He would get used to that. You could get used to the smell, the chemical tang of the recycled water, the oddly bland taste of shipboard food. You got used to the constant background grumble of the drives, to the odd noises from a vast superstructure constantly in tension. Once the drives were lit, the hull flexed; once the Geller Field was up and the ship had translated into the warp, the hull locked tight, like a well-muscled arm pumped and tensed. You got used to the acceleration sickness, the pervading cold, the odd, slippery displacement where the artificial gravity fields fluctuated and settled.
Once translation had been achieved, you got used to the ports being shuttered. You got used to ignoring whatever was outside. You got used to the baleful screams of the Empyrean, the sounds of hail on the hull, or burning firestorms, or typhoon winds, of fingernails scratching at the port shutters. You got used to the whispers, the shudders and rattles, the inexplicable periods of half-power lighting, the distant subterranean banging, the dreams, the footsteps in empty corridors, the sense that you were plunging further and further into your own subconscious and burning up your sanity to fuel the trip.
The one thing you never got used to was the scale. At high orbit, even with the vast extent of a planet close by for contrast, a starship seemed big. But as the planet dropped away to stern, first the size of an office globe, then a ball, until even the local sun was just a fleck of light no bigger than any other star, the embrace of the void became total. Space was endless and eternal, and the few suns no bigger than grains of salt. Alone in the bewildering emptiness, a starship was dwarfed, diminished until it was just a fragile metal casket alone in the monstrous prospect of night.
The Armaduke was accelerating so robustly now that the fighter escort was struggling to match it. Course was locked for the system’s Mandeville point, where the warp engines would be started up to make an incision in the interstitial fabric of space. The warp awaited them.
The crew and control spaces of a starship tended to be kept separate from the areas used for transported material and passengers, even on a military operation. The transporters and those they were transporting needed very little contact during a voyage.
But the Armaduke was still twenty-six minutes from the translation point when Gaunt presented himself to the shipmaster. He did not come alone.
‘No entry at this time,’ said the midshipman manning the valve hatch. He had six armsmen with him, all with combat shot weapons for shipboard use.
Gaunt showed the midshipman his documentation, documentation that clearly showed he was the commanding officer of the troop units under conveyance.
‘That’s all very well,’ said the midshipman, displaying that unerring knack of Navy types to avoid using Guard rank formalities, ‘but the shipmaster is preparing for commitment to translation. He can’t be interrupted. Perhaps in a week or so, he might find some time to–’
‘Perhaps he’s done it a thousand times before,’ said Gaunt’s companion, stepping out of the bulkhead shadows, ‘and doesn’t need to do more than authorise the bridge crew to execute. Perhaps he ought to bear in mind that his ship is a vital component of this action and not just a means of transportation. Perhaps you should open this hatch.’
The midshipman went pale.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his voice as small as a shiftship in the open void.
The shipmaster’s name was Clemensew Spika. He had three Battlefleet commands behind him, but his career was in decline. A grizzled man of medium height, who conducted his command in full dress uniform, he was standing proudly at the gilded rail of the upper deck platform when they entered, gazing out across the bustling main bridge towards the vast forward viewer with a noble expression on his face. Gaunt wondered if he’d been standing there anyway, or if he’d struck the pose when he heard they were coming.
He turned as they came up to him, looking Gaunt in the eye, then tilting his head up to look at the Silver Guard warrior beside him.
‘We are underway,’ he said. ‘Could this audience have waited?’
‘No,’ said Eadwine.
‘Is this translation especially problematic?’ asked Gaunt.
‘No,’ replied Spika. He gestured for them to follow him, and instructed his first officer to watch the steersmen. At the back of the upper deck was a small stateroom reserved for briefings or quiet counsel. Spika sat and indicated they should do the same. Eadwine remained standing.
Apart from one wall panel that displayed a detailed summary of ship function, the room was decorated with painted sections framed in scrolled gilt. Each painted panel showed a different view of Khulan: the Regal Palace, the Waterfalls at Hypson, the Tombs at Kalil, the Imperial Lodge in High Askian, the Smarnian Basilica.
‘You understand how your vessel will be engaged in this venture?’ asked Eadwine. His augmetic rasp had little colour or tone.
‘Of course,’ replied Spika. ‘Rendezvous at Tavis Sun, resupply, then direct to the Marginals.’
‘I mean there,’ said Eadwine. ‘In the Marginals.’
‘Boarding action,’ said Spika. ‘I understand.’
‘You will be required to stay on station,’ said Gaunt.
‘I know.’
‘There will be no fleet support,’ Gaunt added. ‘The Armaduke will be vulnerable.’
‘I know,’ repeated Spika.
‘There are several things we don’t know,’ said Eadwine. ‘The dangers are considerable. We will be running silently for the last realspace section. There will be navigational hazards. Clearance and manoeuvre will be restricted. The deployment will be multi-point. Sustained. We do not know what we will find inside the target structure.’
‘At all?’ asked Spika. ‘I understood that this mission was based on intelligence of–’
‘It is,’ said Gaunt. ‘But it is limited. It may be out of date.’
‘It may be a pack of lies,’ said Eadwine.
‘Encouraging,’ said Spika.
‘Depending on levels of opposition, you may be required to commit your armsmen,’ said Eadwine.
‘I wasn’t told that,’ said Spika.
‘Is it a problem?’
‘The armsmen of the Highness Ser Armaduke will fight for the life of the ship if necessary,’ said the shipmaster firmly. He paused. ‘But I have been given a complement of young recruits. Few have battle experience. I was given to expect that you would be doing the fighting.’
Gaunt glanced at the towering Space Marine. Eadwine’s helm hung from his belt. He was looking with what resembled interest at the painting of the Waterfalls at Hypson.
‘The Navy has been economical with your briefing,’ said Eadwine. ‘What do you understand this mission to be about?’
‘About a matter of strategic importance,’ replied Spika. ‘Specifically, from my point of view, the opportunity to put this newly refitted ship and its young crew through a proper shakedown prior to re-certification.’
Neither Gaunt nor Eadwine replied. Spika looked at them. There was something infinitely sad in his pale blue eyes, as if he had been trying for weeks now to overlook the obvious.
‘A cynic might, I suppose, interpret this differently,’ he said.