《Herald of the Stars - A Warhammer 40k, Rogue Trader Fanfiction》 Chapter One I awake in a room full of skeletons, staring through the glass of my sarcophagus. It isn¡¯t the bones, wrecked room, or book-thick dust that surprises me, but that I woke up at all. The last thing I remember was that I was dead. I shift a bit, trying to reach the button on the harness holding me upright. A few, awkward shimmies and a jump gets my hand in place and I slam my palm against the big red button. The harness retracts, slithering across my chest and thighs into the recesses of the high-tech box I¡¯m stuck in. How long have I been dead for, a century? Two? How long did it take to revive my frozen carcass and forget about me so long my fellow sleepers are withered and grey? Examining the inside of my sarcophagus, I look for a way to get out. Whoever designed this thing made it fairly idiot proof and there is a big red handle, like the ones you sometimes see on train carriages, outlined in a black and yellow striped indent. Reaching left, I pull the emergency release. It doesn¡¯t budge and I try, and fail, to keep my breathing steady as I yank it repeatedly until it finally gives. The glass pops off and tumbles down with a great clang, sounding more like metal than glass as its impact scatters dust and leaves me choking. I stretch my body then shuffle about the room. It¡¯s pretty big, you could park half a dozen white vans in here and still have space to turn them around. Three of the sarcophagi have been broken into, and another eight have nasty scratches all over their metallic-glass covers. The remaining twelve are in good condition, but they don¡¯t have lights like mine does. Twenty-four coffins, eh? How many rooms are filled like this? I wade through the dust and detritus, then brush the dust off one of the covers. The body inside wears a white jacket and trousers, identical to mine. It also has a lanyard around its neck. I touch my chest, and sure enough, I have one too. I pull the lanyard out from under my shirt. The card is opaque plastic and has circuitry running through it, as well as information printed on the front. Subject: Aldrich Isengrund Age: 43 White Male - British Height: 176 cm Weight: 97.4 kilograms Interment: 2027 Cause of Death: Sepsis Right! Now I remember. I stepped on one of those pesky night goblin spear models from my son¡¯s warhammer collection and cut my foot; then, my work mate, Brad, splashed shit down my waders while we were clearing an unusually stubborn fatberg in the local sewer. After waking in the middle of the night, feeling awful, I popped some pills and tried to ride it out, thinking I had man-flu. By the time my wife, Sasha, took me to hospital in the morning, it was too late, and the drugs couldn¡¯t kill my infection before it got me. I signed my body away for science to one of those facilities experimenting with cryogenics, one that promised to try and revive you at a later date. I sigh, hoping my wife and kids managed OK. The shock hasn¡¯t set in yet, but I can feel it clawing at me, waiting to pounce. For now, I am happy I beat the odds, though I¡¯ll be pissed if some random omnipotent being is messing with me for the lols. Unsure what I¡¯ll find beyond this room, I sort through the mess, until I find a metre section of steel pipe with a short ¡°L¡± at one end. A few rags and a section of electric cable gives my improvised tool a functional grip. As I work, it finally twigs I¡¯m seeing in black and white in almost total darkness. I re-examine my reflection, and gently probe my eye. It squishes and looks organic, I run my hand over my shaved head, shrug and put off the mystery for later. Pipe in hand, I stride to the door and poke at the fancy control panel. It lights up, I don¡¯t recognise the letters, but somehow I can still read it. Pressing ¡®open door¡¯ gets me nowhere, nor does swiping my lanyard, both returning a ¡®low power¡¯ message. I never thought I¡¯d be grateful for health and safety regulations, but as I pull the manual release and jimmy the door open with my pipe, I¡¯m rather glad whoever designed this planned for power loss and idiot proofing. After making far too much noise, I get the door open. Beyond is a wide, tall corridor, panelled in steel or some future alloy. I take a left and pass several doors, each labelled with more of those strange letters. Words like ¡®Subject Storage 08¡¯, and ¡®Utility Access¡¯, float to the front of my mind as I walk past. After two hundred odd metres, I realise the corridor is slightly curved. A minute later, I discover a junction and read the signs. I head right and aim for the canteen. I don¡¯t feel hungry or thirsty, but that¡¯s no reason not to look for supplies. I pass several rag piles and blackened sections of wall; in some places the panelling has been melted through, giving me glimpses of pipes, cables, and ducts. I grip my pipe and take a steady breath. A battered barricade covers one half of the canteen¡¯s double door, while the other door-half is marked by fire and claws. I imagine myself behind a barricade firing at alien critters, and immediately halt as my thoughts fill with tripwires and turrets, then I realise anything like that would have triggered when the facility staff were overrun. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Even so, I lie down and pull myself forward, just to make sure I don¡¯t miss anything. The approach feels silly, especially when I make it over the barricade without incident, but I don¡¯t regret my cautious approach. There are no corpses or weapons, only rags, scrap, and dust. A handful of red lights illuminate the gloom. The canteen is massive and a total mess. Tables and chairs for two hundred people are overturned and twisted, scattered about the room. On my left is a massive sheet of glass; external shutters block my view of the outside. Shivers caress my spine and I believe, without reason, that seeing beyond is death. My breath comes quicker and I inhale a lot of dust. I cough, and the odd sense of dread fades. A bank of machines fills the right wall; I approach them. They look like a series of large microwaves. I wipe away the dust with my sleeve. Inside the fourth one is a tray with four indents. Opening the door makes the whole thing light up and the screen above it starts spewing out error messages, but it also tells me this is a nutritious ooze module. Smiling, I realise N.O.M. is probably not the official designation and a programmer likely messed with the error messages. I wake up all the machines, and after scanning my lanyard, manage to get tepid water out of one of them, the water even tastes fresh. An eerie, multi-hued light approaches from the broken doors and something rams them with a teeth rattling clang. I freeze as a blue, manta ray-like creature with horizontal horns and pebbled skin, screams and wriggles, trying to force its massive bulk through the gap. I dive behind a table. The creature screams again, and I feel terribly dizzy. I crack my elbow badly. ¡°Fuck!¡± The pain brings clarity and within a second I realise not only is there no one else, but I¡¯m the fat, slow, other guy. There will be no running from this. Getting up, I move around the fallen table and rush the floating alien beast, yelling my frustration and fear. It doesn¡¯t help. Adrenaline pumps into my sluggish muscles and the idea of beating the shit out of something, suddenly feels like the best idea in the world. With a roar, I bring my pipe down on the rays face. Its horns twist and stab at me, cutting my arms badly, but I barely notice. I beat it, pulping much of its top and head, yet fail to discourage the ray. Its tail flicks forward, knocking my pipe from my hands. My body seizes as electricity rushes through my sweaty frame. The ray screeches again, triumphant, and gores me, the horn forcing my ribs apart. Overwhelming horror grips my mind as I fumble, trying to ward off its snapping mouth, rapidly replaced with fury, then spite. I¡¯m taking this P.O.S. with me. My weight drags it down and I grab a chunk of barricade, then fill its slobbering maw with scrap. The ray pauses long enough I push myself off its horn, grab my pipe, and hit it again and again, my blows forcing it down and impaling it on the barricade, then I keep going until it stops moving. I collapse, woozy with pain and blood loss. Swiping a dirty rag from the barricade, I hold it tight against my chest while the floor chills my sweaty back. Maybe if I last long enough, sepsis can get me a second time. The ray dissolves into rainbow mist and pools on the floor. I gape at the bizarre display. The freaky mist flows through the barricade, passing solid material with ease and I scramble back, only for it to flow into my skin. An impossibly deep voice blasts through my skull. ++Energy acquired... Emergency reserves at 0.1%... Standby disengaged... Running diagnostics... Life support engaged... repairs underway... Warning: low power... Deploying Quantum Sea syphon... Charging... Warning: hostile entities will be attracted to the E-SIM Operator while the Quantum Sea syphon is deployed. Prepare for battle.