‘Yes, sir. He is outside. I assume he is piloting the craft?’

‘Gradeolous!’ Wing Commander Prospherous roared, rising and thundering towards the window.

Through Mizar’s eye I saw the flight commander stiffen mid-salute. He turned to the window, repeating the gesture as Prospherous’ head emerged from the château. We were at least fifty floors up, but his bellow easily carried.

‘What the hell are you doing out there, Gradeolous?’

‘Sir! I was preparing to head out, sir.’

‘You don’t fly Valkyries, Gradeolous. Not after last time.’

‘Sir! That was not my fault! The landing strip had been tampered with, no doubt to sully my good name. I am not responsible for the damage–’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Dismissed.’

Mizar watched as Gradeolous offered a less-than-crisp salute and stalked away. Like all good propagandists, I avoid empathy with my subjects so as not to compromise my work, but I could not help but feel a twang of sympathy for the man.

Wing Commander Prospherous ducked his head back into the room, slamming the window. I felt Governor Dolos tense beside me at the sound, but the glass held.

‘Emperor preserve us,’ Prospherous murmured, before glaring at me. ‘The Valkyrie will be departing in thirty minutes, assuming I can find a pilot. I want your signed oath in my hand before you board the craft, and once it is in the air you will follow orders without question. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find out who authorised Gradeolous to fly.’

As we rose he retrieved the vox-handset from his desk.

‘Get me an administrator to draft a Warrant of Sacrifice – we will be having some extra weight on this mission. And someone wake Flight Commander Shard. Tell her that downtime is cancelled, she’s flying a Valkyrie today.’

Chapter seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

I hastily signed the Warrant of Sacrifice, barely glancing at the text. An unthinkable act for anyone with a rudimentary understanding of the machinations of the Administratum. But I feared any delay would be deemed an excuse to depart without me. The ink was still wet as I sprinted across the estate, conscious of the ground crew’s eyes upon me. The mud grasped at my boots as Mizar bobbed behind, its anti-gravity impeller humming in an almost cheery manner. I caught sight of Flight Sergeant Plient, who was overseeing a clean-up crew. He waved, but I could barely nod in response, my focus on the Valkyrie.

The Tempestus Scions were already embarking. There were four, five counting the Tempestor who led them. I assumed the squad fresh, tasked with avenging their fallen comrades. Then the Tempestor’s greatcoat slid from his shoulder, revealing the stump that had once been his right arm. They were the same soldiers who had crashed hours earlier, still clad in their battered armour.

The Tempestor watched as I scurried over, faltering as my stamina waned.

‘Propagandist Simlex?’ he said.