It's the Psions who go first, miserable weedy things. Can't take the pressure, one of 'em told Olgurn before the end. The whole ship around them weighing them down, crushing the juice out of their brains. The rest of them last a little longer, daughters and sons of Torobatl with their heads made of rock already. Olgurn's grandma in the village wanted to die out in the sands. Let the wind scrape away her ossified features. That's how they did it back home. Day he joined up with the Skyburners, their recruiter gave him his obol, and he learned something new. "That's your death," she said. "Put it in your pocket and never forget it. The other Skyburners will take it when it's your time." "Now pick up your gun. That's your duty. Victory for the empire. For the emperor." Olgurn had to do the rites for Big Grusk all by himself. Had to cut his mangled armor open with a torch to get to his obol. Now it's just him, crawling through tunnels with alien chitin bolted to his armor and wormspore smeared wherever he can reach. Smelling like an acolyte. Last one alive means he's ranking officer. Means the Dreadnaught's his responsibility. So Olgurn puts on his stinking armor and he crawls through tunnels and he plants explosives and he makes sure he's at the minimum safe distance before he hits the trigger. He's a Skyburner. He said the oath. He doesn't get to give up. And when the relief shows up, Olgurn's gonna give them his report and his obol.