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across　them。
His　jacket　felt　heavy　and　grimy　against　his　skin；　its　insides　caked　with　his　own　dried　blood。　It
was　only　when　he　saw　his　water　bottle　that　he　realised　how　dry　his　throat　was；　and　how　cracked　his
lips。　He　gulped　from　the　bottle　greedily；　and　had　to　stop　himself　before　he　emptied　it。　There　had　to
be　fresh　water　somewhere　in　the　camp；　he　reasoned。　The　skin　around　his　patched…up　wound　had
evidently　been　cleaned。　He　longed　for　a　pool　to　bathe　in；　though　a　bit　of　dirt　didn’t　usually　bother
him。
Finally；　Lorenzo　approached　the　door　to　the　outside　world—and　thought　it　was　locked　at　first；　as
it　jammed　in　its　frame。　He　put　his　shoulder　to　it；　and　tried　to　pretend　that　the　effort　hadn’t　made　stars
explode　in　front　of　his　eyes。　He　stumbled　out　into　the　sunlight；　unsteady　and　blinking；　and　walked
straight　into　Sergeant　Greiss。
Somewhere；　there　was　a　fire　burning；　and　Lorenzo　caught　a　glimpse　of　Myers　and　Storm
lugging　an　ork　corpse　between　them。
Then　Greiss　was　guiding　him　back　into　the　hut；　telling　him　to　take　it　easy　in　his　gentlest　growl；
and　Lorenzo　tried　to　throw　off　his　hold；　tried　to　prove　he　could　stand　unassisted；　but　before　he　knew
it　he　was　sitting　on　the　bunk　again；　just　grateful　that　the　room　wasn’t　spinning　anymore。　Greiss　took
Lorenzo’s　head　in　his　callused　hands；　peered　into　his　eyes；　and　nodded；　satisfied。　“You’ll　live。”
“We　did　okay—right；　sergeant？”
“Yes；　Lorenzo。　We　did　okay。　We　did　more　than　okay。　We’ve　been　tossing　ork　bodies　on　the
flames　all　morning。”　Lorenzo　didn’t　question　that　statement。　He　knew　the　Catachans　didn’t　burn
their　enemies’　corpses　for　the　sake　of　their　souls。　Orks　were　renowned　for　their　regenerative
properties；　it　was　common　for　one　thought　dead　to　rise　from　a　cold　battlefield　in　search　of　revenge。
On　Rogar　III；　he　realised；　there　was　even　more　reason　to　take　precautions。
“Sergeant！”　Lorenzo’s　fellow　patient　was　awake　again。　Lorenzo　found　himself　wondering　if
Woods’　voice　had　sounded　so　weak；　so　subdued；　the　last　time　he　had　spoken。　Perhaps　it　had；　and　he
just　hadn’t　noticed。　“Lorenzo　tell　you　about　Sharkbait？”　asked　Woods。　Greiss　replied　that　he　hadn’t；
and　Woods　repeated　the　story　as　the　sergeant　listened　patiently。　This　time；　there　were　twenty　orks　on
the　battlewagon；　and　Muldoon　had　to　hack　his　way　through　four　more　to　reach　it；　but　Lorenzo　didn’t
bother　to　correct　the　details。　Woods’　version　made　a　better　story；　and　Muldoon　deserved　his　glory。
“We　ready　to　move　out　yet；　sergeant？”　asked　Woods；　when　the　story　was　told。
“Not　yet；　Hotshot；”　said　Sergeant　Greiss。　“Still　cleaning　up　behind　ourselves。　We’ve　taken　apart
all　the　comms　we　can　find；　but　you　can　bet　a　few　gretchin　would’ve　made　a　run　for　it　when　they
realised　they　were　beaten。”
Woods　grimaced。　“Sooner　or　later；　they’ll　find　more　greenskins；　and　then　the　whole　planet　will
know　we’re　here。”
“If　we’re　lucky；”　said　Greiss；　“the　orks　won’t　put　two　and　two　together　in　a　hurry。　For　all　they
know；　this　camp　could’ve　been　our　target　all　along。”
“Yeah；　“specially　when　they　hear　about　the　attacks　on　their　other　camps。”
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“But　they’ll　know　we’re　closing　in　on　their　warboss—whether　they　believe　we　know　it　or　not—
and　if　Big　Green　has　half　the　brains　Mackenzie　reckoned　he　had；　he’ll　be　doubling　his　personal
guard　about　now。　Our　dear；　departed　commissar　just　made　getting　to　our　target　about　ten　times
harder　than　it　ever　was。”
“I　thought　as　much；”　said　Woods。　“But；　we　just　came　through　against　thirty…to…one　odds。
Shouldn’t　think　there’s　a　whole　lot　can　stop　us　now；　yeah？”
“Funny　thing　about　that。”　Greiss　growled。　“There　aren’t　half　as　many　dead　orks　about　these
parts　as　there　ought　to　be。　I　think　we　got　lucky；　Hotshot。　I　think　our　job　was　half…done　before　we　got
here。”
“You　think　Rogar’s　been　as　hard　on　them　as　it’s　been　on　us？”
“About　the　size　of　it；　yes。”
“Now　you’re　wondering　what　happened　to　the　orks　it　killed。　And　how　long　it　took　the　survivors
to　work　out　that　any　bodies　they　leave　intact…”
