The atmosphere in the captain’s chamber was sombre when Praxa­medes passed through the door. Aeschelus was within, alongside Nem­etus and the head of the Navigators aboard the Ithraca’s Vengeance, Antoansal Kosa D’Fidas. The two Space Marines, like Praxa­medes, were dressed in their robes – Ultramarines symbol in silver upon the right breast, gilded cuffs and lapels denoting their ranks.

Kosa also wore official vestments, of a far flimsier and brighter material – a pale yellow that was matched by the iris of the eye symbol painted onto her metal headband. The headband broadened over her brow, concealing all of her forehead and, most importantly, the third eye that sat within. Her facial extremities – nostrils, ear lobes, lips – were all pierced with small rings of gold, which made her whole visage gleam in the lumen-light of the long, narrow chamber. Rings, bracelets and chains of the same hung on fingers, wrists and hands, a throwback to the ancient days when status was displayed by shows of wealth realised as hard-to-obtain minerals. Even now gold still held its appeal to those that wanted to flaunt their rank, despite – or perhaps because of – its lack of wider utility.

Though artificially tall, another by-product of her genetically engineered inheritance, Kosa was a stick-thin figure in comparison to the massive bulk of the Primaris Marines. The biceps of the warriors, straining at their sleeves, were almost as broad as her chest. Her neck was long, giving her a slightly birdlike appearance as she shifted her attention from one Space Marine to the next in quick, nervous movements.

She paced rather than sitting on one of the chairs, which were oversized for the benefit of the Space Marines. The Navigator seemed almost childlike among the larger furniture, no doubt feeling out of place and wishing she was still in the isolated pilaster she shared with the other two Navigators assigned to the cruiser.

The room was functionally furnished, a circular table at one end, a cot at the other with a bookshelf containing expanded, annotated volumes of the Codex Astartes and other Chapter cult volumes. There was a small gold-leaf icon of the lord pri­march above the metal headboard, its frame burnished bright by recent polishing. Flanking the portrait were several medals, the genuine awards of which facsimiles were painted on the captain’s armour – an iron halo, the laurels of command, the campaign badge of the Indomitus Crusade and a gilt-edged blood drop from when he had been injured at Sethemian Tide. Honours that would have graced nearly any commander’s dorm, Praxa­medes realised. Nothing of particular note.

‘We are going too slow,’ announced Aeschelus, glaring at the Navigator. ‘We have confirmed our latest translation point as system Omega-Four-Seven-Hercules.’

‘A dead system. Wilderness space.’ Nem­etus leaned forward, fists resting on the chamfered metal of the captain’s table. ‘Nothing to fight.’