‘Not as robust as ours, but savage enough I suppose,’ he replied. ‘The trick is to engage head-on, match them shot for shot. It’s why I favour the Avenger. Some think it a ground attack craft, but for one with the right fortitude it can be a formidable fighter.’

‘You sound as though you don’t fear the orks.’

‘Of course not,’ he snorted. ‘You cannot let fear dictate your battles. I have been outflanked, outnumbered and faced the most terrible foes the sky can offer. But I never flinch, never retreat. Why, I was shot down three times this campaign alone, but I never let it affect me. That’s why I’m the best pilot we have.’

‘You fear nothing?’ I persisted. ‘I’ve heard some whisper about something called the Green Storm.’

‘Cowards, the lot of them,’ he sighed, rolling his eyes.

‘You do not fear it?’

‘Fear what?’ he said. ‘There have been no confirmed reports, just a couple of so-called pilots who met their match and cannot accept it. They flew into a cloud, claimed there was green lightning everywhere, and that the sky rained bullets. Nonsense, or at worst an unfortunate combination of bad weather, poor navigation and a surprise attack. A quick raid would be sufficient to assuage such unfounded concerns.’

‘I see,’ I said, nodding. ‘And is that what you would propose? A more aggressive campaign?’

He was still tending to his moustache, but his expression had shifted. Suspicious was not quite the word, but I could feel him reappraising me in light of the questions. His gaze shifted to seer-skull Kikazar, who was silently monitoring our exchange.

‘Is this part of your pict?’ he asked.

‘I’m just looking for quotes and soundbites,’ I said. ‘I might, for example, play your comments about being fearless over a shot of your craft sweeping into combat. It can help set the scene.’

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the skull.

‘And that device is reliable?’ he asked. ‘It looks on the verge of falling apart.’

‘Oh, believe me, this is a prized relic. The skull used to belong to Propagandist Vite Kikazar. He was known to give voice to the voiceless.’

‘Is that right?’ Gradeolous frowned, closing his moustache case and tucking it into his pocket. ‘Because it strikes me that the voiceless should remain so for a reason.’

‘Kikazar disagreed,’ I said. ‘He would mingle with the dregs of society in the hive slums and shanty towns. There he would patiently hear any grievance or tirade, offering only a sympathetic ear and a glass of amasec. He believed that only through such patience would the traitor and heretic lose their guard and reveal their treachery. In this way he served, and through his tireless efforts thousands of potential heretics were burned before they could even commit an evil act.’