Harr did not sleep well that night. His dreams were filled with fire, screams, and explosions. When a particularly large explosion woke him up in the middle of the night with a start, he came to the logical conclusion that he was reliving past trauma. In light of that conclusion, he remembered the litanies of the Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer, and began mouthing the words of an optimistic prayer. That calmed him down, well enough that he found the wherewithal to lie back down and return to sleep. His dreams were uneventful from there on.

In the morning, everyone was still alive—which was great!—but Millart was still unconscious. Burkowitz suggested everyone operate as a trio for the day, so that if there was an impostor among the group, they would never be left alone with anyone. There was no dissent from the suggestion. Harr, however, wanted to be grouped with Carmichael, but the groupings wound up landing into a gendered split, so as not to pair Kilgar with any women. When the groups were divided, they each got to work with securing the tents to the ground and tarping over the autocannons. Making sure everything was well tacked down took several hours unto itself.

Toward the mid-afternoon, Burkowitz grouped everyone together to voxcast a report of the situation to headquarters. The connection was mostly stable, giving some credence to Kratz’s alibi before the storm rolled in. That being said, headquarters did not immediately respond, leaving the squad of six impatiently waiting in the tense fear that one of them may have been planning to kill the others. “Headquarters receiving Forward Detachment Theta, clearing?” asked a monotone, unidentifiable voice on the other end of the vox, as was ever the case with headquarters. The voice possessed no distinguishing characteristics or inflections; the speaker could have been a native to Canicus or a foreigner, male or female, anything. Most likely, the squad often joked, was that headquarters was entirely staffed by incompetent servitors.

“Clearing Niner-Two-Alpha-Eye-Ecks-Alpha-Seven,” Burkowitz reported.

“Forward Detachment Theta cleared. What is your prerogative?”

“We have suspect of intrusion or an impostor. Unknown operative. One member of FD Theta incapacitated. Requesting insight or assist.”

“Acknowledge, please stay FD Theta,” headquarters responded, and the rattling tap of hands could be heard over the vox. “Insight: Unlikely intrusion. No foreign contacts established in planetary orbit or atmospheric injection vectors. Assist: Interrogator can be dispatched. Confirm request for suitability.”

“Confirm.”

“Interrogator will be dispatched to FD Theta. ETA 72 Terran Hours. Can you maintain operation, FD Theta?”

“We can.”

“Acknowledge. FD Theta, stay operation. Ensure survival of your incapacitated member. Interrogation imminent. Further prerogatives?”

“Negative.”

“Understood. The Emperor protects.”

And with that, the vox connection died out. Burkowitz looked to his team and shrugged. “That’s that, I guess.”

“If one of us is a traitor, they’ll be more desperate to do whatever they wanted to do now that they’re on a clock,” Kilgar noted.

“Yeah. But desperation can lead to mistakes. Our groups of three continue. Leave no two people alone, ever,” Burkowitz explained. “Any objections?”

“No,” most murmured, though all shook their heads.

“Alright. Then make one final pass on the camp before retiring for the day. Everyone wear masks tonight, don’t want you suffocating in the storm,” Burkowitz declared.

“We should check their air filters,” Carmichael suggested. “Make sure they’re operational.”

“Good call, Bliss; yeah, we should. You three work on that. The three of us will make sure the camp doesn’t blow away tonight,” Burkowitz agreed, tugging on the shoulders of Harr and Kilgar to pull them away.

As the male trio began toiling away at securing another tent, Kilgar noted, “You didn’t report me to the Inquisitor.”

“More pressing issues, Jat. And for the time being, you may have the soundest alibi of us all, even if it is a gross one,” Burkowitz replied. “You and Jack have decent ones.”

“Which means we’re leaving Bliss with an attempted killer,” Harr muttered.

“Or it’s her,” Kilgar added. “Bet you’d want that pict installed then, huh?”

“Or it’s me,” Burkowitz rolled his eyes. “It’s no use guessing. And no, even if it was her, I don’t need to see what that pict would’ve seen.”

“Oh, come on, like there’s anyone in this camp that’s not interested in her. Jackie boy over here certainly is,” Kilgar laughed. “Hell, I think Star likes her, too.”

“Yeah, that’s true, we all probably do like her. But you don’t. You lust for her,” Harr growled. “You disappoint the Throne, Jatizo. Pull yourself together.”

The trio worked in silence for a few minutes more, then, upon finishing securing the tent, stood and looked at one another. Still in silence, for a time, until Burkowitz broke it. “Throne, I pray it was just a bird or something.”

“Same,” Kilgar and Harr nodded in unison.

“Frigging Graer,” Burkowitz muttered. “Wake up already.”

