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gunners　stood　nearby　in　a　shabby；　respectful　group；　caps　in　their　hands；　like　mourners　at　a　funeral。
LeGuin　saw　that　Klodas　was　trying　not　to　cry。
“No　wasting　surplus　water；　please；　Klodas；”　he　said。　“We’ve　got　a　bloody　long　way　to　go　yet。”
Klodas　sniffed　and　nodded。　LeGuin　felt　bad　for　being　so　hard　on　the　junior　officer。　Losing　a
steed；　as　LeGuin　well　knew；　was　like　losing　a　best　friend；　sibling；　parent　and　faithful　hound　all　in
one　go。　The　average　tanker　lived　in　his　machine；　fought　with　it；　killed　from　it　and　had　been　saved　by
it。　He　owed　it；　he　trusted　it　and　knew　its　foibles。　To　leave　it　for　dead　at　the　side　of　a　desert　track
seemed…　criminal。
Besides；　simply　as　a　piece　of　military　technology；　these　tanks　were　priceless。　Precious　few　of　the
original　units　remained　in　active　service。　The　great　forge　worlds　were　manufacturing　modem　pattern
copies　as　fast　as　they　were　able；　but　the　craft　was　getting　lost；　many　of　the　tech　secrets　were　being
forgotten；　or　had　never　been　recorded。　LeGuin　himself　knew；　as　a　bitter　certainty；　virtually　no　forge
worlds　were　now　capable　of　hand…crafting　the　specialist　L/D　cannon　for　a　tank　hunter。
Fury　of　Pardua　was　one　of　the　8th’s　oldest　Leman　Russ　examples；　painstakingly　maintained　and
repaired　for　twenty…three　centuries。　Even　in　its　current　pitiful　state—seized　up；　burnt…out　and　fried
dry—it　deserved　to　be　recovered　and　hauled　away　for　full　salvage　or　refit。
But　that　wasn’t　going　to　happen。　There　was　no　time；　no　resources　and—if　they　all　stood　there
much　longer—no　one　left　alive。
LeGuin　looked　back　down　the　trail。　In　the　glare　of　the　blow…torch　sun；　a　column　of　men　and
machines　wound　towards　him　across　the　sandpaper　terrain；　blurred　by　heat　and　dust。　Every　ten
seconds；　another　tank　or　carrier　grumbled　past；　kicking　up　grit。　LeGuin’s　eyes　were　at　a　permanent
squint。　The　retreat　column　stretched　back　as　far　as　he　could　see；　and　it　was　only　one　of　a　hundred　or
more　threading　their　way　desperately　across　the　scorched　earth　and　billowing　dunes　of　the　northwestern
sief。　Such　was　the　fate　of　Lord　Militant　Humel’s　great　“land　armada”；　which　had　almost
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reached　the　gateways　of　the　Trinity　Hives　to　purge　Enothis；　before　being　turned　back　by　the
unbelievable　ferocity　of　replenished　Archenemy　forces。
The　abject　wreck　of　the　Fury　of　Pardua　seemed　to　Captain　LeGuin　an　appropriate　symbol　for
this　disastrous　retreat：　a　great；　proud　beast　from　another　age；　beaten　to　extinction　by　the　foe　and　the
climate；　left　to　rot　into　the　consuming　sands　where　only　future　archaeologists　might　ever　expose　its
dry　bones　again。
LeGuin　looked　north；　watching　the　dust　trail　of　the　vehicles　that　had　passed　ahead。　Men　trudged
beside　crawling　machines；　as　thirsty　for　water　as　the　vehicles　were　for　oil。　Some　rode　on　fenders　or
straddled　body　plating。　Every　few　kilometres　something　needed　to　be　repaired；　dug　free　or　pulled
out　of　soft　sand　by　the　Atlas　teams。　The　Fury　was　not　the　first　piece　of　armour　to　be　abandoned　at
the　roadside。　The　miserable　route　back　to　the　Trinity　Hives　was　marked　with　the　corpses　of
machines　that　had　died　along　the　way。
Died　or　been　killed。　The　Archenemy　was　not　letting　them　run　unmolested。
Klodas　had　flagged　down　a　half…track　weapons　carrier；　and　his　crew　was　formed　into　a　human
chain　to　ship　what　was　salvageable　from　the　Conqueror。
“Don’t　take　too　long；”　LeGuin　told　him。
LeGuin　walked　back　to　his　own　steed；　wiping　his　brow　with　a　hand　that　came　away　black　with
perspiration　and　grit。　As　he　walked；　he　looked　up　into　the　relentless　sky。　Where　would　the　next
attack　come　from？　Up　there？　Or；　as　the　vox…reports　from　back　down　the　column　suggested；　were　the
enemy　land　forces　now　beginning　to　nip　at　their　heels　too？
The　Line　of　Death　sat　waiting　for　its　commander。　As　he　climbed　up；　he　patted　its　flank；　even
though　the　sun…roasted　metal　scorched　his　hand。　The　Line　was　an　Exterminator…type　assault　tank；　its
chassis　the　same　basic　pattern　as　the　heavier　Conqueror。　Its　turret…mounted　twin　autocannons　could
produce　an　astonishingly　savage　field　of　rapid　firepower。　The　tank　was　painted　dust…red；　though　that
