In the blurred darkness, Demos vaguely felt that he should be dead—that was what he thought, but an unconscious twitch at the tips of his fingers called his awareness back.
He opened his eyes. Before him were the remains of Captain Nydia and her first mate. Their corpses were a mangled blur of flesh and blood, twisted together, shattered white bones tangled with meat. A single eyeball lay alone on the floor not far away.
Demos recognized it by the color of the pupil. It was the captain's eye, and somehow it had not burst.
That purple eye stared stubbornly from the floor toward the command dais.
"Sorry," the chaplain said with difficulty. "I'm so sorry."
How much longer?
He thought this, turned his head, and looked at the control console. Golden flames danced upon it, burning the entire command dais into something like glazed glass. Even so, its own shape had not changed in the slightest.
A number ticked coldly on the display.
03:23
Three minutes. The chaplain let out a breath of relief. If he could barely survive seven minutes under such immense pressure without dying, then how hard could it be to hold on for another three?
That was what he thought, but the changing numbers shattered that thought without mercy.
06:34
What?
Demos widened his eyes, wanting to make sure he had not seen it wrong—an Astartes, of course, could not possibly misjudge four numbers so obvious at such a distance, but he still wanted to do it.
He looked, and then saw it in despair.
08:48
No. No. No!
How could this be?!
A cold suspicion poured into his heart along with despair, and the chaplain began to tremble as he doubted. He began to doubt everything that could be doubted. He suspected this was