***

The storm arrived a little before nightfall, but per Burkowitz’s recommendation, and after the other trio’s inspection, full-face-covering respiratory masks were donned early enough so as not to endanger anyone. A mask was also placed over Millart’s face. Everyone hunkered down for the storm, though it was an unpleasant experience nevertheless. High winds carrying little pellets of sand and stone could not be pleasant, regardless of one’s preparations—moreover, everyone would need to sleep in their fatigues and armor, just to offer protection from said-environment. But, operating in high-intensity situations is what they were all trained for.

Or, so Harr thought, at least.

However, he found he could not sleep in the perpetual buffeting of the winds. After trying—and failing—to rest for about an hour and a half, he sat up amidst his peers in the storm and tried to muster the words for a prayer to calm his mind. Unfortunately, he found he did not have one for the scenario. He decided to walk over to Millart and check up on his friend. To do that within the winds, he needed to slip some leaded boots on to help weigh him down, even within the tent. By the time he made his way to Millart, however, he felt like he was being watched. So, on instinct, he spun around, glancing across the room. He found Burkowitz’s eyes open, watching him.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I’m not a traitor, Sly, Harr motioned with sign language. Most members of the Astra Militarum were taught the basics of sign language, for the scenario where vox was not available or silence was otherwise necessary.

Can’t sleep? Burkowitz motioned back. Harr nodded. Me neither.

Harr looked to Millart. The bastard was sleeping nice and sound. While looking at Millart, Harr noticed the storm began to wane a bit, the winds piping down ever so slightly. In the process, he heard an engine running. Do you hear that? he motioned to Burkowitz.

“Yeah,” Burkowitz replied aloud, sitting up. The two looked to the entrance of their tent just in time to see a red glare pass over it. “Contact, contact!” Burkowitz shouted at once, all but falling out of his bunk and scaring Kilgar out of his in the process. He then repeated the phrase into his vox. “All units, contact! Get to point defense! Don’t forget your boots!” Then, to Harr alone, Burkowitz shouted. “Vox this in on the `caster!”

“Yes, sir!” Harr shouted, heart pounding and blood pumping. He raced out of the tent to see the trio in the tent opposite his doing the same. While he did not have time to stop and think about it, the thought did flick through his head: If all three of the women were in their tent, and all three (four including Millart) of the men were in their tent, who were they making contact with? Harr began running for the voxcaster just in time for a cluster of Heavy Bolter rounds to explode at his feet, knocking him into a stumble. They came in the opposite direction of headquarters. So intrusion, it seemed, and not a traitor after all. At least there was that.

The sound of lasfire and autogun munitions raced across the scene, partially drowned out by the winds. Visibility was low, but the red light in the distance that had glared over Harr’s tent remained there in perpetuity. A searchlight, it seemed, on an armored vehicle. Harr did not think about it much, and instead landed himself next to the voxcaster in a flurry. He flicked the device on and immediately roared into the sending apparatus. “FD Theta to HQ, we’re under attack! Requesting immediate assist!”

The low buzz of a dead line was barely audible over the chaos behind him and the winds around him. He hurriedly inspected the voxcaster, and in the process found a knife embedded in the back of it, right where he knew the vital instrumentation for the caster to be. On the hilt of the knife was an ‘I’ not unlike those on his squad’s Tauros. They were on their own. Harr turned back to his team just in time to see Burkowitz and Kilgar priming one of the embedded autocannons and training it on the red spotlight in the sand-shrouded darkness before them. They fired.

And exploded into white flames.

Harr could hear their screams, but it seemed Hicketz and Kratz could not, as they were a greater distance away, also working one of the autocannons from higher ground. A moment later, they, too, exploded into white agony, their bodies spiraling away from the obviously-sabotaged weapon. Harr froze. He had been beginning to raise his lasgun toward the armored vehicle approaching their camp, but seeing four of his friends incinerated in half as many seconds proved too much for him.

But his nightmare was only just beginning.

“Drop it!” Carmichael shouted from behind him. Slowly, all but petrified, he turned to face her. Her fatigues were gone, replaced with a black bodyglove that, Harr noticed, made her look even more exquisitely beautiful than ever. But that beauty was far from the first thing on his mind. “I said drop the weapon, Jack!” she yelled again, pointing her autogun at him. Her once blue eyes had been replaced with burning crimson, and her long, flowing, blonde hair had given way to a black top that matched her bodysuit, pulled back in a bun on the back of her head.

“You, y-you, Bliss,” he murmured, shellshocked, not recognizing the woman’s face before him, but certainly remembering her voice and the rest of her body.