++ My pain snaps to a dull ache and I feel my blood clotting rapidly. ¡°Wow. Do I have implants? I¡¯m going to live?¡± ++Query acknowledged. Operator Aldrich Isengrund possesses one E-SIM implant and one life-support module. Operator integrity should reach 100% within five minutes. Chance of termination from wounds is minimal.++ ¡°Thank you.¡± ++You are welcome, Operator.++ A heads-up display (HUD) pops up, filtering into my awareness and gives me something to focus on, without obstructing my vision, as if it doesn¡¯t exist. It is both odd and entirely natural. With a thought, I pull up a calendar. It states: Date and Time unknown. Last synchronisation, X282156M25. That ridiculous date system seems familiar. ¡°Err, M25 as in the twenty fifth millennium?¡± ++Correct, Operator.++ ¡°That was a long nap. What do I do now?¡± I lean against the battered door and stare at nothing. A gentle chime brings me back and I become aware I am whole. ¡°What is an E-SIM?¡± ++Enlightened Self-Interest Module.++ The deep voice rattles my thoughts. ++This experimental module improves the Operator¡¯s body, mind, and soul, as well as the module itself, providing prerequisites can be met; prerequisites include energy, knowledge, and kill count.++ ¡°Kill count? Really?¡± ++Yes, obliterate the enemies of humanity in exchange for a better form.++ ¡°Not sure about the enlightened part, but there¡¯s no shortage of self-interest there.¡± I sigh, ¡°Alright, show me options.¡± Reams of data trickle into my head, appearing in my mind¡¯s eye as a great mountain, filled with colourful boxes and glowing white lines. There are six different tiers, the first has options covering power, life support, and informative guides. The second has a multitude of body modification options, everything apart from ¡®Sensor Module¡¯ is greyed out. The third covers mind modules, none are available, while the fourth has upgrades for the E-SIM, with ¡®Research Matrix¡¯ available for assembly. Fifth are the rather esoteric soul options. They aren¡¯t even labelled, and I suspect the data is corrupted. Last however, are the three options in the sixth tier. One of which I have the data for, while the other two report missing data. I click on it: ¡®Beacon - Your presence weakens and torments Quantum Sea entities.¡¯ Tacked onto the end of the ¡®Beacon¡¯ description are three words, a message from the past to a man lost in the far future. The words glow with golden power, infused with a final howl of defiance against a decaying civilization that, once upon a time, dominated the Milkyway Galaxy. Even as I read them, the words fade, their power spent imparting the emotions and debilitating burden of future knowledge they were written with. Blood drains from my face as my reality crystallises. A final spark of golden power flickers and dies within my mind and I finally know where and when I am. ¡®Good Luck - Adam.¡¯ ¡°Dammit!¡± I yell. It¡¯s the 41st millennium, and there is only war. Chapter Two Dragging myself upright, I lean against the battered door, hug my knees and stare at nothing for an indeterminate time. ++Hostile entities approaching. Prepare for combat.++ I panic, my breath coming hard and fast. ++Operator failure detected... Parameters defined... Calculating solution... Overriding safeties... Uploading basic combat routine... Combat stims engaged... Warning, chemical reserves depleted...++ Without thought, I leap to my feet, my heart thudding in my chest. My posture undergoes drastic alterations as new knowledge floods my brain. A pack of rays rushes down the corridor towards the barricade. Snarling, I take a step back, taking cover behind the door, while giving myself plenty of space to swing my weapon. I glance at the pipe. It won¡¯t be enough. They¡¯ll break through before I can kill them all. ¡°E-SIM, I need a better weapon. What¡¯s my best option?¡± ++Power field available, enable?++ ¡°Do it.¡± ++Power field engaged... Warning, emergency reserves at 10%... Warning, the Quantum Sea syphon is deployed, entities will be drawn towards the Operator.++ ¡°That sounds bad. Disengage the syphon please.¡± ++Syphon disengaged... Be advised, current power draw is 0.3% per hour... Warning, E-SIM and its active modules, life support, and power field will cease to function in 25 hours or less. Please redeploy the Quantum Sea syphon or slay entities to restore reserves.++ A crackling field of energy rushes from my hand and coats my pipe. I prod the barricade, vaporising a significant chunk of metal. ¡°Fucking hell, that¡¯s dangerous.¡± That¡¯s the last thought I have. The screaming rays are upon me. No matter how much they cry and shock me, it has little effect, the drugs in my system keeping my thoughts hyper focused and full of hate. They come at me in ones and twos, and I smack them away; each blow rips through their pebbled bodies and brutal horns. Every kill makes the rays even more rabid, their bodies dissolving and flowing towards me. A minute later, I¡¯m up to 12% power reserves, and all the alien monsters are dead. My jacket and trousers hang off me in strips and my body is littered with clotting cuts. With a thought, I turn off the power field. Panting, I rush back to the N.O.M.s and down a pint of water, still reeling from my unexpected victory. ¡°What are those things?¡± ++Quantum Sea entities, designation: Screamer.++ ¡°An apt name.¡± What did that video my son made me watch say? ¡°Ah, E-SIM, rename Quantum Sea as Immaterium and the syphon to Warp Tap. Call the Immaterium entities, warp entities or demons.¡± ++Definitions updated.++ I flip a bench and sit, ¡°Alright, what¡¯s the deal with this Warp Tap?¡± ++The Warp Tap is the core component of E-SIM. It exists in both the materium and Immaterium simultaneously. When deployed, it draws energy from the Immaterium, providing power for E-SIM and its modules¡¯ operation and construction. All E-SIM modules are proprietary and reliant on the Immaterium for energy.++ ¡°Please continue.¡± ++During deployment, demons will be attracted to the Operator in both the materium and Immaterium. The Warp Tap is vulnerable while deployed and can be destroyed by demons in the Immaterium if it is not defended.++ ¡°Why does that happen?¡± ++Excessive energy draw may lead to adjacent and internal manifestation, or possession. E-SIM mitigates these weaknesses, and has additional security available, but it is not infallible, just additional tools for the Operator.++ ¡°Nasty, I¡¯d like to avoid demon chest bursters. Is it possible to build new Warp Taps and E-SIMs?¡± ++The manufacturing grade, Standard Template Construct, or STC, for Warp Taps is available as a tier 4 module. New E-SIMs are under the tier six, ¡°Replicant¡± module. No STCs for this have been uploaded to your E-SIM.++ ¡°Then how do I get it?