He had to get lower. The bald man was still off to his right on the control deck beneath him, trading shots with Davinch. If he jumped down, he could probably get the drop on the bald man from behind, then take up a better angle on the elusive woman.

He took a last glance at Eisenhorn, glowing like a tiny sun in the cage, and crawled over the edge of the gantry.

He dropped and landed in a crouch on the control platform. There was no immediate sign of the bald man, but both he and Davinch would be out of sight around the curve of the deck. Gobleka stepped forwards. If Davinch was keeping the ordo thug busy, then he could come up on him from behind…

He saw movement and turned sharply. The woman was clambering up through a deck hole not three metres from him. He could see her hand on the rim, struggling to haul herself up the service ladder and retain a grip on her weapon.

Pathetic. Too easy. He raised his autorifle to hose the deck hole, the moment the woman’s head appeared, and send her plunging down the long drop below.

Then he paused. The fact that any of Eisenhorn’s people were still alive had come as a surprise. It was time to regain complete control of the situation.

The sound of his own movement masked by the din of the Loom, he crept forwards until he was right over the deck hole. The woman, the female marshal he’d captured earlier in the day, was climbing up with her back to him, breathing hard.

He waited, then snatched out his hand, grabbed her by the back of her jacket collar and slammed her against the rim of the hatch. She cried out in pain. He slammed again two or three more times, driving her back into the hard metal frame of the hatch. She lost her grip on her weapon, and it plummeted away.

Gobleka dragged her out of the deck hole and threw her down. She lay gasping on the deck. He rolled her onto her back, put his boot on her chest and aimed his autorifle at her face.

‘How many more of you?’ he asked.

She coughed and growled something. A curse.

‘How. Many. More?’ he snarled.

Nayl curled up tight under the cogitator bank as yet another blitz of las-fire raked the platform. The shooter was close, he had a raised angle and was wielding a pair of high-power laspistols. The onslaught was huge.

The shooter had another advantage too. His last salvo had almost killed Nayl. Nayl had only just made it to cover. He’d taken glancing shots to his right forearm and shoulder, scorching his jack armour. What would probably have been a lethal shot had been deflected by his Tronsvasse. The las-bolt had exploded off his handgun, instead of going through his face.