The vox crackled into life, gunners and bombardier confirming their readi­ness and offering short prayers to the craft’s machine-spirit.

Shard barely grunted in response. Her back was to me, and her face hidden by the pressure helm. But there was a stillness to her, a quality I cannot quite articulate. The vox continued to crackle, but she did not seem to hear it. We drifted in near silence, lifting towards the stars.

‘Flight commander?’ I eventually asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘What?’ she said, irritated.

‘The vox?’

‘I’m taking a moment. It can wait.’

‘A moment to what?’

She sighed pointedly. ‘A moment to look out across the stars and muse upon the myriad possibilities contained therein. A moment to marvel at the stark beauty of cold void, to frame humanity’s petty struggles against its majesty. But, apparently, the God-Emperor will not permit even that respite. Go on. I’m sure you have an annoying question.’

‘I do.’

‘Well?’

‘Do you think you would have preferred a life out there? As a void captain? Or rogue trader?’

She did not answer immediately, and I did not press, settling into my seat and waiting.

Finally, she responded. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Still, the duties probably do not differ greatly. And one does not get to choose how one might serve, despite any assurances otherwise.’

Before I could reply the vox crackled again, one of our squadron requesting a mission update. Shard’s response was brief and foul. But with that exchange the moment was gone. She barked orders, and we pivoted from the canopy of stars, gliding back towards Bacchus. The craft shuddered, buffeted by the bleed between void and air. Until that moment, I had not appreciated the smoothness of our weightless flight, not until gravity once more found purchase.

I shifted my view to Mizar, but there was little of interest beneath, the landscape the same monotony of swamp and scrub. The meteorology was just as uninspired as the geography, the clouds little more than wisps of smoke.

Except for the storm front.

It was below and to the west of us: a seething mass of dark clouds that spiralled like a slothful tornado. I kept Mizar trained on it, half anticipating a flash of green lightning. But there was none, and the more I looked at it the less remarkable it seemed, merely another atmospheric anomaly.

‘Are storms common on Bacchus?’ I asked.

‘Yes. No. What does it matter?’

‘You are not concerned about that burgeoning storm front?’

‘That is an entirely separate question,’ she replied. ‘And, at present, no, because we are moving away from it.’

‘Does it concern you?’

‘It’s not my job to be concerned unless ordered otherwise.’

‘You must have an opinion?’

‘Not if I don’t want to. My duty is to fly, not have opinions.’

‘Gradeolous thinks you should commit to an all-out attack.’

‘Attack a storm front?’ she laughed. ‘Does he hear himself?’