'I thank you for your welcome, sir,' interrupted Uriel brusquely. 'I am Uriel Ventris, captain of the Fourth company.'

Montante looked up, startled and more than a little crestfallen to have had his speech halted in its tracks. Uriel saw he was about to continue, and hurriedly said, 'These are my senior sergeants, Pasanius and Learchus. And this is Chaplain Astador of the Mortifactors.'

Realising that he wouldn't be able to finish his speech, Montante rose to his feet and brushed his trousers flat. He bowed nervously to Astador and said, 'Chaplain Astador, we have heard of your illustrious Chapter and bid you welcome also.'

Astador nodded and returned the bow. 'Your display of welcome is overwhelming, Fabricator Montante and we thank you for it.'

Montante smiled crookedly and nodded, turning to face the two colonels who had accompanied him.

'Allow me to introduce the senior officers of our brave defenders,' said Montante, recovering well.

The leader of the Krieg regiment stepped forward and snapped a curt salute to the Space Marines, saying, 'Colonel Trymon Stagler, regimental commander of the 933rd Death Korp of Krieg and overall theatre commander. I apologise for this waste of time, but Fabricator Montante kept it from us until an hour ago.'

Stagler ignored Montante's frown of indignation as the second man stepped forwards and offered his hand to Uriel. 'Colonel Octavius Rabelaq, commander in chief of the 10th Logres regiment. Pleasure to meet you, Uriel. Heard a lot about you from Sebastien. Looking forward to fighting with you. Well, not fighting with you, but you understand, eh?'

Uriel took the proffered hand and Rabelaq enthusiastically pumped his hand up and down, gripping Uriel's elbow with his other hand as he did so. Eventually, he released Uriel and stepped back with a brisk salute as Montante nodded briskly in the direction of the honour guard.

'Yes, yes, well, now that we all know each other, we should get on with the formal inspection, yes? Then onto the feast of welcome, eh? Don't want to let all that delicious food and amasec go to waste,' smiled Montante, again indicating that the Space Marines should follow him towards the honour guard.

'Fabricator Montante,' said Uriel. 'We do not have time to tarry here and should begin preparations for the coming battles. The tyranid fleet is probably less than a month from your system at best and you would have us indulge in frivolity?'

Montante's mouth flapped as he considered this breach of formal welcoming etiquette and looked towards the Guard colonels for support.

'Captain Ventris is correct,' said Colonel Stagler. 'We must begin planning. The enemy is at the gates.'

Uriel thought he could detect just a hint of anticipation in the colonel's voice.

'Indeed it is,' said a figure emerging from the honour guard behind Montante.

Uriel saw a hooded adept with a retinue of scribes, lexmechanics and green robed astropaths limp painfully towards them using a claw-topped silver cane.

'The enemy is indeed at the gates,' repeated the hooded adept. 'My astropaths tell me that the first vanguard drone-ships are even now entering the outer reaches of the system. The rest of the hive fleet cannot be far behind.'

'And who are you, sir?' asked Uriel.

The man pulled back his hood, revealing an ancient, weathered face, with a tonsured crown of silver hair. His features had the pallid, waxy texture of frequent juvenat treatments, but his eyes had lost none of the fire that Uriel remembered from the numerous images of him in the Chapel of Heroes on Macragge.

'I am Lord Inquisitor Kryptman of the Ordo Xenos, and we do not have much time.'

Sixty thousand pounds of thrust roared from the twin engines of each Fury attack craft as they howled along the internal flight deck of the Kharloss Vincennes, a Dictator class cruiser, and shot from the launch bays of their cruiser's flank like bullets from a gun.

Two squadrons, each of three fighters, lifted off and circled back around, ready to begin their intercept. An anomalous contact had registered on the powerful surveyor systems of Listening Station Trajen, a lightly manned orbital anchored at the edge of the Tarsis Ultra system. Their job would be to investigate the contact and, if circumstances were favourable, engage and destroy it. Should that not be possible, they would provide exact positional data and allow the heavier guns of the Kharloss Vincennes to obliterate it.

The Furies were aerodynamic fighters with swept-forwards wings and twin tails with a rack of high-explosive missiles slung under each wing. Designed to shoot down incoming torpedoes, intercept attacking bombers and destroy other fighters, Furies were the workhorses of the Imperial Navy.

Each Fury carried extra fuel in a centreline tank, which would enable them to remain on patrol for longer periods of time without having to return to their carrier.

The Fury could carry up to four crew, but for scouting missions, a pilot and a gunnery officer were all that was required.

'Angel squadrons, sound off,' came the voice of the ordnance officer from the Kharloss Vincennes.

'Angel squadron nine-zero-one, clear,' acknowledged Captain Owen Morten, commander of the Kharloss Vincennes' fighter squadrons, thumbing the vox-toggle on his control column as he checked left and right for his two wingmen. He waited for Lieutenant Erin Harlen, lead pilot of the second squadron of Furies to call in as Kiell Pelaur, his gunnery officer, fired up the surveyor link to the Kharloss Vincennes.

'Ditto. Angel squadron nine-zero-two. We are clear, and that's official,' came the drawling voice of Erin Harlen over the vox-net.

'Cut the chatter nine-zero-two. Combat readiness is in force. Do you understand that at all, Lieutenant Harlen?' replied the ordnance officer in a voice that suggested he had been through this routine many times.

'Yes, sir! That order has been understood, sir!' shouted Harlen.

'Harlen, keep it down for a second will you?' said Pelaur over the internal vox-net. 'Let's find out where we're supposed to patrol before you start driving us all mad, huh?'

'Understood, Lieutenant. We were beginning to wonder that ourselves,' replied Harlen's gunnery officer, Caleb Martoq.

The Furies circled the Kharloss Vincennes as they awaited navigational data to be transferred into their own attack logisters.

The voice of the ordnance officer came again. 'Angel squadrons, confirm patrol circuit.'

Kiell Pelaur checked the pict-slate before him as the tactical plot of their squadron appeared and thumbed the vox. 'Confirmed. Circuit is acquired.'

'Confirmed. Angel squadrons one and two are weapons-free and cleared to engage. Good hunting.'

'You bet we'll have good hunting. We don't take prisoners,' said Harlen. He glanced through the toughened canopy to where his squadron commander and the rest of his squadron were flying on station with him.

'Ready, Captain Morten?' he said, the anticipation in his voice unmistakable even over the vox-net. Morten smiled beneath his helmet and said, 'Angel squadron nine-zero-one has the lead. Harlen, take our lower quadrant and stay close.'

'Understood, Captain. Nine-zero-one has the lead.'

Captain Morten turned his control column to the required heading, took a deep breath and opened up the Fury's throttle.

It felt as though he had suddenly been kicked in the back as the giant engines thundered and hurled the craft forwards. The suspensor wired pressure suit expanded to prevent his blood from pooling, counteracting the horrendous forces exerted on his body by such rapid acceleration.

Super-oxygenated blood pumped directly into his body via spinal connections and the contoured helmets both he and his gunnery officer wore exerted outward pressure on the surrounding air to prevent them from blacking out.