Someone Thinks Highly of You

After the banquet ended, Warmaster Liss was flushed with the victory of the tabletop simulation. Though the Mordian Iron Guard general remained expressionless, the knuckles of his ungloved hand had already gone white from excessive force.

Creed, meanwhile, had memorized Sergeant Aurora's standard for being full—twenty slices of meat.

If he ate five slices himself, he would probably need to lie down in the medicae bay for a while.

Servitors and servo-skulls cleared the food from the table. These scraps would be fed into the recycling system, and within days, a batch of steaming nutrient bars would be distributed to the soldiers and crew.

Creed prepared to return to his office and continue the work he had left unfinished.

Something was wrong.

Nine out of ten—no, ten out of ten wrong.

He had already taken thirty-five steps, yet the corner was still two steps away.

Creed stopped. Even if his stride and pace had been affected by the meal, there should not have been such a major discrepancy.

To others, Creed's suspicion might have seemed laughable, but these habits of his had been tested in war.

In countless battles against xenos and traitors, there had been no shortage of psykers skilled at weaving illusions. Creed's meticulous caution had helped him see through such deceptions time and again.

Having stopped, Creed knew that Adjutant Kyle behind him might no longer be real. He silently prayed for Kyle and prepared for his final struggle.

Shatter the illusion, then send word that the warship had been infiltrated by a psyker. That was Creed's only thought.

Creed drew a monomolecular dagger from inside his coat, then removed the power pack from the laspistol at his waist.

The dagger pierced the power pack's casing. Creed felt it rapidly heat up in his hand. A sudden