M-Mister, please... Please make the hurting stop.
The nightmares never stopped, at least not for Logan Howlett. His dreams had been terrorized by those he couldn't save, just as the Plague of Unbelief once terrorized the Imperial shrine world of Kathur.
For the City.
Their screams. They never seemed to dissipate from his thoughts. He'd seen innocent civilians die before, that was something most members of the Astra Militarum could expect to see during their service. But the people of Karanovgrad were a different case. As a Ghost, he was expected to protect them, and he failed. He couldn't even protect little Fiona.
Voices awoke Logan from his reverie. His eyes shot open, flicked about. Two doctors, both male, stood by the door. One doctor was sipping his cup of recaf, while the other skimmed through the files stored on his data-slate.
"Doctor Graves, something isn't right," the doctor looked up from his data-slate, and stared at his colleague, "He appears to be... by the Emperor, he's awake!"
"Marvelous! Nyota will be pleased," Graves exclaimed, prior to taking another sip of recaf.
Nyota. He hadn't heard that name in a long time. Not since the Defense of Axia. Why the hell would she come to Arkangel?
"Mister Howlett, can you hear me?" Graves hovered over the Trader, "You've been unconscious for several days now."
"Several days?" he asked, getting up. Pain shot through his chest and back, throbbing all the way up his spine to his brow. "Where's my sister? And my friends?"
"They're perfectly safe," Doctor Graves adjusted his glasses, "You needn't worry; we're on board the Final Hour."
"I'm surprised that Nyota would come looking for me when she's nearly an entire year behind on her payments," Logan shook his head as he looked around the room, "How did you find me?"
"The Meridius left behind a few signatures, thank the Emperor. We actually wandered around most of the system until we reached this rock, then apparently the augers found your ship's prow floating about. Nyota would probably know more about that. I, however, would know more about your, um, condition."
Graves eyed Logan's chest pointedly; Logan stared down, beholding a thick swath of bandages wrapped around his torso that hurt like hell. Somehow, dark red was still visible through the veritable fortress wall of linen. Blinking hard, he looked about - he was in the infirmary, his body enjoying the soft, expensive mattress he was on after so long sleeping on frakking gunny sacks.
Also, he was alone.
"You might want to stay for a bit." Graves flipped a stylus through his fingers. "We finished operating on you, but open-heart surgery isn't the most precise of sciences."
"Damn it. At least get me a wheelcha- did you just say heart surgery?"
"Yes. Good to see your faculties are returning."
"Just tell me, doc."
"Your heart was failing due to blunt trauma, and it was too damaged to be repaired. Luckily, we obtained a cybernetic replacement and by the Emperor's grace - and by no small amount, mine - your body accepted it with no problem." Allowing himself a grin, Graves sipped his recaf. "Of course, you may also want to thank your benefactor."
Logan opened his mouth to ask, then realized both doctors were trying their damnedest to withhold sniggers. "O...kay..." he muttered, "Who was it?"
"Should we tell him?"
"Why not?"
Arkangel's skyline broke for a moment, then its blankets of moisture and violence swirled back into indifference. Over it, a blade-like shadow loomed; a weapon, solid and fast, lethal and dependable - a Sword-Class Frigate, designed over ten millenia ago and still the tip of any Battlefleet's spear of engagement. With strong void shields, its powerful engines and potent lance weaponry made it a force to be reckoned with, if not feared by enemies undeceived by its size.