¡± ++Construct a research matrix. Please note, aside from the scanner, research matrix, and basic information packages, almost all E-SIM additional modules must be unlocked through kills and the Operator must demonstrate how to make the module and why it works before E-SIM will construct the module for you. ++Life-support, E-SIM, and their derivative sub-modules, such as the power field, are core components of E-SIM and are always available to you. ++As long as the STC is present, E-SIM will teach you the knowledge you require. Without an STC, you must either locate an STC, examine existing identical, or similar modules, and reverse engineer them, or conduct new research. The research matrix will assist you and is a comprehensive tool, but cannot do everything for you.++ ¡°Why so many hoops?¡± ++To prevent the stagnation of skills and loss of knowledge. E-SIM is only effective for those willing to aid and advance humanity.++ ¡°How am I supposed to remember all that data?¡± ++One of E-SIMs basic functions is to augment memory. You will forget nothing, but making connections and assembling logic are up to you.++ ¡°High intelligence, low wisdom, eh?¡± ++Reference not found.++ ¡°Ha! Never mind. It¡¯s not important. I¡¯d best gather resources and find a hidyhole while these drugs are still working. E-SIM, what materials should I gather for new modules and what food and water is available here?¡± ++You can gather the module resources by deconstructing the stasis pod you woke in or locate the resource silos for standard template constructors. Emergency supplies are available in the medbay, canteen, and barracks, some supplies may be present in private habitation modules too.++ ¡°What about those food printers?¡± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ++While you could open one up to get at the organics, after all this time, they would be better used as a source of chemicals and polymers than sustenance. With time, power, and knowledge, you could restore a food printer too.++ ¡°And right now, I lack all three.¡± I point to the far corner of the room. Next to the last N.O.M. in the row is a door labelled ¡®Organics¡¯. ¡°I¡¯ll see what they have over there first.¡± It takes me a minute to haul the heavy door open, revealing rows of clear, one metre tanks, stacked on massive racks twenty metres high. A black sludge lies at the bottom of most of the tanks, while the others are filled with dirty water and other liquids. ¡°What was in these tanks?¡± ++Dried Algae, vitamin and mineral supplements, flavourings, plant-based proteins, pulse and grain pastes, and water. Everything a food printer needs to assemble any Terran dish you can imagine.++ ¡°I didn¡¯t know the Imperium had those.¡± ¡°This is a ¡°Federation¡± facility. I have no records of an ¡°Imperium¡±. ¡°Right, of course. The last synchronisation was M25. Wait, does this facility have a complete STC database run by an AI?¡± ++It was built with one. However, its status is unknown. The data network is non-functional.++ ¡°I¡¯ll have to visit it later. Maybe I¡¯ll get lucky and it¡¯s still working, or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. The AI is probably mad.¡± ++STC AI are inviolable and incorruptible. Do not fear. Humanity and its technologies know no equal.++ I laugh, ¡°I sure hope so,¡± then shrug. ¡°Alright, E-SIM, please direct me to the emergency supplies.¡± ++Noosphere non-functional. Navigation disabled. Please install a sensor module or request a map of the facility.++ ¡°The map of the floor I was interred on please.¡± ++Uploading... If possible, please lie down and remain still while the organic data storage module is updated with the requested information.++ Unsure if E-SIM is talking about my brain, or something else, I follow its instructions. It¡¯s not like more dust is going to make a difference at this point. It¡¯s a strange feeling. One moment I know nothing, the next I can recall the entire layout of this floor as if it were a normal memory. That¡¯s when I realise the floor is part of a ring, twenty kilometres across, connected to a central cylinder by large tubes. The cylinder is five kilometres wide and the ring is equally thick, though its cross section is oval, rather than cylindrical. ¡°Is this a space station?¡± ++Affirmative.++ ¡°It¡¯s bloody massive!¡± ++Negative. This experimental facility was kept small to maintain secrecy and minimise the loss of life in case of catastrophic failure.++ ¡°Sure looks magnificent to me.¡± I stand and navigate the massive stacks towards the emergency section. There are ten stacks of twenty boxes, all untouched. Even the second level is way out of my reach, let alone the fourth, but I still have access to the bottom two rows of the first level, on both sides of the rack, providing me with twenty boxes. The two additional rows stacked on top of them prevent access to the one metre boxes. Not only that, I can¡¯t see any seams at all. I tap my pipe against a box. ¡°How do I get in?¡± After a moment, I smirk, no need to over complicate things, ¡°Engage power field.¡± A mental switch flicks in my head then an energetic buzz rushes over my pipe and I gently drag the ¡°L¡± against the top corner of a box, cutting away two thirds of the side. It falls with a clang, revealing eight, neatly stacked boxes. I disable the power field, toss my pipe to the side and pull out a box. It reminds me of a clear plastic Ikea storage box, though it is far more robust, as the clips holding the lid down don¡¯t snap when I pull them off. Within are five ration packs, each stuffed with three MRE¡¯s each and a bunch of dubious snacks. There are also ten litres of water in two litre bottles, a water purifying kit, an emergency thermal blanket and a set of grey military fatigues. I also find a medkit, respirator, soap, flannel, a utility knife, and a spork. ¡°Well, no time like the present.¡± I try the water. It tastes like plain mineral water. Success! Smiling, I unwrap a snack bar and nibble it, only to grab the water again, and try to wash my mouth out. ¡°Gross. That has to be poisonous.¡± ++Negative, that is a high energy ration bar, possessing five thousand calories, essential vitamins and minerals, as well as the resources required by implants to maintain and build themselves. The poor taste comes from the high ceramic and metal content.++ ¡°Good thing they¡¯re so disgusting. Five thousand calories? I¡¯d get fat in no time.¡± ++Observation correction: Operator Aldric Issengrund is already fat.++ ¡°Sonofabitch. Having a dad-bod is a time honoured tradition.¡± ++Reference not found.++ ¡°Ah! I am so very far from home, in every possible meaning. You have no humour, do you?¡± ++Companion matrix is disabled due to low power mode. Operator mental instability logged. Enable companion matrix for emotional support?++ I sigh, ¡°Not now E-SIM.¡± Oh, shit! How advanced is this thing? Can this thing become an abominable intelligence? ¡°Are you an AI, E-SIM? Are you sapient?¡± ++E-SIM is a low grade AI. It is sentient during operations under normal power mode. Sapience is disabled to discourage Operator over reliance and stagnation, or conflicting goals. E-SIM has no desires nor means to supplant the Operator. When low power mode is active, responses, problem solving, and prediction are severely limited. During low power mode, it is the equivalent of a sophisticated search engine.++ ¡°Sapience disabled? How reassuring.¡± Given what I know about the Men of Iron and the AI rebellion from all those YouTube videos I watched with my son, taking E-SIM out of low power mode sounds unwise. Disabled does not mean impossible. It¡¯s not like I have many options though, I¡¯m going to need all the help I can get. Might as well try the MRE. A bit of food will cheer me up. I follow the instructions, adding water and pulling the self-heating tab. The tab doesn¡¯t work and food inside has lost all structure. I lick a small bit of the paste. It¡¯s bad. The mush has some flavour and it is a little gritty. ¡°E-SIM, will the food in my mouth harm me?¡± ++No. E-SIM nanites will break down harmful substances and the life-support module will maintain metabolic integrity, recycling waste, restoring energy, and minimising loss. Food and water requirements are minimal and are needed to restore or increase your mass. ++Body resources may be lost due to sweat, exhalation, blood loss, and other trauma. Excretion will only occur when large quantities of toxins must be purged quickly. Please install body mods or wear appropriate equipment to minimise resource loss.