Keeler gasped at the sight of them. So many, so perfect, so huge, so regimented. She raised her picter with trembling hands and began to shoot. Giants in white metal, assembling for war, uniform and identical, precise and composed.

Orders flew out, and the Astartes came to a halt with a crashing din of heels. They became statues, as equerries

hurried through their files, directing and assigning men to their carriers.

Smoothly, units began to turn in fluid sequence, and filed onto the waiting vessels.

They will have already taken their oaths of moment.’ Emont was saying to the group in a hushed whisper.

'Explain.’ Van Krasten requested.

Emont nodded. 'Every soldier of the Imperium is sworn to uphold his loyalty to the Emperor at the start of his commission, and the Astartes are no exception. No one doubts their continued devotion to the pledge, but before individual missions, the Astartes choose to swear an immediate oath, an "oath of moment", that binds them specifically to the matter at hand. They pledge to uphold the particular concerns of the enterprise before them. You may think of it as a reaffirmation, I suppose. It is a ritual re-pledging. The Astartes do love their rituals.’

'I don't understand.’ said Van Krasten. They are already sworn but-'

To uphold the truth of the Imperium and the light of the Emperor.’ Emont said, Ъш, as the name suggests, an oath of moment applies to an individual action. It is specific and precise.’

Van Krasten nodded.

'Who's that?' Twell asked, pointing. A senior Astartes, a captain by his cloak, was walking the lines of warriors as they streamed neatly onto the drop-ships.

That's Loken.’ Emont said.

Keeler raised her picter.

Loken's comb-crested helm was off. His fair, cropped hair framed his pale, freckled face. His grey eyes seemed immense. Mersadie had spoken to her of Loken. Quite a force now, if the rumours were true. One of the four.

She shot him speaking to a subordinate, and again, waving servitors clear of a landing ramp. He was the

most extraordinary subject. She didn't have to compose around him, or shoot to crop later. He dominated every frame.

No wonder Mersadie was so taken with him. Keeler wondered again why Mersadie Oliton had missed this chance.

Now Loken turned away, his men all but boarded. He spoke with the standard bearer, and touched the hem of the banner with affection. Another fine shot. Then he swung round to face five armoured figures approaching across the suddenly empty deck.

This is...' Emont whispered. This is quite something. I hope you all understand you're lucky to see this.'

'See what?' asked Sark.

The captain takes his oath of moment last of all. It will be heard and sworn to by two of his fellow captains, but, oh my goodness, the rest of the Mournival have come to hear him pledge.'

That's the Mournival?' Keeler asked, her picter shooting.

'First Captain Abaddon, Captain Torgaddon, Captain Asrimand, and with them Captains Sedirae and Targost.’ Emont breathed, afraid of raising his voice.

'Which one is Abaddon?' Keeler asked, aiming her picter.

LOKEN KNELT. THERE was no need-' he began.

We wanted to do this right.’ Torgaddon replied. 'Luc?'

Luc Sedirae, Captain of the Thirteenth Company, took out the seal paper on which the oath of moment was written. 'I am sent to hear you.’ he said.

And I am here to witness it.’ Targost said.

And we are here to keep you cheerful.’ Torgaddon added. Abaddon and Little Homs chuckled.

Neither Targost nor Sedirae were sons of Horus. Targost, Captain of the Seventh, was a blunt-faced man with a deep scar across his brow. Luc Sedirae, champion of so many wars, was a smiling rogue, blond and

handsome, his eyes blue and bright, his mouth permanently half-open as if about to bite something. Sedirae raised the scrap of parchment.

'Do you, Garviel Loken, accept your role in this? Do you promise to lead your men into the zone of war, and conduct them to glory, no matter the ferocity or ingenuity of the foe? Do you swear to crush the insurgents of Sixty-Three Nineteen, despite all they might throw at you? Do you pledge to do honour to the XVI Legion and the Emperor?'

Loken placed his hand on the bolter Targost held out.

'On this matter and by this weapon, I swear.’

Sedirae nodded and handed the oath paper to Loken.

'Kill for the living, brother.’ he said, 'and kill for the dead.’ He turned to walk away. Targost holstered his bolter, made the sign of the aquila, and followed him.

Loken rose to his feet, securing his oath paper to the rim of his right shoulderguard.

'Do this right, Garviel.’ Abaddon said.

'I'm glad you told me that.’ Loken dead-panned. 'I'd been considering making a mess of it.’

Abaddon hesitated, wrong-footed. Torgaddon and Aximand laughed.

'He's growing that thick skin already, Ezekyle.’ Aximand sniggered.

'You walked into that.’ Torgaddon added.

'I know, I know.’ Abaddon snapped. He glared at Loken. 'Don't let the commander down.’

'Would I?' Loken replied, and walked away to his stormbird.

'OUR TIME'S UP,' Emont said.

Keeler didn't care. That last pict had been exceptional. The Mournival, Sedirae and Targost, all in a solemn group, Loken on his knees.

Emont conducted the remembrancers out of the embarkation deck space to an observation deck, adjacent to the launch port from which they could watch the stormbirds deploy. They could hear the rising note of the stormbird engines behind them, trembling the embarkation deck as they fired up in pre-launch test. The roaring dulled away as they walked down the long access tunnel, hatches closing one by one after them.

The observation deck was a long chamber, one side of which was a frame of armoured glass. The deck's internal lighting had been switched low so that they could better see into the darkness outside.

It was an impressive view. They directly overlooked the yawning maw of the embarkation deck, a colossal hatch ringing with winking guide lights. The bulk of the flagship rose away above them, like a crenellated Gothic city. Beyond, lay the void itself.

Small service craft and cargo landers flitted past, some on local business, some heading out to other ships of the expedition fleet. Five of these could be seen from the observation deck, sleek monsters at high anchor several kilometres away. They were virtual silhouettes, but the distant sun caught them obliquely, and gave them hard, golden outlines along their ribbed upper hulls.

Below lay the world they orbited. Sixty-Three Nineteen. They were above its nightside, but there was a smoky grey crescent of radiance where the terminator crept forward. In the dark mass, Keeler could make out the faint light-glow of cities speckling the sleeping surface.

Impressive though the view was, she knew shots would be a waste of time. Between the glass, the distance and the odd light sources, resolution would be poor.

She found a seat away from the others, and began to review the picts she'd already taken, calling them up on the picter's viewscreen.

'May I see?' asked a voice.

She looked up and had to peer in the deck's gloom to identify the speaker. It was Sindermann, the Primary Iterator.

'Of course.’ she said, rising to her feet and holding the picter so he could see the images as she thumbed them up one by one. He craned his head forward, curious.

You have a wonderful eye, Mistress Keeler. Oh, that one is particularly fine! The crew working so hard. I find it striking because it is so natural, candid, I suppose. So very much of our pictorial record is arch and formally posed.’

'I like to get people when they're not aware of me.’

This one is simply magnificent. You've captured Garviel perfectly there.’

"You know him personally, sir?'