‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
‘Fleetmaster Cragoe is hailing again!’ called the herald.
‘Wait,’ Spika growled. ‘Look, here. You see?’
‘I see a Geller field profile,’ said the deck officer.
‘Nothing untoward,’ Spika agreed, ‘until you see how it compares to the one at the previous interval and the one at the interval that followed.’
‘I still don’t see, sir.’
‘The Geller field was altering during transit. Its configuration was changing.’
‘Within tolerances,’ said the deck officer. ‘Isn’t that normal fluctuation?’
‘It repeats,’ said Spika, his voice tight and unhappy. ‘It repeats, you see? There is a pattern to it, but you only see it when you run the sampled profiles one after another. That’s not normal field variance. That’s an artificial repetition.’
‘Artificial, sir?’ asked the deck officer.
Along the deck frame of the launch platform, hazard lamps were cycling and the chamber was shuddering with the din of airgate alarms. A massive overhead clamp had just positioned the elegant blue and white Aquila lander on the blast deck, and servitor teams were detaching the cradle lines and feeders with power tools.
Gaunt walked with Lord Militant Cybon towards the boarding ramp. Over their heads, a series of hard metal thumps accompanied the retracting hoist, and the thick delivery hatch that led up into the Armaduke’s starboard small ship hangar rumbled shut.
Staff aides hurried past them, carrying the lord militant’s luggage. A duty officer approached, and saluted.
‘Transfer standing by, sir,’ he said. Cybon acknowledged him with a slight nod.
‘The Sepiterna awaits,’ said Gaunt.
‘As does the Warmaster,’ replied Cybon. ‘I should be with him in eighteen weeks, in time enough to communicate the essence of this plan in person. And in time to consider its success.’
‘Or otherwise,’ said Gaunt.
Cybon studied him. The lord militant’s eyes seemed very old, as though they had seen too much. Gaunt’s, by comparison, were very new for precisely the same reason.
‘I never took you to be a pessimist, Gaunt,’ rumbled Cybon.
‘I’m not, sir,’ Gaunt replied. ‘Just a pragmatist.’
‘The Emperor protects,’ said Cybon.
‘That’s just what I tell the men,’ said Gaunt.
‘And if he doesn’t protect you, you don’t need protecting,’ Cybon added.
‘I’m not sure if that’s entirely reassuring,’ said Gaunt.
‘It’s not supposed to be,’ said Cybon. ‘Do I look like a sentimental old bastard to you? I’m simply passing on what experience has shown me.’
He turned to board the lander. Gaunt could feel the air pressure in the bay begin to change as the airgate began to cycle to release.
‘Safe voyage,’ said Gaunt. He regretted it instantly. Sentiment didn’t sit well with either of them. Cybon snorted derisively.
Halfway up the ramp, he turned to look back at Gaunt.
He made the sign of the aquila, nodded, and disappeared into the shuttle.
‘Clear the deck space,’ shouted the launch officer. ‘Clear the deck space!’
The Armaduke continued to decelerate towards the ships sent out to greet it. They were entering the close approach phase, with the Battlefleet’s fighter screen spreading out wide around the newcomer. A small speck, bright and fast moving, left the starboard flank of the coasting Armaduke like a launched flare and began to accelerate away towards the main fleet grouping.
From an observation bay, Gaunt watched the Aquila on its way. He turned, descended the steps and pushed through the busy deck crews and launch personnel to reach the nearest access hallway.
He met Hark and Kolea coming the other way. They didn’t have to say anything for him to know they were looking for him and the news was going to be bad.
‘Edur’s dead,’ said Hark.
‘How?’ Gaunt asked, immediately imagining some shipboard accident.
‘A maintenance crew found his body at the bottom of an inspection hatch fifteen minutes ago,’ said Kolea. ‘Injuries consistent with a fall.’
‘A fall?’ asked Gaunt.
‘The sort of fall you might have if you’d already been beaten to death,’ said Kolea.
‘Throne,’ Gaunt murmured. ‘Viktor, mobilise the regiment. We’re going to find the killer immediately. I’ll go directly to the shipmaster and inform him of the situation. We’re going to need the cooperation of him and his crew if we’re going to section the ship.’
He looked at Kolea.
‘Gol, get to Rawne. Fast as you can. Tell him security has been compromised.’
Rawne approached the armoured hatchway of the magazine-turned-cell. Cant and Mktally were waiting for him.
‘Open it,’ Rawne said.
‘You’re not due for another two hours–’ Cant began.
‘There’s a problem. Open it.’
Cant turned to bang on the outer hatch. Mktally hoisted his lasrifle and covered the approach hall.
Coming in right behind Cant, Rawne already had his straight silver drawn in his right hand, the blade up his sleeve. His left hand deftly slipped the loop out of his hip pocket.
‘Where’s your badge, sir?’ asked Mktally.
‘What?’ asked Rawne.
‘Your badge? You said we should all wear them.’
Without hesitation, Rawne threw the knife. He delivered the straight silver with a vicious and expert underhand throw, and the blade buried itself in Mktally’s heart.
He fell back against the corridor wall, and slid down, instantly dead. Before he’d even begun to topple, Rawne had hooked the loop over Cant’s head from behind.
It was a steel string from a colours band lyre. Cant had barely time to notice it was there when Rawne twisted the loop to tighten it. The string cut into his neck like a cheese wire. Cant toppled backwards into Rawne, blood pouring from an almost three hundred and sixty degree throat wound, his mouth wide open, unable to breathe or cry out.
Rawne let Cant go. The trooper’s legs were still twitching. There was a considerable pool of blood. Rawne drew his laspistol. He took one last look at Cant’s beached fish expression, and rearranged his own features. There was a hideous and painful scrunch of bone and muscle, and a second Cant faced the entrance. He banged on the door, then opened the outer hatch.
‘Coming in, one visitor,’ he said over his microbead.
‘Read that.’
The peephole slot in the inner door opened, and Cant stood where the guard inside could clearly see the face he had made for the occasion.
The inner hatch began to unbolt.
‘What’s the matter with you, Cant?’ asked Kabry, looking out at him. ‘You’re supposed to stay outside.’
Cant shot him in the face and kicked the hatch wide open.
‘Fleetmaster Cragoe demands that you issue a full response, sir!’ the vox herald pleaded.
‘Shut that man up,’ Spika snapped to his number one. ‘I’m trying to think.’
There was a commotion behind him. He glanced around to see the Guard commander, Gaunt, pushing his way onto the master station platform, ignoring the attempts of the deck officers to head him off.
‘Shipmaster Spika has no time to deal with you now!’ one of the officers was repeating in a whining tone.
Gaunt punched him in the mouth and laid him out on the deck.
‘Sorry,’ he told the man in what seemed like a genuine tone of remorse. He reached Spika’s side.