‘One of the Adepta Sororitas, from the Orders Famulous. They usually concern themselves with maintaining the bloodline purity of Imperial commanders and brokering inter-system pacts between ruling families and castes. A Sister-Chatelain is assigned to a world as advisor on such matters and other Ecclesiarchy issues; she has no command ­authority. I expect she likely thinks the same as I do – it is an affront to the Emperor to surrender without battle.’

‘It seems the enemy have moved on from Casparill, my captain.’

Aeschelus nodded and sat down, drumming his fingers on the arm of the command throne. There was little enough new information from the broadcast. It said nothing of the overall state of the system other than that the Ultramarines could expect no assistance for the time being. If the enemy were still here, the Ithraca’s Vengeance would have to face it alone.

The defence station grew larger in the main canopy, the light of the local star drawing a stark terminus across its docking gantries and defensive cannon turrets. From Praxa­medes’ direction of approach, it looked like an inverted, truncated cone at the hub of a dozen gantry-spars, its upper and lower surfaces dominated by large cannon arrays. There was nothing on the augurs to suggest that the weapons were powering up, nor any of the multitude of smaller batteries ideal for blasting the gunship out of the void. Even so, the silence grated, every second of unresolved tension weighing heavily.

He tried the gunship’s vox again.

‘Leshk Station, this is Lieutenant Praxa­medes of the Ultramarines Chapter. We are receiving your ident-cast. Respond on any channel. Failure to respond will result in being treated as hostile territory. Do you receive?’

Nothing but static replied. He caught the eye of the pilot next to him.

‘If they’re not answering the cruiser’s vox messages, I don’t think they’ll answer ours,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Be prepared for evasive manoeuvring.’

‘I always am, brother-lieutenant,’ replied the pilot.

Praxa­medes activated the gunnery machine-spirits, slaving them to the pilot’s controls before he rose from the seat to stand at the door through to the main compartment.

‘Landing zone is hostile,’ he told the twenty Space Marines within. ‘We have no information about the Imperial servants on board, so check your target zones. Assess collateral casualties on an individual basis.’

‘No docking tractors, brother-lieutenant,’ announced the pilot, meaning that there was nobody operating the booms that jutted from the starbase’s exterior. They would have to manually dock, matching course, angular speed and planar velocity.

‘Go topside,’ said Praxa­medes, turning to point to the uppermost docking arm. ‘We’ll start there and work our way down the station. The command decks should be somewhere near the main embarkation cluster. Once we have that under our control, we’ll be able to see what we’re up against.’