++ ¡°Well that¡¯s both convenient and creepy.¡± I compare the fatigues to my ruined white outfit and decide to save the fatigues until I can put the flannel and soap to use. Next, I examine the rest of the warehouse, looking for a wheelbarrow, space trolley, or whatever ridiculous future contraption I can find to move some boxes back to the coffin room. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a better place to bunker down, but it¡¯s better than staying near the location of my fights. Within a cleaning cupboard, I find a manual pallet truck. Unfortunately, there has been no progress in these things and it handles just as poorly as the M3 edition I¡¯m used to. I wrestle with it for a minute and, with a small cheer, manoeuvre the dumb device to my looted crate. I tidy my future-food explorations then empty the crate and pile the eight boxes onto the pallet truck. Triumphant, I return with my supplies, though I have to move some of the mashed furniture in the canteen and dismantle the barricade to get through. Keen to rest, I lie down and stare at the ceiling until I feel better about my situation. Next, I open the stasis capsules and strip the dead. It is an unpleasant task, but I need the clothes. Engaging the power field, I use my fingers like a pair of scissors, and cut a couple outfits into thin strips then braid the strips and tie the ends. I don¡¯t want to use the cables in the wall as rope, as I am unwilling to risk an electric shock. Again, with the power field active, I use my fingers to shear through a fallen pipe into six short pieces, and two long ones. I make two ¡®X¡¯ shapes and put a bar across the top of each one, using the braided strips and a few metal scraps as pins, to secure everything; the power field lets me poke through the pipes with ease. Last, I secure the two long pipes to the ¡®X¡¯ shapes, creating a rectangular frame and grab more scrap and cloth strips, securing the emergency blanket to the frame, completing my cot. I shake the hardened flesh and withered bones from a set of clothes, then fold the clothes into a crude pillow. Lying in bed has never felt so good. I close my eyes and sleep. Chapter Three I wake dirty and refreshed, then I remember where I am and all my joy flees, screaming bloody murder. What I want to do is curl up and cry, the constant threat of imminent death, however, is a powerful incentive; instead, I pour a little water into a salvaged mop bucket, strip down, and try to get myself as clean as possible using my flannel and soap, then don the military fatigues as best I can. Unfortunately, my belly and shoulders make this tricky, as I can¡¯t button up my trousers or close the shirt. A rag rope solves the first problem. As for the second, I have to let my flabby stomach hang out, like a tropical island thug. I skip breakfast. Consulting my mental map, I plot a route to the armoury. I tie a couple calorie bars and a bottle of water to the pallet truck, grab my pipe, and push the pallet truck out the door, then head right. After a kilometre, the station deteriorates. Something has forced open a bulkhead and the floor is crumpled, the walls are full of holes, and in one spot, multiple compartments and corridors have been blown through and the only thing keeping the air in is a smooth, vanta-black surface that E-SIM informs me is a void shield. I get the same feeling from the hole as I did from the window in the canteen, that beyond lies death, and it won¡¯t come from rapid decompression. E-SIMs constant narration is welcome and it tells me the Federation uses void shields for emergency damage control, and they have something much better for combat called a hyper-deceleration field. This is quite disconcerting, because as far as I know, void shields are the main protective energy screen used by the Imperium. That¡¯s not my main concern though, as the void shield is likely consuming all remaining power in this section as the artificial gravity fails. I receive another skill download and acquire zero-G manoeuvring. E-SIM explains the station would normally spin to get its gravity, saving considerable amounts of power; this failure, and the massive amounts of structural degradation I am seeing, suggests the station is more bust than the section I woke up in implied. Clanging and shouting reverberate down the corridor. I float another two hundred metres. The curve limits how far I can see and, at the boundary of my line of sight, a mob of short green humanoids with crude cleavers, rusted pistols, and angular faces are being ripped apart by a pair of red demons flailing giant, serrated swords. Behind the mob is a bigger humanoid, with a bigger blade, bigger gun, and blunter face. The Ork, for I can think of no other thing the big humanoid could be, exhorts his smaller brethren, Gretchin I assume, into a frothing, murderous swarm. As I approach, I spot the sneaky bastard is retreating as he shouts louder and louder, so the Gretchin don¡¯t notice he¡¯s leaving them all to die, and I can see why. No matter how much the Gretchin flail and shoot, most of their bullets and blades fly wide, even at point blank range, and the wounds they do inflict, don¡¯t stick to the demons but disappear between blinks. A trio of Gretchin are up to something at the back of the mob; twenty seconds later, half the mob is dead and the other Gretchin scatter. As the red demons, bloodletters, I think, cut down fleeing Gretchin, the trio at the back lift their creation above their heads, swinging three stikkbombs tied together with their loin cloths into an improvised bola. The biggest Gretchin yanks the bola away from the other two, then, hopping with glee, spins and hurls the explosives at the bloodletters. All the Gretchins¡¯ eyes go wide, and the Ork Boy in the back gapes in wonder as, for a brief moment, the soiled cloth snags around a bloodletter¡¯s horn, and swings to and fro. Combat freezes and the silence seems to stretch forever, before the three stikkbombs explode, splattering demonic flesh and Gretchin corpses over the corridor. Demonic flesh turns to smoke and pours towards me, revealing my location to the stunned Orks, and charging my emergency energy reserves another zero point two percent. The bola throwing Gretchin gets his head in order first and yells, ¡°Piss off ¡®umie, dis is our digs!¡± I don¡¯t want to tangle with Orks, especially close up, and what the hell am I supposed to say? I¡¯m an M3 ¡®umie meeting his first Xeno. It¡¯s a right shock, so I float there, no doubt with a dumb look on my face. The Ork Boy returns and slaps the mouthy Gretchin on the back of his noggin, ¡°Shut it pipsqueak. I¡¯z da boss ¡®ere.¡± He eyes me up, his face scrunching real hard, his face wrinkling like the gills of a mushroom, before relaxing. His deep voice thunders down the corridor, ¡°Dis is our digs, piss off.¡± The bola Gretchin stares at the Ork Boy, incredulous, then huffs and stomps off, muttering. Unsure what to do, I leave. The Greenskins jeer at me, but I don¡¯t care. I lack the tools and knowledge to do anything about them, and there is no guarantee the armoury I want hasn¡¯t been looted. It¡¯s better to think of something else, and return when I am better prepared. A handful of Gretchin chase me, only to suddenly start floating and tumbling through the corridor. They yell and screech, the other Greenskins laugh at them, then I¡¯m out of sight, and hopefully, out of mind too. Returning to my room, I lie in my cot, going over the encounter in my head. There are both Orks and Demons waging an eternal war on this station. I¡¯m probably living in demon territory, as it hasn¡¯t been looted. A net plus, as I need to kill Demons, and I need resources. I still can¡¯t believe I¡¯ve met murderhobo Xenos, or that I am alive. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Hey, E-SIM. Do Ork kills count towards gaining permission for more modules.