phrases to disclose an important discovery or indicate a grave predicament。 But what troubled me far more was the fact she had cut
off。 My reply； if she had heard it； indicated her transmission had been incomplete or garbled。
I waited a full minute； then another。
Without warning； my vox pipped quickly three times。 Medea had test…keyed her transmitter in a non…vocal code form that indicated
she couldn't talk and that I should stand by。
I brushed the thin skin of dust off one dead workdesk and gazed at the worn； rune…marked keyboard and the small display screens of
thick； convex glass； wondering what secrets I could possibly unlock from it。
Little； I decided。 Aemos； who frankly knew more than it was healthy to know； might have a chance。 He had worked closely with Bure
years before； and I fancied he had more experience of the mysterious tech…priests and their ways than he cared to admit。
My motion…tracker suddenly clicked around； and I tensed； pulling my stub…nose laspistol。 The tracker's display on my mask's right lens
indicated a movement or contact seventeen paces to my left； but even as I turned； it flashed up more。 Multiple contacts； all around；
coming so fast that they overlapped and utterly confused the tracker for a moment。 The lens display showed a default ''00：00：00'' for a
second as it struggled to compute the vectors； and then it scrolled a tight column of coordinates in front of my eye。
But by then； I knew what it had sensed。
The sanctum was coming to life。
In swift succession； each workstation chattered into action； cogs whirring； valves glowing； screens lighting； pistons hissing。 Pneumatic
gas…pumps exhaled and communique flasks began to pop and whizz through the network of elegant glass…and…brass message tubes that
ran between the consoles and up the walls。 Several desks projected small hologram images above their hololith hubs： three
dimensional strata maps； spectroscopy graphs； sonar readings and oscillating wave…forms。 Powerful underlights ignited on the plinthtop
beneath the floating head of the Titan and threw its features into malevolent relief。
I sank down behind one of the stations； which vibrated and chattered against my back。 The sudden； inexplicable life was daunting and
alarming。 Somewhere close by； one particular machine was rattling and repeating like an old machine gun on full auto。
As suddenly as it had started； the life died away。 Stations fell silent and their lights went out。 The throb of power leaked away into the
darkness。 The Titan's underlights dimmed and died。 One by one； the holograms extinguished and the desks fell dormant。 The chirring
of cogs and servos and the throb of valves ebbed into stillness。
The last sound to go was that autogun racket。 It continued for a good few seconds after everything else had stopped； then it too ceased
abruptly。
The chapel was then as dark and quiet as it had been when I first entered。
I got to my feet。 There had been no power in this place； no feeding source。 What had started and woken the machines？ It had to have
been some signal from outside。
Using commonsense and guesswork； I went around the circle of stations nearest to me； hunting for the one that had chattered like a
stubber。 The most likely candidate was a bulky desk that seemed to have external and general gain vox functions。 But its keys were
dead to my touch。
On a whim； I got down on my knees and peered behind the desk。 There were fixings where a basket hopper should have been sitting to
catch the print…outs。 The hopper was missing。 The sheaf of print…out had fallen down into the dust under the desk。
I scooped the sheaf out。 It was about nine metres long； punch…cut by the printer's jaws into shorter sections。 Clearly this desk had been
disgorging print…outs for some time without anyone around to collect them。 The sections at the bottom of the spool were beginning to
yellow。
I looked them over； but they meant nothing。 Tabulated columns of machine code in close； regular bands。 Carefully； I laid them out on
the travertine floor and rolled them tightly into a thick scroll。
I was nearly finished when my vox pipped。
'Aegis wishes thorn。 By halflight disabused； in Administratum by heart。 Scales fall from eyes。 Multifarious； the grasp of changelings。
Pattern thimble advised。'
'Pattern thimble acknowledged。 Thorn arising by heart。'
Medea's words had told me all I needed to know。 They had found something in the Administratum； and they needed me back swiftly。
There was danger from Chaos all around。 I should trust no one。
I bolstered my laspistol and tucked the print…out scroll into my waistband。
