Then the clouds began to glow. The rain stopped falling, and started boiling. The entire atmosphere above them began to ripple, to flex, to churn. Streamers of condensation tumbled out of the morass, and flecks of light pulsed and snapped.

From the centre of the distortion, a dark shadow grew, a clot of black, growing, growing, until the immense hull of a Slovo VI burst into view, surging like a beast from the surf, shedding steam and grime and half-boiled bilge water, its halt-thrusters at full burn. As its long flanks emerged from the cloud, sliding down ahead of Zidarov’s vantage point, you could see the scoring on the metal – the thick patina of a thousand atmospheric runs. The logos on its sides were virtually scoured away – a mix of Mechanicus maker-marks and trade house logos. The last delivery of a new Slovo to Alecto had taken place decades ago, the result of an order placed decades before that. These things were expected to last centuries. Their crew numbered in the hundreds, many of them bolted-down servitors, a good proportion with some kind of forge world training or heritage. They were big. They were ugly. They were tough as grox-hide.

The show was undeniably impressive. It kept on coming, swaying and swaggering, its landing pinions extended, its ­thrusters thundering away, until it settled on the disc below like some obese bird on its colossal nest. Almost without a pause, steel-wire tethers shot out and locked with the restraint sheaths, jets of coolant sprayed across the superheated access hatches, loader-cranes swung up and out from heat-shielded compartments. The unloading began before the thrusters had even spat out the last tongues of pale yellow flame.

Zidarov thought of Naxi then – suddenly, unbidden. He thought of her on a Navy carrier, a ship many times as big, burning up in the void, far away from any possible help, a ship that never landed on a planet at all, let alone this one.

‘What do you think?’ Genova asked.

‘How often does this happen?’ Zidarov asked.

‘Twenty-three times a day. We’re pushing for more.’

‘You never get bored of it?’

‘Never.’ She smiled, and held out her hand, showing him to one of two low chairs. ‘So, I guess this is about your sanctioner.’

‘Partly,’ said Zidarov, sitting down. He felt slightly light-headed, perhaps because of the altitude, more likely due to being awake for so long.

‘It was a disgrace, what happened,’ said Genova. ‘If there’s anything I can do, just ask.’

‘You’ll have seen that plenty’s already being done. I think it’s all under control.’

‘Then you’re not here for more information?’

‘Plenty’s being done. Tell me how things are here.’

Genova let a half-smile run across her lips. ‘Generally?’

‘Generally.’

‘We’ve known better years, if you want the truth. Not as much is coming down as it used to, and we struggle to get berths for material going up.’