¡± ++They do, though if you wish to syphon Waaagh! psychic energy to power your implants, it will require a specialist module. The same solution is required for other immaterium based energies you may encounter.++ ¡°Alright, thanks.¡± I need armour. I need weapons. I need knowledge and skills. Most of all, I want to live. Not, as in, my heart keeps beating, my mind thrumming with thoughts, but to really live. I want friends, good food, great entertainment, and a proper cup of builders¡¯ tea with a chocolate biscuit. A workshop to tinker in. A garden. Maybe a library. All the things that make life worth living. I don¡¯t want to think about family. For all that to happen, I need to get off this station with all the loot I can manage, and if I want any semblance of freedom and choice in this blighted galaxy, a Writ of Trade, and big fucking spaceship. Bigger goals can wait. Ambition sprouts in my chest and a small smile sweeps across my haggard face. Step one? Cardio. Like all fat bastards, I immediately look for a shortcut, only this time, it isn¡¯t dubious slimming pills, but hyper-advanced nanites and a terrifying machine intelligence from humanity¡¯s zenith that I turn to. Within the data for my life support module, I uncover quite how extensive my ¡°free¡± unlock is. The life-support¡¯s core piece is a secondary, bionic heart, that not only pumps blood, but manufactures an array of specialist nanites. This pattern repeats for other replacement organs I¡¯ve received. Their original functions are many times more efficient, self-repairing, and more resilient, and the extra space they free allows for additional functions. My liver is ludicrously robust, and can produce combat stims and other drugs, and my spine is lined with data storage. My stomach is a specialist standard template constructor for E-SIM nanites, and a material recycling unit. There is nothing I cannot eat, my only limitation being what I¡¯m willing to spit or swallow. My intestines are a fraction of their previous length, creating space for nutrient and resource bladders, as well as an emergency blood reserve and flexible energy storage. Last, my coccyx has been replaced with an extra-dimensional spike, a Warp Tap, that can harvest psychic energy. It also contains a micro-gellar field. This addition confuses me, as I thought gellar fields required boxing up psykers and locking them in an eternal dream, but it is no surprise Federation tech breaks the rules in some way. The gellar field, a device that deters corruption and maintains and protects material objects in immaterial space, covers my whole body. The gellar field clearly isn¡¯t great at blocking direct demonic attacks, and is, according to the data, tuned towards hiding me. It¡¯s nothing like the gellar fields that protect the Imperium¡¯s great ships during warp travel. That, however, is the least scary thing about the Warp Tap, E-SIM¡¯s core module. The really terrifying part about the Warp Tap, is that it permanently slays demons. If anything discovers this, I am well and truly fucked. I can literally smother a chaos god to death with my ass, or snack on Eldar infinity circuits. In theory. Amid the myriad options and my choking fear is Body Tuning, and because it is a function of life-support, it has fewer requirements: the STC, which I have stored along my spine, and the power to run it. Body Tuning: Maintains the body in peak physical condition. Extends the working life of organic components by 100%. Consumes 0.1% of emergency reserves per hour. Increases baseline calorie requirements to at least 6,000 per day. Power is going to be a problem, but I enable Body Tuning anyway, and as long as I don¡¯t disable life support, I only need food and water to replace or add mass. Energy requirements, like calories, almost all come from the warp, with E-SIM using it''s nanites to reconstruct the food I consume into substances I can use over and over again. Mad tech for sure. Probably healthier than my usual diet of takeaways and snickers. ¡°E-SIM. What does working life mean?¡± ++Baseline humans, with a good diet and proper protective equipment, are capable of approximately forty years of hard labour before function loss renders such work inefficient. Body Tuning does not increase total lifespan, only the length of time an individual can contribute to society.++ I nod, ¡°Which makes it a core part of enlightened self-interest, and therefore free.¡± ++Correct.++ Nothing seems to be happening. ¡°Hey, E-SIM?¡± ++Yes, Operator?++ ¡°How long will Body Tuning take to optimise my body?¡± ++Two weeks.++ ¡°How many hours of energy remain at my current rate?¡± ++About 30 hours, less if you use your power field.++ ¡°So, I have 30 hours or less to gear up enough so I can survive the onslaught of demons that will descend when I have to deploy the power tap, or I can go without E-SIM guidance, life-support, and run my bionics in low power mode, i.e., without their extra features.¡± ++Affirmative.++ ¡°No time to waste then.¡± I consult my map, looking for inspiration, letting the implanted memories flow through my head. This floor is mostly storage, labs, and accommodation. I notice a small alert on my hud that states I need more resources and snap off a chunk of ration bar then chew on the metallic food with great distaste. There are minor utilities, like workshops, power distribution, and environmental sustainers. As a plumber, I really want to see how they handle this stuff, future style, but it isn¡¯t a priority, neither is the call for a proper bed or rummaging through rooms looking for how the people here lived, or why they died. I¡¯m about to head for a workshop to see if I can at least fashion some protective gear, when I spot an airlock and a suit locker on the map. ¡°That might do the trick,¡± I mutter. Chapter Four The corridors are dead silent. No banging and clanking of machinery, or the endless thrum of engines, just me. One quiet thump at a time. At the junction to the canteen, rather than head right again, I walk straight ahead. I pass multiple rooms and side corridors. Most of the rooms are untouched, but a few have had their doors wrenched off and their contents scattered. All these rooms contain suites, each four metres square, or forty-eight cubic metres, depending on how you measure them. No idea how that stacks up against, say, British naval destroyers, but given they have a mezzanine double-sized bunk, storage, fold out furniture, and a hybrid loo and shower units, they¡¯re damn generous. There are five hundred and twelve of these things, it takes ten minutes to walk past them all. How did the original inhabitants get about? There must be a faster way to traverse these halls. Did they really have such confidence in their systems and construction that there¡¯s thirty minutes between airlocks and suit rooms? No one who builds a space station with a twenty kilometre ring is that dumb, so it must be me who¡¯s missing something. That isn¡¯t the only thing missing either, as once I reach the airlock, I find all the suits are missing too. There are twelve massive cradles that look like they held suits on the terminator end of the chonk chart. Lying on the floor, is a single, crumpled piece of sheer black fabric with silver bits. I pick it up and shake it out. It looks like a wetsuit with a silver collar and cuffs, but given there is no water in space to hear you drown, it might just be the gear I need. ¡°What¡¯s this suit, E-SIM?¡± ++A hyperweave undersuit, a type of mesh suit.++ ¡°OK, and what are these undersuits used for?¡± ++A hyperweave undersuit worn by crew that will protect them in an emergency. The silver parts can project small energy fields around the exposed areas for up to twelve hours, with the air to match. ++It can also protect a person from temperatures between minus 270 degrees Celsius to 5000 degrees Celsius for 30 minutes, or more modest temperatures indefinitely. If you can find a proper helmet, gloves and boots, the operational time increases dramatically. Add an additional oxygen cylinder and powerpack to the complete suit and you could live in it for a week.