As I ran out of the annex and down the red…striped tunnel； I tugged my combat shotgun out over my shoulder and racked the slide。
EIGHTEEN
PATTERN THIMBLE。
GOING ROCKSIDE。
GEARD BURE？S TRANSLITHOPEDE。
GLOSSIA'S NOT SO hard to understand。 It uses subliminal symbols and ''head words''。 Don't look for a mystery in it； it isn't there。 That's
why it works so well as a private code。 There is no encryption … at least no mathematical encryption … to be calculated and broken。 It is
idiomatic and visceral。 It is verbal impressionism。 It uses the uncalculable； unregulated mechanisms of poetry and intimacy to perform
its functions。 There have been times in the last … well； the increasing years of my career； let's say … there have been times when an ally
or retainer of mine has sent me a Glossia message using terms and words that have never been used before。 And still； I have
understood them。
It's a knack。 It's knowing how to use； and improvise； a shared cant。 There are basic rules of construction and metaphor； of course； but
Glossia's strength lies in its nebulous vagueness。 Its idioms。 Its resonance。 It is akin to the gut…slang of the Ermenoes； who have
replaced language with subtleties of skin…colour。
Pattern thimble； for example。
''Pattern'' indicates a course of action or behaviour。 ''Thimble'' is a qualifier； disclosing the manner or mode of said action。 A thimble is
a small tin cap that you might use to protect your finger from the short； sharp stabs of a needle during darning。 It wouldn't fend off；
say； an atomic strike or a horde of genestealers。 But； in the idiom of Glossia； it would seal you against sudden； spearing； close attacks。
It is also quiet and unremarkable。
And so； quietly； unremarkably； I slipped down the tunnel ways of Cinchare Minehead towards the officium of the Administratum。 I
was stealthy and secretive； and my motion tracker and shotgun were my thimble。
Pattern thimble。 Gideon Ravenor had coined that particular phrase； adding it to the vocabulary of my Glossia。
I thought of Ravenor； alone in his plastic…sheeted cot on Thracian。 My anger； dimmed these last few months； welled。
MY MOTION TRACKER warned me into cover at a junction of transit tunnels about half a kilometre from the plaza。 Hidden behind a
stack of empty promethium drams； I watched as two electric buggies buzzed past； heading towards the concourse area。 Bandelbi was
driving the lead one。 There were two miners with him； and three more in the buggy behind。 They all looked grimy and slovenly。
THERE WERE MORE buggies in the plaza； parked out in front of the security office。 I saw a couple of labourer…types lounging in the
building doorway； smoking lho…sticks。
I slipped into the miner's welfare through the back。 Medea and Aemos were waiting for me in the shabby rec…room billet。
'Well？'
'We nosed around the Administratum；' said Aemos。 'It wasn't even locked。'
'Then the place started to crawl with Kaleil's people and we skedaddled；' said Medea。 Both of them looked tense and pensive。
'They see you？'
She shook her head。 'But there is a damn sight more than twenty of them。 I counted thirty； thirty…five at least。'
'What did you find？'
'Recent archives are non…existent； or they've been erased；' said Aemos。 'Nothing for the last two and a half months； not even a
caretaking log； the sort of thing you'd expect Kaleil to have been obliged to keep。'
'He could be recording it at the security office。'
'If he was following official protocol； it would have been automatically copied to the central archives。 You know how anal the
Administratum is about keeping full records。'
'What else？'
'Well； it was a cursory examination … we didn't have much time。 But Kaleil told us Imperial Allied pulled out nine months ago and
Ortog Promethium followed them two months later。 According to the archive； both corporations were active； working and fully
crewed as recently as three months ago。 There's no record of any 〃Grav〃 cases； nor any filed reports or memos about the possibility of
such a problem。'
'Kaleil was lying？'
'In all respects。'
'So where is everyone？'
Aemos shrugged。
'Do we leave now？' Medea asked。
'I'm determined to find Bure；' I replied； 'and there's something afoot here that really ought to—'
'Gregor；' Aemos murmured。 'I hate to be the one to point this out； but this isn't your concern。 Although I know full well you are as
loyal to the Golden Throne now as you ever were； in most respects that matter； you're no longer an inquisitor。 Your authority is no
longer recognised by the Imperium。 You're a rogue… a rogue with more than enough problems of your own to sort out without