“I’m trying to save you, Jack, just drop the frigging weapon!”

“S-save me?” Harr panted, barely able to breathe. “Y-you k-killed everyone. Y-you tuned the autocannons. You did this!” he exclaimed, piecing the subterfuge together.

“Yeah, I did, now if you’ve ever loved the Throne, Jack Harr, drop your frigging weapon!” Carmichael insisted.

“Why?”

“Because unlike you, I’m an Agent of the Inquisition. The real Inquisition. Not the voidshit going on here on Canicus. And if you don’t drop your weapon by the time that Chimera pulls up on our camp to collect me, the people in it will shoot you dead,” Carmichael explained. “Now drop. Your. Weapon.”

Harr’s weapon fell, but it was not intentional. It slipped from his hands.

“Good. Now do you want to serve the Throne, Jack?” Carmichael asked.

“I-I-I don’t…who…how…Graer,” he thought, and glanced to the men’s tent.

“Dead. Just now. Also my doing,” she shrugged, then took a hand from her autogun and pulled the knife out of the voxcaster. With an expertly flourish, she collapsed it in one hand and slid it into a small sheath on her waist. As she did so, Harr connected more dots. Kilgar had said that the angle he and Carmichael had taken from the camp would not have seen Millart. ‘He was hidden pretty well if you were looking from the camp.’ Hidden from the camp. She had done that to Millart, and then joined him at the autocannons while he was cleaning his weapon to build a cover for herself. And he had fallen for it completely.

“What’s all this, then?” a voice asked from behind Harr. Harr turned around and looked upon what he assumed was the face of Death—a tall man in black carapace armor, the painting of a skull adorning his helmet. Glass red circles beamed out of the man’s head, ablaze in lights that Bliss’s own crimson gaze could not mimic. Harr did recognize some of the man’s equipment, though; the Guard always complained about Storm Troopers getting the best stuff.

“I want him alive,” Carmichael told the man.

“You want him? What is he, your next boy toy? What happened to the last one?” the Storm Trooper asked Carmichael with a grunt.

“Frig off, Hager,” Carmichael growled.

“Who—who are—”

“We don’t take prisoners in the Inquisition, Stealth,” this ‘Hager’ fellow scoffed. “So why is he alive?”

“Because he’s loyal, damnit!” Carmichael exclaimed, exasperated.

“They were loyal!” Harr shouted, gesturing to his fallen friends.

“They didn’t prove it day in and day out like you did!” Carmichael snapped back. “You’re loyal to a fault, Jack.” She then looked to ‘Hager.’ “The boss would like him.”

“What do you know about what the boss would like?” ‘Hager’ snorted.

“Plenty,” Carmichael grinned, putting her hands on her hips, having sheathed her autogun as well. “Maybe more than you, Tactical.”

“Watch your tongue, Stealth. I’ve been with the boss longer than you’ve been alive. Taking a prisoner, especially so early in the op, throws things awry! If he can’t be trusted in totality—” ‘Hager’ explained, but was interrupted.

“He can be trusted!” Carmichael insisted. “Can’t you, Jack? The Throne can trust you?”

“I…I thought…we were supposed to be…who are you?”

“Individual identity is irrelevant,” a robotic voice uttered from behind the group. Harr glanced to the speaker and saw a Tech Priest being escorted by a woman in advanced power armor, black as night. A Sister. Harr had never seen one of them before, and had only heard stories. He had also never seen a Tech Priest; this one had a large Servo Arm attached to its back, and carried a power axe adorned with the Cult Mechanicus skull and cog. “Panicked voice attenuation suggests genuine confusion, with only 11.2% malice. Likelihood of reliability estimated at 91.1%. Vital signs appear performative, though heartrate is considerably escalated. In answering your question, captive, about the whole, we are Agents of the Inquisition. You are not. Your headquarters belongs to the heretic. We are here to end the heretic. Quid pro quo established. Query: Are you a heretic, or are you a servant of the Emperor?”

“I have always wanted to serve the Emperor,” Harr replied, the Tech Priest’s candid logic working wonders on sorting out his train of thought. But the panicking returned as soon as he answered the Tech Priest.

“Vocal inflection of response suggests honesty,” the Tech Priest noted.

‘Hager’ looked to Carmichael. “Fine. But you’re babysitting him. Get him in the tank,” he ordered, and turned away from the group, taking the Tech Priest and Sister of Battle with him back toward the Chimera that had parked in their camp.

“I am sorry, Jack. It was this or killing you. I didn’t want to kill you,” Carmichael explained, shepherding the shaking, dumbfounded man onward.

“Is your name even Bliss?”

“No.”