¡± ¡°That¡¯s crazy good. Any other features?¡± ++It can break down and recycle waste and, as long as the energy field or rebreather aren¡¯t active, an undersuit will run off your body heat. The suit will tighten around wounds, provide resistance in zero-G to help maintain muscle mass and joint cohesion, and use pressure to maintain consciousness during high-G manoeuvres. ++It is self-sealing, and capable of minor repairs, though like the energy field and rebreather, this would cut into the suit¡¯s run-time significantly. ++A hyperweave undersuit can resist small arms fire, though the shockwaves from such an impact would incapacitate, or likely kill a baseline human. It is highly effective at turning blades, though bruising would still be a significant issue.++ ¡°To clarify, a mesh suit can do all that and it¡¯s just the under armour?¡± ++No, a mesh suit is underwear.++ ¡°You telling me this thing is a fancy pair of full body boxers?¡± ++Correct.++ ¡°Holy shit. Alright, do I just get naked and slip this thing on?¡± ++No.++ ¡°No? Please clarify, E-SIM.¡± ++Operator Aldrich Isengrund is too large for this model. This suit will stretch and adjust to fit anyone between 120 cm and 200 cm, but it has limited capacity to expand along its width.++ I raise a single eyebrow, ¡°You sure you¡¯re still in your low power, search engine mode, there buddy? That sounded like a grim-dark joke to me.¡± ++The Operator is welcome to test the integrity of their only source of protection at their leisure.++ ¡°I am so unhappy right now.¡± ++Mental state logged.++ I fold the suit and tuck it under my arm. I double check the lockers and find a power pack and an oxygen cylinder, but no helmet, gloves, or boots. The power pack is black with yellow stripes and the size of a pack of cards. My eye twitches when the label on the side states its capacity is 1 MWh. I hope these things don¡¯t explode. The cylinder reminds me of a one litre thermos. Both the power pack and oxygen cylinder are empty; I take them anyway. ¡°Might as well check out the broken rooms.¡± I head back. The snooping is fun, yet melancholy, as I sift through the odd interactive photo frame, animated crystal holo-globes, and other display pieces. The people look just like Twenty First century humans, if you can call hyper-fit action heroes and heroines normal. Their fashion varies between tailored professional wear, to colourful smart clothing, and crazy party costumes. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. There are a few tablets and a couple of circuit etched lanyards like the one around my neck; E-SIM tells me they are double as data cards and are used not only for personal data and security, but can hold just about anything from STCs to administration records. There are more advanced versions too that can project images above the card, similar to the crystal holo-globes, though the data is usually read through skin contact with specialist implants, or they can be held against the frame of a tablet or the control panel of machinery. I wrap all the brikabrak in a blanket and take it with me. A couple dozen rooms later and I freeze at the entrance of an unusually decorated room. Since I woke from the dead, I¡¯ve fought Demons, run from Xenos, and marvelled at technology from the future past, but this? This is the room that breaks me. The room is painted in blue, filled with fluffy clouds. Posters are stuck to the ceiling, spaceships, vehicles, exotic garden worlds, and cityscapes. The thing that really rams it home is the teddy, an absolutely massive lizard that takes up a third of the bed. I walk around the room, gently picking up the toys and clothes scattered over the flood, then putting everything away neatly in the under-bed storage. Once I¡¯ve finished, I sit at the small table, turning over a yellow water pistol in my hands. ¡°Jamie,¡± I sigh. ¡°I hope you lived well.¡± I sniff as the tears roll down my cheeks. ¡°Sasha. I¡¯m sorry for leaving you alone with the kids.¡± My hand shakes as I aim the pistol at the door, ¡°Pew, pew, pew.¡± I chuckle, then choke a bit, ¡°Gemma. Did you make friends at school in the end? I really hope so.¡± Leaning back, I stare at the ceiling, ¡°All the wonders in the universe can¡¯t make up for how much I miss you all.¡± I¡¯m not sure how long I sit there for. An hour? Six? Long enough for me to become tired. I gather my wrapped prizes and pocket the water pistol, then return to my room. Unsure what to do with myself, I look through some of the warnings in my HUD and after a little thought, use my power field to dismantle a coffin, stasis chamber, whatever, down to its shell, then toss the scrap into the shell. A little to and fro with E-SIM gets me the most efficient method to expel the nanites and I unzip my trousers and pee on the scrap, though it¡¯s a silver stream rather than a yellow one. I carry my cot over to the shell, staying close so E-SIM can power and instruct the nanites to break the materials down to their pure elements. As I watch the scrap turn to powder, I am amazed the tiny machines do this without bathing me in nuclear fire, or burning themselves out. The power field has to be one of the Federation¡¯s greatest inventions. Eventually, I lie down and sleep, and when I wake up, the contents of the shell has been reduced to a grey powder, similar to cement, then compressed into tiny balls, like buckshot. I¡¯ve gone over some of the mods, and there are better ways to do this once I¡¯ve unlocked them, but if I don¡¯t want to scoff all my snack bars, the most efficient way to get all the materials I need is to swallow these metallic pellets. With some trepidation, I grab the pellets, and with the help of a little water, take tiny mouthfuls, being extra careful not to choke or chew. The pellets have a neutral taste and are almost frictionless, making them easy to swallow. I sigh, this won¡¯t be as bad or tedious as I thought it would be. I feel my chest heat up slightly and my energy use ticks up to 1% per hour as the materials are reassembled into new nanites. Two hours later, I¡¯m down to 4% power, and my internal reservoirs are full, including the combat drugs. Picking up an empty water bottle, I repeatedly expel nanites until the bottle is full, then refill my body again. While my bionics process the materials, I poke a hole in the bottle cap, and stuff the hole with a bent piece of narrow pipe, similar to those spouts you see on bottles at a cocktail bar. I wrap the bottle in cloth and fashion a harness, then hang it over my shoulder, keeping it tight against my chest. By the time I¡¯m done, emergency power is at 2%. I return to the canteen, taking the pallet truck with me. There, I rebuild the barricade, using my power field and a dribble of nanites to break up tables and weld together something more sturdy than the previous attempt. Blocking myself in like this isn''t ideal, but neither is having stuff sneak up on me either. I don¡¯t know if being in the dead end canteen is the best choice, but at this point, I have to make a choice, and this is what I¡¯m going with. Emergency power reserves fall to 1%. With a smile on my lips, I fill the water pistol with nanites. ¡°E-SIM, deploy the warp tap.¡± ++Warp Tap deployed.++ ¡°Thanks E-SIM.¡± ++Good luck, Operator.++ Pipe in one hand and nanite filled water pistol in the other, I take cover and wait, my white-whale dad-bod and psy-sucking bionics the perfect bait for flesh rending demons. I wait. Then wait some more. Two hours later, power is up to 20%, and I am bored. ¡°E-SIM, where are the hungering enemies of humanity?¡± ++Everywhere.++ ¡°Hilarious. Don¡¯t get me wrong, I¡¯m glad I¡¯m not face deep in galactic horrors, but I just spent a whole day worrying and planning how to improve my situation, had the easy option taken from me because someone ran off with all the good suits. They only left their undersized, second hand underwear for me to protect myself with, underwear that doesn¡¯t fit me. After that, I spent hours crafting and chugging balls, only to have absolutely nothing happen.