‘We are in an asteroid field!’ moaned one of his order from the station.

‘Navigator, are you ready for translation?’ Praxa­medes asked, ignoring the complaints. He turned his attention to the green-clad psykers. ‘I need you to broadcast now. Together. We cannot risk the soul-dampening returning. This is our chance.’

Fedualis silenced any more objections with a raised hand.

‘Together, brethren and sistren,’ he said, holding out his hands. With varying degrees of reluctance, the astropaths joined in a circle, regarding each other with empty eyes. Praxa­medes’ armour reported a several-degrees drop in the chamber temperature. Moisture from the astropaths’ laboured breaths and the anti-fire gas condensed on the terminal plasteel.

‘Ready. Awaiting the command, lieutenant,’ Kosa told him from the dorsal pilaster.

‘Helm control to Navigator’s tower,’ Praxa­medes ordered. The routine settled him, allowing him to push aside the massive stakes at play and the distinct possibility that they would all die within the next few minutes. That was beyond his control.

The air around the astropaths was getting colder still, puffs of vapour forming briefly. He saw their lips moving, silently voicing words together, the regular transmit-identifiers that preceded all broadcasts. Fedualis was shaking, as were two of the others. Frost started forming on their eyelashes.

‘Now, lieutenant,’ croaked Fedualis, barely heard.

Praxa­medes wished he had something poignant to say, some brief exhortation to mark the moment. He voiced the only thought that came to him.

‘For the Emperor and the pri­march! Courage and honour!’

He touched the runes that activated the warp drive. A few seconds later, reality disappeared.

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

The night sky bore witness to the fiery demise of the orbital palaces. True to his pledge, the Imperial commander and his closest advisors had remained on the station during its destruction, their luxurious homes becoming a martyr’s pyre.

The last of the other inhabitants disembarked from a newly arrived orbital elevator carriage. Orestean officers guided the non-combatants to the central buildings while Nem­etus issued a stream of orders to the arriving troopers and specialists. Many were having difficulty focusing, the necron soul-dampening having grown stronger again as the second alien fleet approached. The high spirits Aeschelus had enjoyed after the demise of the obelisk had passed.

Scanning the crowd, the captain saw the distinctive robes of a Sister-Chatelain among them. He eased his way through the throng, people parting before him as water breaks before a ship’s prow, until he came upon Sister Aures.

‘You did not follow your appointed master into death?’ He turned so that the Sister could precede him out of the press of people along the path he had forged.

‘It is not my place to choose martyrdom, and I did nothing worthy of the penance.’

‘The xenos fleet is less than twelve thousand miles from their teleportation range. They will be upon us in minutes. Your survival is short-lived.’