‘Well. It’s been blessed,’ he called out from inside the driver’s cabin. ‘But now the batteries are overheating.’ His head appeared at the open driver’s hatch. ‘I’ve adjusted the wiring. The problem was Crone B9. So many parts went wrong there. I’ve replaced them but the stuff coming out of Ryza…’ He pushed himself up from the cabin. ‘Half of the parts are substandard.’

This was an increasingly common complaint. War had flowered across a thousand systems, and to compound the crisis, demands for materiel had risen exponentially. The Munitorum, least glamorous of the pillars of mankind, had passed the point of crisis. Even though forge worlds like Ryza might still be churning out war-materiel on industrial scales, their gear was often inferior.

It was the story of the Imperium of Man: a slow collapse and decay, made dramatically worse by the fall of Cadia, which had sundered ten-millennia-old supply routes. Forge worlds were deprived of ore as the mining worlds upon which they depended were lost in warp-storms. Hive worlds starved as agro-planets went suddenly silent, their mountain cities shaken by the death throes of riot and war.

‘Wulfe has taken it apart,’ Breve said and puffed out his cheeks. ‘But it’s basically shot.’

The gunner, Wulfe, appeared from under the Chimera, rolling out on a mechanic’s trolley. He was a compact man, a little deaf after so long spent close to a heavy bolter. He spoke too loudly as he said, ‘I’ve rigged up a rough coolant system. I’ve drenched it in unguents and said more prayers than a Holy Sister, but it’s just a field repair. We’ll need to find a replacement if this old lady comes into battle with us.’

Minka nodded. There wasn’t much she could do. She’d sent in repeated requests, but the quartermaster’s office had been inundated with similar requests. None of them could magic up a replacement. ‘Listen, I’ve just heard. We’re heading out at midnight tonight,’ Minka said.

‘Where to?’

‘Not Starport. We’re going to the General’s Palace.’

‘How far is that?’

‘Five hours.’

‘I’ll say a prayer,’ said Breve.

They set off half an hour early.

They were starting to get used to the constant bombardment. It was a non-stop drone that rose and fell in waves as rotas brought various batteries into play. The Saint’s powerplant was humming nicely above the noise outside. Minka clambered forward to congratulate Breve. He had his ear defenders on, but got the gist and raised his hands up in the sign of a prayer.

She climbed back and dropped in through the open top hatch. The week of trench training had worn them all out. Their eyes were closed, their heads in their hands, resting against the walls, or on each other’s shoulders. Baine was lying between their legs, head propped on a rolled-up camo net.