Lorenzo　didn’t　remember　lying　down；　but　he　was　staring　at　the　ceiling。　He　didn’t　remember
discarding　his　backpack　and　jacket；　but　he　was　unencumbered　by　them。　He　had　been　thinking　about
Dougan；　or　rather　about　the　mockery　this　deathworld　had　made　of　his　memory。　About　the　skeletal
birds　that　had　refused　to　lie　down。　And　now；　about　a　hundred；　two　hundred；　dead　orks；　in　varying
stages　of　decay；　clambering　from　the　ground　all　over　the　planet…
“Should　make　for　an　interesting　few　days；”　murmured　Greiss。
“Nothing　we　can’t　handle　though；”　said　Woods；　“right；　sergeant？”
Lorenzo　drifted　into　a　dreamless　sleep；　then；　and　opened　his　eyes　only　once　in　the　next　few
hours　to　find　himself　on　the　cot　again；　and　Greiss　in　the　doorway　of　the　hut。　He　must　have　been
leaving；　waking　Lorenzo　as　he　shouldered　the　sticking　door　out　of　its　frame。　But　something　had
stopped　him。　He　was　looking　at　Woods；　and　with　the　sunlight　behind　him　casting　his　face　into
shadow；　Greiss　seemed　weighed　down　by　every　one　of　his　thirty…five　years；　older　and　more　tired
than　Lorenzo　had　seen　him　before。
When　next　he　woke；　Greiss　was　there　again；　standing　over　him；　shaking　him；　and　from　the
quality　of　the　light　through　the　window　he　guessed　it　was　early　afternoon。　“Time　you　dragged
yourself　out　of　that　pit；　trooper；”　he　said。　“We　got　a　lot　of　ground　to　make　up　if　we　still　want　a
chance　of　catching　the　warboss　by　surprise。　You　up　to　it？”
“Yes；　sergeant；”　said　Lorenzo；　getting　to　his　feet；　relieved　when　his　body　didn’t　make　a　liar　of
him。　He　still　felt　weak；　drained；　and　his　side　hurt　like　hell；　but　his　senses　were　clearer　now。
Catachan　men　healed　quickly。　He　donned　his　jacket　and　his　backpack　again；　picked　up　the　lasgun
that　he　supposed　was　now　his；　and　made　for　the　door。　He　stopped　when　he　realised　Greiss　wasn’t
following。　He　was　sitting　on　the　bunk　Lorenzo　had　vacated；　staring　into　space；　a　lasgun　laid　across
his　lap。　Not　his　own　gun：　that　was　slung　under　his　pack　as　normal。　Lorenzo　felt　a　knot　forming　in　his
stomach　as　he　was　finally　forced　to　face　an　unpleasant　truth。
“What　about　Hotshot；　sergeant？　Aren’t　you　going　to　wake　him？”
“In　a　minute；”　the　sergeant　said。
Lorenzo　looked　at　Woods。　His　skin　was　whiter　than　ever；　drenched　in　perspiration。　His
breathing　was　ragged；　and　his　face　twitched　with　emotions　that　Lorenzo　had　never　seen　writ　there
before。　Every　few　seconds　he　let　out　a　low　moan；　almost　a　whimper。　He　seemed　to　be　having　the
mother　of　all　nightmares。　The　young　trooper　looked　surprisingly；　awfully　small。
“Is　he…？”　Lorenzo　ventured。
“Hotshot　managed　to　find　a　sniping　position；”　said　Greiss；　“up　a　tree。　He　was　cutting　down　those
greenskins　like　dummies　on　a　shooting　range。　But　one　of　’em　got　lucky—happened　to　be　looking
the　right　way　when　an　explosion　went　off　and　the　light　glinted　off　Hotshot’s　lasgun。　He　couldn’t　get
down　in　time。　The　orks　surrounded　him；　started　firing　up　into　the　branches。　Hotshot　took　a　bullet　in
the　leg；　was　grazed　by　two　more；　but　nothing　critical；　he　knew　how　to　make　himself　small；　use　his
backpack　and　the　tree　trunk　to　protect　himself—and　with　his　camouflage　and　all；　the　greenskins
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didn’t　know　where　they　were　aiming。　Hotshot　was　firing　at　’em；　dropping　grenades　on　their　heads—
he　must’ve　taken　out　a　dozen　or　more。　But　you　know　what　orks　are　like。　They　don’t　give　up　easy。
They　were　swarming　up　that　tree；　and　Hotshot　was　shooting　and　slashing　down　at　’em；　but　even　he
couldn’t　stay　put　forever。　He　made　a　jump　for　it；　sailed　right　over　their　heads。”　There　had　been　a
touch　of　admiration　in　Old　Hardhead’s　voice；　but　now　it　faded；　and　his　shoulders　slumped。　Lorenzo
knew　how　fond　he　had　always　been　of　Woods。
“He　didn’t　make　it。”
“If　it　hadn’t　been　for　that　damn　slug　in　his　leg…”　Greiss　was　silent　for　a　moment；　then　with
pride　in　his　voice；　he　continued；　“He　kept　fighting。　Even　though　he’d　shattered　his　spine；　he　was　on
the　ground；　and　the　orks　were　piling　onto　him…　I　should’ve　got　there　sooner。”
“No；　sergeant！”　Lorenzo　protested　automatically。
“Don’t　give　me　that；”　Greiss　growled。　“If　any　of　us　had　to　end　his　days　a　cripple；　better　it　be