Space, time? What are these trifles? Solonaetz Di Cavagni, navigator of the Imperial trader ship Dea Brava, coasted the warp tides of neural ecstasy, oblivious of all save his own blistering responses and the guiding scream-light of the astronomican, the Emperor’s own psychic beacon, searing through the heat of Chaos. He and the ship were one; a shining world speeding through the warp, his consciousness the benign god that nourished it. Real space drop minus fifteen… Solonaetz realigned consciousness. The warpscreen on the helm just in front of him was pulsing dully, displaying a convulsion of lesser eddies in the immaterium outside; nothing too worrying. He glanced upwards through the translucent plascryst of the navigation blister into an aching tumult of colour and optical noise. This was overlapped by his warp-sight, courtesy of his third eye, a mutation peculiar to navigators, which transmuted the chaotic fluidium of warp space into recognizable symbols.