wash　was　scuffed　down　to　the　chrome　base　metal　in　many　places。　Its　name　was　painted　on　the
turret’s　mantlet；　and　its　regiment—8th　Pardus　Armoured—was　embossed　above　the　sponsons　beside
an　Imperial　double　eagle　crest。
LeGuin　clambered　over　the　drums　of　spare　munitions　webbed　to　the　rear　cowling　and　hopped　up
into　the　turret。　Matredes；　his　gunner；　was　waiting　for　him　in　the　top　hatchway。
“We　going？”
“Yeah。”
Matredes　shouted　down　to　Emdeen；　the　driver；　and　the　VI2　engine　revved。　They　lurched
onwards；　treads　clattering；　and　rejoined　the　file。
The　Line　had　not　been　LeGuin’s　for　long　and；　though　he　tried　to　bond　with　the　steed；　they　were
not　tight。　For　most　of　his　career；　LeGuin　had　been　a　Destroyer　man；　commander　of　the　tank　killer
Grey　Venger。　Thirty…four　kills　they’d　shared；　until　Venger　had　fallen　to　enemy　fire　on　the　shrine
world　Hagia　three　years　before。　LeGuin　might　have　happily　burned　with　his　steed；　but　his　life　had
been　saved　by　the　selfless　action　of　an　infantry　scout　called　Mkoll；　a　man　LeGuin　respected　enough
not　to　be　angry　with。
On　his　return　to　regimental　headquarters；　they’d　assigned　LeGuin　this　can。　He’d　wanted　another
Destroyer；　naturally；　for　that’s　where　his　skills　and　training　lay；　but　there　were　just　none　available。
On　the　rare　occasions　one　of　that　ancient　marque　came　up　for　transfer　or　reassignment；　it　was
usually　a　reconditioned　hulk　with　lousy　bearings；　a　rebored　engine　and　some　useless　firework　in
place　of　the　precious；　specialist　L/D　cannon。
So；　disguising　his　disappointment；　LeGuin　had　become　an　assault　tanker；　riding　his　new　steed　in
with　Humel’s　doomed　Enothian　campaign。
The　Line　spurred　forward。　Under　the　present　circumstances；　the　memory　of　his　disappointment
seemed　ridiculously　insignificant　and　made　LeGuin　smile。　So；　he　hadn’t　been　assigned　the　steed　he
wanted。　Shame。　If　only　that　was　the　worst　thing　he　had　to　deal　with　now。
All　that　mattered　at　this　moment　was　what　was　going　to　get　them　first：　the　desert　or　the　enemy。
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Even　with　the　internal　compartments　filter…sealed；　it　was　like　an　oven　in　the　Exterminator。
LeGuin　dared　not　use　the　air　exchanger　for　fear　of　depleting　fuel　even　further。　Matredes　was
studying　the　charts　by　the　light　of　a　red　bulb　overhead；　and　he　said　something。　LeGuin　had　put　on
his　ear…baffles　already；　and　now　he　switched　on　the　internal　intercom。
“Say　again？”
“Another　forty　kilometres；　and　we　should　be　reaching　rougher　terrain…　open　karst。　That’ll　mark
the　beginnings　of　the　rift。”
LeGuin　nodded。　The　rift；　and　the　mountains　beyond　it；　represented　the　second　and　third　of　the
great　barriers　the　columns　would　have　to　overcome　in　order　to　reach　safe　territory。　The　desert　was
just　the　beginning。　But　it　gave　him　some　sense　of　hope。　These　were　palpable　markers　that　he　could
tick　off。
LeGuin　popped　the　hatch　and　sat　up；　taking　the　electroscope　Matredes　passed　to　him。　The　Line
of　Death　was　travelling　in　the　forward　quarter　of　the　retreating　column。　According　to　unconfirmed
rumours；　some　of　the　Imperial　elements　had　already　reached　the　Makanite　passes；　on　the　doorstep　of
safety。　According　to　other　rumours；　enemy　rapid　assault　units　had　reached　there　too；　gunning　to
deny　them。
He　scanned　ahead　through　the　scope；　trying　to　brace　against　the　lurch　of　the　machine。　Every
view　was　filtered　by　heat　haze　and　whirling　dust。　But　there　did　now　seem　to　be　something　far　ahead。
A　slender　blue…white　line。　Mountains；　or　a　daylight　dream？
The　vox　chattered　something　he　didn’t　quite　catch。　A　moment　later；　he　didn’t　need　it　repeated。
Flickering　shadows　shot　north　overhead；　and　he　heard　the　rush　of　afterburners　above　the　roar　of　the
tank’s　engine。
Two　dark　red　shapes　in　the　bright　sky；　moving　as　fast　as　arrows；　curled　in　low　above　the　column
ahead。　He　saw　flashes；　sprays　of　sand；　then　heard　the　rolling　crump　of　detonating　munitions。　A
kilometre　away；　something　caught　fire　and　began　to　smudge　the　sky　with　a　thick　spout　of　oily；　black
smoke。
“Alarm！　Alarm！”　he　shouted　into　the　vox。　The　Line’s　turret　weapons　were　already　cranked　to
maximum　elevation；　but　the