It wasn't anywhere near the front line of any major conflict.

Moribundus Prime wasn't, on reflection, the worst place he could have been posted. Six weeks to polish every button on his uniform, to trim his nails, to pace the floor of his cramped cabin, to walk the decks, to sleep, and to think. Six weeks in transit, on the Munitorium Supply Vessel Gracious Harvest. 'Yes, well, as I said, officially you were quite correct, but your continued presence would be a source of embarrassment to people who do not like to be embarrassed.

'He was running towards the enemy shouting 'I surrender, I surrender' while holding the company map case above his head! There were a dozen witnesses and a servo-skull recording! Do they really think.' More than one Lord-General at his name-day ceremony, that sort of thing.' 'Unofficially, he had connections in High Command. An excellent shot too,' Rayth said, with the first hint of warmth Tarn had ever seen from her. 'Drink up,' she said.Īfter throwing back the contents, ruefully seeing a second drink was unlikely, and placing the glass on the sideboard, Garrat asked the question that had occupied every waking hour for the past three days. You depart for orbit at dawn.' Senior Commissar Rayth turned to the sideboard, neatly opened a bottle, and poured two very small glasses of amasec. Here are the details of your new posting. 'I am honoured of course,' he stammered after a decidedly awkward pause, 'but my work here.'

Garrat Tarn goggled at the senior Commissar.

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