It held up a fallen figure. His face was a mess of purple bruises, eyes staring blank and dead. I might not have recognised him, were it not for the unwaxed moustache.

Flight Commander Gradeolous. Or what was left of him. But his appearance solved part of the puzzle. For if they had his body they must have brought down his plane. Perhaps they recognised Mizar’s energy signature, and no doubt the seer-skull was in their possession, the greenskins having somehow adapted the device to communicate with us.

The ork tossed the body aside, still grunting at the picter.

‘This foe/weakling/non-ork was not the Emissary/summoner, despite the same signature/scent/spore. Send the Emissary/summoner.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. But then I thought of the swamp, when I had distracted the orks using the projected face of the snarling greenskin.

Gork. That was what they called it.

‘Kikazar. Access Iwazar’s data-files,’ I murmured. ‘Timestamp twenty-three seventy-eight. Play file.’

I doubted it would work, but it transpired my Administratum interrogator had transferred over the entire recording. The image spluttered into place, the seer-skull struggling against the invading ork’s influence. But the pict was clear enough: the flurry of explosions as Shard waged a solo war against the monstrosity. There was a power surge and the image faded, but not before the ork had bent forward, its snarling face filling the projection.

‘Confirmation/exhilaration,’ Kikazar noted. ‘Send/bring the Sky-Emissary to battle. Its death/subjugation shall commence the ascension/migration/war in the void.’

I did not quite take its meaning. But I understood the demands. The greenskin wanted to face the one who had damaged its fortress. Perhaps it sought revenge and atonement for the loss. Or it thought such a battle was blessed by its vile god, mistaking the picts I had inadvertently plastered across the sky for a divine presence.

I glanced to Shard. She was quite still, intent on the flickering image.

‘What if I can find you this emissary?’ I asked. ‘And what do you offer in return?’

The ork looked blank. Quite an achievement for a xenos monstrosity with bionic mandibles. It eventually spoke, the cadence slow, as though addressing a dull-witted child.

‘The Emissary will be slain/smashed/sacrificed in Gork/Mork’s name. Then will come the ascension/migration/war in the void.’

‘And if the pilot cannot be found?’

‘The ascension/migration/war in the void.’

I turned to Shard. ‘What the hell does it mean? What is it offering exactly? Why did it even bother contacting us?’

‘You don’t speak warrior,’ she said, and sighed, slipping her legs off the bunk. She stood and stretched, arching her back, hands pressed to her spine. Straightening, she glanced to the flickering image. ‘You offer Gork’s Emissary a chance to fight and die in battle. In return your god will manifest, and the war in the void will begin?’