strain of the traffic they were making you process.'
She tutted, her augmetic chassis whirring as she poured us two glasses of amasec. Hers was laced with fitobarrier enhancers, and her room stank of lho-leaf. I knew the rigours of her life had left her in constant pain, and she fought that pain off with everything she could lay her hands on.
'Dead and buried on Anemae Gulfward in six… or dead in agony in your service.'
'It's not like that/ I said, nodding as I took the glass she proffered.
'Is it not?'
'No. I've let you see my mind. You know the purity of my cause/
She frowned. 'Maybe/ She was having difficulty manipulating her own glass. The mechadendrites that governed her right hand were old and slow.
She waved me off when I tried to help.
'Maybe?' I asked.
She took a big swig of her drink and then poked a lho-stick between her crinkled lips.
'I've seen your mind, heretic. You're not as clean as you like to think you are/
I sat down on the chaise. 'Am I not?'
She lit the lho-stick and exhaled a deep lungful of its narcotic smoke with a sigh.
'Ah, don't mind me. A ruined worn-out psyker who talks too much/
'I'm interested. What do you see?'
Her exo-skeleton made soft whines as it walked her over to the other couch and the hydraulics hissed as they settled her into the seat. She took another deep puff.
'I'm sorry/ she said. 'Would you like one?'
I shook my head.
'I have served the Astropathicus all my life, such as it is, on guild tenure and as a freelance, as now. When your woman came to me with a job offer and real money, I took it. But, oh me, oh my…'
'Astropaths are supposed to be neutral/ I countered.
Astropaths are supposed to serve the Emperor, heretic/ she said.
'What have you seen in my mind?' I asked, bluntiy.
Too, too much/ she responded, blowing a magnificent smoke-ring.
'Tell me/
She shook her head, or that's what I supposed the hissing action of her head- cage was supposed to convey.
'I suppose I should be grateful. You took me from a dead life to this… an adventure/
'I don't need you to be grateful/1 said.
'Dead and buried on Anemae Gulfward in six… or dead in agony in your service/ she repeated.
'It won't be like that/
She blew another smoke ring. 'Oh, it will. I've seen it. Clear as day/
Той have?'
'Many times. I'm going to die because of you, heretic/
Ungish was stubborn and defeatist. I knew she had seen things she wouldn't talk about. Eventually, I stopped asking. We met every few days, and she psy-chometrically captured images from my mind. The Cadian pylons. Cherubael. Prophaniti, and the ornaments he wore.
By the time we reached Cinchare, I had a sheaf of psychometric pictures and, thanks to the crippled astropath, a grim sense of the future.
Cinchare. A mineral rock orbiting a rogue star.
Plagued by gravitic storms, the Cinchare system wanders sloppily through the fringes of the Halo Stars at the edge of Imperial space. Ten thousand years ago it had been a neighbour of 3458 Dornal, and had nine planets and an asteroid belt. When we finally found it, it was lurching through the Pymbyle systems, major and minor, and had suffered two serious cosmological collisions. Now it had six planets and radiating sheets of asteroid belts. Cinchare's rogue star was locked in a drunken dance with Pymbyle Minor, a flirtatious encounter of gravities that would take another million years to resolve.
Cinchare itself, or more properly Cinchare rogue system/planet four X181B, was a blue nugget of rock swaggering along an almost figure-eight far orbit around the clashing stars, following the vagaries of their impacting gravity wells.
Rich in ultra-rare metals including ancylitum and phorydnum, it had been a miner's plunder-haven for as long as it had been identified.
'No watch ships. Precious little in the way of guidance buoys/ Maxilla said as he steered the
'Park us in orbit/ I told him. 'Medea, fire up the cutter for landfall. Aemos, you're with me/
'Whoo!' whispered Medea, tightening the grip of her circuit-inlaid hands around the bio-sensors of the cutter's steering yoke. Another hard buffet had shaken the craft.
The gravity-tides are all over the place. I keep hitting eddies and anti-trojan points/
'Small wonder/ Aemos muttered, easing himself into a deck-seat and connecting the restraint harness across his lap. The rogue star and its planet-herd have made a disaster area of this system/
'Hmmm…' said Medea, showing no concern as she rolled the cutter up and over on its back to avoid a jagged black asteroid that tumbled across our path. The close approach to Cinchare was a debris field, full of rock matter and collision slag, all swirling around in complex and exotic orbits. Parts of this field had formed into thin ring systems around Cinchare, but even the rings were buckled and warped by gravity- clashes. The space around us was a bright misty gold where starlight was catching the banks of dust and micro- litter. The cutter's shields could handle most of the larger rocks that swirled through it, but some were giants and required evasive manoeuvres.
Through the gold dust-light, we began to see Cinchare more clearly: an irregular, glittered blue object, spinning fast along a stricken axis. It was half in shadow, and the peaks of its mineral mountains made
pre-dawn flashes as they caught the early light coming up over the daylight terminator.
The closer we get to the body, the worse the gravitic disturbances will become, of course/ Aemos mused aloud. Medea didn't need the advice. Even I knew that an irregular body – and especially an irregular body composed of varying densities – would have a near-space lousy with abnormal gravity effects. I think Aemos was just chatting to keep his mind off things.
Medea banked us around the searing trails of three bolides, and into what felt like a chute of high gravity. Cinchare's surface, a revolving, pitted cold expanse, rushed up to meet us and filled the main ports. The descent and proximity alarms started to sound, and Medea killed them both with an impatient sideways stab of her hand. We levelled out a little.
The mining facility beacons just woke up/ Medea cleared her throat. 'I've got a pre-lock telemetry handshake. They're requesting ident/
'Give it/
Medea activated the cutter's transponder and broadcast our craft's identifying pulse. It was one of the disguise templates we stored in the codifier for covert work, a delicate piece of fakery
