the extraction call?” the officer asked.
Troubax nodded.
“Why?”
Troubax thought about it. It was a question nobody had ever asked him, because the Dumbhammers had stopped asking. “Because the words flow better when they have a melody.”
“That wasn't a melody. I heard the recording. That was... I don't know what that was.”
“The second verse was better.”
“There was no second verse. Your Apothecarius interrupted you.”
“Exactly.” Troubax smiled. “That's why it was better.”
The officer opened his mouth, closed it again, and decided to change the subject. “We have a message for your Captain. From Sector Command.”
“Should I—”
“Don't sing it. Please. Just go over there and tell him.”
Ace read the message twice. Not because it was complicated, but because he wanted to make sure he understood it correctly.
“Logen.”
Logen looked up from his mission report. “Yes?”
“Forget the report.”
“I'm almost finished.”
“Forget it anyway. We have a new assignment.”
Logen set the data pad down. His voice carried the weary resignation of a man who knew the next words would bring nothing good. “What kind of assignment?”
Ace held out the data pad. Logen read it. His expression didn't change, because Logen's expression never changed, but his left eyebrow rose one millimeter, which for Logen was the equivalent of a scream.
“This is a joke.”
“Sector Command doesn't joke.”
“Sector Command doesn't know we exist.”
“Apparently it does now. Since today.” Ace took back the data pad. “Someone noticed our operation. The Ork base we wiped out wasn't just any base. It was the outpost of a Waaagh. A big one.”
“How big?”
“Big enough to make Sector Command nervous. And nervous enough to send the next-best squad that just killed Orks.”
“We're not the next-best squad. We're the only squad nobody else wants.”
“Exactly.” Ace smiled. It wasn't a reassuring smile. “That's why they're sending us.”
Logen looked at him. Then he looked at the mission report he'd just written. Then he deleted it.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Kragmor. Mining planet. Three billion tons of ore per year. And an Ork Waaagh that's headed there.”
“Civilians?”
Ace nodded. “Sixty thousand miners. No garrison. No defenses. Just us.”
Somewhere in the ship, Max dropped another grenade. The explosion was muffled, but audible.
Logen closed his eyes. “Don't tell Athras yet.”
“Why?”
“Because he'll run off immediately, and we're still in the Warp.”
Ace thought about it. “Good point.”
He went to Athras anyway. Because Ace never listened to good points.
And because sixty thousand civilians were waiting.