The lieutenant operated the assault ramp controls, sending it wheezing down into the interior of the umbilical. With the Aggressors flanking him, three squads of Intercessors behind, Praxa­medes stepped down from the gunship. In his hands he held the bolt rifle that had been gifted to him by his former captain, Gheris. Its weight was almost non-existent in his hand, the chased silver Ultramarines symbols in its casing and the stylised eagle around the muzzle gleaming in the light of the gunship’s lamps. It was a beautiful example of Artificer Maraus’ best work.

He stopped a few yards from the doorway. Around him the Aggressors raised their flame gauntlets, pilot lights flickering blue.

‘Open it,’ Praxa­medes ordered the pilot. The targeter feed in his helm showed a spot in the middle of the portal – chest height of any person beyond.

A light turned green in the wall beside the gate and a tone sounded. With a juddering motion the door hinged inwards and upwards revealing the airlock chamber, devoid of occupants. Praxa­medes moved forward with long strides, gun level, while he read the environment feed in his armour’s read-outs. The umbilical seal was tight, air pressure nominal.

‘Brother Horatus,’ he said, pointing to the inner door controls.

The Aggressor took a few steps ahead while the others targeted the inner door. Praxa­medes adjusted his aim, picking a spot between two of his battle-brothers.

A simple flip-switch activated the inner door, which wheezed into life and swung away like the outer door. The Aggressors pounded forward into the room beyond, peeling left and right while Praxa­medes followed close after. The airlock resounded to the feet of the Intercessors a few yards behind the lieutenant.

The room was a typical docking bay chamber, with silvery spacesuits hanging on the wall to the right, a row of lockers and boxes to the left. Directly ahead was another door and above it a broad window that revealed the control chamber. Three figures stood there – two women and a man – dressed in Imperial Navy uniforms. Praxa­medes saw immediately something was wrong. The Navy personnel barely moved, staring down into the dock chamber with vacant gazes, swaying listlessly from side to side. One of the women frowned slowly, head turning to follow the lieutenant as he moved towards the doorway.

‘Company command, we are aboard Leshk Station,’ he voxed back to the Ithraca’s Vengeance. ‘There is evidence of the warp malaise affecting the crew. More extreme than our own, perhaps due to duration of exposure. Investigating.’