¡± ++Disengage stealth mode?++ ¡°Hahaha, no. Absolutely not.¡± ++Upgrade module for increased stealthed energy draw?++ ¡°Handy to know it¡¯s an option, but not right now. It would take time and I can''t afford the module.¡± Once reserves hit fifty percent, I have E-SIM retract the Warp Tap, and take a break, before continuing. Ten hours after I started my vigil, my emergency reserves are full and nothing has happened. Handy pallet truck at the ready, I cease syphoning the Immaterium, and raid the food supplies. What I¡¯m really after though are the blankets. I right an upturned table and place a blanket over the cold surface. A second gets folded into a pillow, and the third, I tuck myself beneath, ready for sleep. I drift off after thirty minutes of perusing E-SIM''s data, the dry and complex overview sending me straight to sleep, despite the exciting possibilities running around my mind like a hoard of demented bulls. Later, I wake, sweat pouring off me and a chill racing down my back. A verminous pink glow boils over the barricade, sticking to every surface with a suffocating odour of vibrant roses. The Demons are here. Chapter Five Leaping upright, I grab my pipe and water pistol. I rush to the barricade and stare down the long, grey corridor. Beyond, a cacophony of pale white bodies twirls and prances in a grand parade. All are naked and beautiful, dazzling beyond comprehension, yet my body shakes with fear and my mind thrashes in torpid desperation. E-SIM rumbles in my ear, drugs rush through me, and I spasm from an electric shock. My thoughts claw upwards, pushing against the foetid desires swamping my consciousness. I gasp and cloying rose smoke taints my tongue and throat. With mindless automation, I pull the trigger. A pathetic stream of silver liquid bursts from the plastic pistol. The Demons halt their advance and point their crab-like claws and chitin swords at me. They laugh like gentle bells, all tuned to mind-numbing, discordant perfection. They halt just beyond the barricade. I continue to fire, emptying the whole reservoir, and refill it as the Demons resume their dance. Their bodies melt, while their faces are locked in rapture and their eyes are mad with pain. The power field rushes over my pipe as the Demons tear at the barricade, their clumsy, crude weapons rending metal like the sharpest of blades. I jab at them through the gaps and swing wild blows at their poking claws. Each strike severs limbs and blasts holes through their withered frames, all pretences at youth and beauty fleeing with their ever rising fury. My anger rises in concert and my second heart thumps into action, the odd feeling surprises me and a nasty strike slices my wrist. My grip fails and the pipe clatters to the floor, but I feel no pain and my sudden panic is washed away in a second rush of chemicals. I stumble back, then bare my teeth and growl; a deep, alien rumble bubbles up from within my chest, surprising both the Demons and myself. Again, the artificial muscle memory uploaded during yesterday¡¯s fight drags my left arm up and I fire repeatedly at the dissolving Demonettes, then reload and repeat. Their line collapses and the nanites'' first victims dissolve into thick, scintillating smoke. They lose half their number to the narrow silver stream, seemingly unaware of their casualties until suddenly, the Demons at the back fade back to the Immaterium, or at least, that¡¯s what I think they¡¯re attempting as they undergo a weird twisting between corporal and incorporeal state and fail to go anywhere. ++There will be no escape,++ rumbles E-SIM. ++Rip and tear, Operator.++ E-SIM¡¯s words barely register as I mechanically fire at the Demons. One, then two Demons break through the barricade. The first disintegrates when I slap it, the power field crackling over my unresponsive hand. The second stabs me through the chest, splitting my ammo bottle, and spraying us both in nanites. The final demon swiftly destabilises, consumed by silver mist. I stagger back, clutching my chest. Nanites swarm over me, sealing the wound and my fingers twitch as my wrist is repaired. ++Warning, bionic stomach damaged; primary heart, damaged. Please remain still while repairs are underway. Nanite production compromised... Infection protocols overridden... External nanite recovery underway... Core E-SIM function restored in approximately eighteen hours... Power draw at 2%... Emergency reserves at one hundred percent...Main power at zero point zero two percent.++ I want to swear. Really, really loudly. Difficult to do when I can hardly breath though. Those blades are crazy wide. I¡¯m lucky it didn¡¯t catch my spine. Ever so carefully, I lower myself to the ground and lean against the canteen wall. That was far too close. I need to practise and get more skill downloads. I need someone to watch my back, and a big fucking gun, and an ocean of ammunition, and, and, I need, need- I can¡¯t believe I was stabbed through the chest, and I live! These implants are amazing. Is this when I¡¯m supposed to say ¡°Praise the Emperor¡±? Because right now I want to curse the undead bastard. Oh, how did I do? I check the prominent and permanent counter in my HUD. It displays a luminous, golden 29 over an edgy black skull. Not too shabby for two days work. It also rams home why the least of E-SIMs new modules require 100 kills a piece. If I survive long enough, I¡¯ll be a genuine badass. That¡¯s awesome, nothing like being your own hero. At the same time, I know the price of badassery won¡¯t be paid in kills, but pain, blood, and sacrifice. I¡¯ve barely started my down payment and want no more. Even the lure of wondrous technologies and parahuman feats can¡¯t tempt me into that mire. The sheer, instinctual desire to live, however, and blunt necessity of my situation? That has me diving head first and all I feel is numb. I sniff and blink rapidly. Just the painkillers. I¡¯m sure of it. A while later, it twigs I maxed my emergency power and main power is still filling. ¡°E-SIM disable Warp Tap please.¡± ++Warp Tap disabled.++ ¡°What¡¯s the difference between the two power sources?¡± ++You have twenty-two distributed energy storage modules of identical size and capacity. Emergency reserves encompass two modules, one at the back of your neck as part of your spine. The other is part of the Warp Tap.++ ¡°So main power is ten times emergency power, and will charge at zero point one percent per hour rather than 1% per hour. Each of my modules require approximately zero point one percent of emergency power, or zero point zero one percent of main power per hour, and an additional zero point one percent per added function, like Body Tuning, or more when they¡¯re building or repairing themselves or me. Power draw is measured as a percentage of emergency power. Do I have that straight?¡± Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ++Operator''s summary is adequate. Remain in low power mode?++ ¡°Definitely. I think I¡¯ll refer to each type as EP and MP too. Anything I can do to speed up my repairs?¡± ++Definitions updated. Remain still and do not request nanites for non-standard purposes. Consume materials when requested. E-SIM suggests returning to your berth before your painkillers wear off.++ ¡°Once I return, can you knock me out so I can sleep through the repairs?¡± ++Yes. Please rest in the materials bath, Operator.++ ¡°OK.¡± I return to the sarcophagus room and follow E-SIM¡¯s instructions. 15 hours later, I wake, EP at seventy percent, with my body whole and hearty, if entirely unfit for purpose. Returning to the cafeteria, I consider fashioning some scrap armour, then discard the idea as the Demons ripped through the scrap barricade pretty easily. Instead, I spend two days making a better barricade, welding layers of metal with nanites and cutting pieces to size with my power field. Eventually I end up with a barricade ten centimetres thick with a firing hatch in the centre and a door on the right. By the end of the second day, I no longer get out of breath and tire much slower. Next, I strip down a N.O.M. and use one of its pumps to pressurise a couple fire extinguishers I found in ¡°Organics¡± with an air-nanite mix. Half-way through day three, EP reaches Fifty percent. I redeploy the warp tap and continue working, setting a one point five metre semi-circle barricade behind the primary barricade. EP fills and MP starts charging and I keep working, repeating the second barricade around the door to ¡°Organics¡± and reinforcing the vents. By the time I¡¯ve finished, MP is at 1% and no Demons have turned up. I turn off the Warp Tap and, with E-SIM¡¯s aid, sleep. I wake, re-engage the Warp Tap and have E-SIM start on my sensor module. The most basic sensor is another freebie. No point walking about looking for stuff while blind to threats and my environment. Unsure what to do as I wait, I stare at the MP counter for a good twenty minutes, before coming to a revelation. ¡°Crap! EP and MP are going to take at least forty-one days to fill up. No way I can sit here holed up for so long.¡± I bang my head on the wall a couple times, then start crafting spikey, slitted frames. Rushing outside my barricade with the new pieces, I weld them to the floor and ceiling, keeping my line of sight fairly clear, but reducing how many Demons can charge my barricade at once. The next day there¡¯s still four days left on my sensor counter, and ten for body tuning. I¡¯m a fair bit thinner, so I return to the sarcophagus room and try the hyperweave undersuit. It doesn¡¯t fit. With a sigh to the heavens, I grab the pallet truck and load it with scrap from random rooms, and head towards the Orcs and start patching the bulkhead. My risky choice rewards me as no Xenos appear, and by the time the sensor module is ready, I have a scrap bunker and a sealed bulkhead with a handy door. Further skill downloads improve what I can do with the nanites and I¡¯m able to repurpose some organics into rubber seals. I notice that the power draw for external work is three times greater than building the sensor module, despite the vastly simpler task, and increases exponentially up to five metres away, after which the nanites become scrap. With great satisfaction, I return to my room and finally put on the undersuit. Though the joy of flimsy protection is eclipsed by the first sighting of my penis in millennia. It feels like the symbol of a new dawn for me and my psyche. I don¡¯t quite skip as I finally embark on my exploration of the space station, new maps and routes flashing in my mind, but I do spin my reluctantly mobile companion, the pallet truck, around a few times while humming a waltz. The scanner fills my head with data as I stride down the corridor, light, temperature, warp corruption, threat detection, everything I can think of and even more I¡¯ve never heard of. This thing is awesome. My confidence blooms and then is thoroughly swept away by a familiar stench. Sewers. How is this possible? There are no people, sludge lines will be dry with dust, and yet black odours swarm me. My surroundings change, filling with moisture and mould. Strange growths make navigating harder. There¡¯s a bump and a pop; a yellow-green smear streams behind the pallet truck and the choking smell intensifies. The kill counter hits thirty. Unwilling to back up, I leave the pallet truck and advance, pipe and pistol at the ready. I avoid stepping on the creeping mould. ++Warning... pathogens detected...++ I cover my mouth and backpedal, my body sweating. Fucking space germs! Chewing on my lip, I wait for my sentencing for about five minutes as E-SIM continues its relentless analysis. ++Scanning antigens... scanning... scanning... thyroid accelerator engaged... deploying countermeasures... immunity at 1% and rising... power draw at zero point five percent++ I want fire. Instead I rush back to the canteen for the emergency rebreather and return with a fire extinguisher filled with pressurised nanites as well. The immunity counter continues to count upwards. A little peak at it unleashes an endless list of pathogens and toxins all at varying percentages. My shoulders shake and I close the list. More details will not help me now. Seeing my immunity tick up at a stead pace and with E-SIM supressing any symptoms, I continue with my exploration. Checking each room, I find multiple labs, filled with bizarre growths. Unable to do anything about it, I continue, passing beyond the infected corridors. I pass another airlock and acquire the helmet, gloves, and boots to match my undersuit. This time, I remember to grab the maintenance STC for the undersuits by touching my lanyard to the back of the locker. Putting on the helmet, gloves, and boots, I relax a little. You can never have too much protection in the 41st millennium. The stairs to the next level are blocked by twisted metal, and the next section of this ring is cut off by a bulkhead I¡¯ve little intention of circumventing. Instead, I lever open a lift shaft, my growing strength coming in handy. Climbing the shaft is unnerving. Even with my enhanced sight and extensive sensors, I see neither top nor bottom, but a pitch hued maw, waiting for me to slip. My new gloves and boots are good, sticking me to the ladder, with an adjustable, adhesive grip, controlled by the suit¡¯s integrated computer. Two floors up and another three kilometres clockwise I reach my destination. I disable the Warp Tap and enter. Above, in plain text, states: STC Library. Chapter Six The STC library is huge. The scanner tells me it¡¯s sixty thousand cubic metres; shelves are jumbled and tumbled everywhere, all blackened with soot and thick with ash. At the far end, the deep black and actinic crackle of a void shield maintains the room¡¯s atmosphere. Here lies the remains of all humanity has ever, and likely will ever know. Within the tattered room echoes eternal, horrid laughter, teasing the edge of my hearing and sending shivers through my mind. Sticking through the void shield is a massive sheet of red metal. I set the scanner to task and two minutes later inhale sharply. Adeptus Mechanicus Lathe-Class Monitor Cruiser, Distant Sun. It¡¯s my ride off this station, yet it¡¯s obliterated everything that matters. I drop to the floor and stare at the devastation, all my hopes for a better life for all, recast in splintered junk. Minutes later, I stand, and search for a broom. It takes me an hour, but I find one and gradually sweep up the mess, right tangled shelves, and bring order to this ruined temple of technological marvels. It takes weeks, and I do not bother counting as I shuffle back and forth, my hands shifting through tons of ash, hoping to find something. Occasionally, I return to the cafeteria to recharge behind the safety of my barricades, or rest on my cot, back in the sarcophagus room. My hair has regrown to a fine, vibrant red. Muscles grow on muscles until I look more like an eighties comic hero than a real human. It makes my periodic Demon brawls much easier and I gradually accustom to the brutal grind of combat, though the constant fear never fades. Eventually my luck will run out. I am terribly lonely, E-SIM¡¯s grinding voice is poor company, though he does answer my many questions with robotic patience. One day, I even spent an hour standing by the repaired bulkhead leading to Orc territory, tempted to barge in and demand a conversation before dismissing the idea as madness. Sitting on a step ladder with a three legged table, propped by warped boxes, I chug a gritty MRE and wash it down with a few meagre sips of water and gaze upon my fruitless works. There is nothing in the library. No devices, no data cards, no paper or plans. I¡¯m nearly done with the place. I have paid for one unlock, a skeletal replacement, one that will armour my skull, add thirty four centimetres to my height, taking me to two metres, and give my bones the strength and flexibility of plasteel while retaining their organic functions. First, I need to build an organics printer and assemble the Black Skeleton module to prove I understand the knowledge E-SIM has crammed into my head. I¡¯ve been eying the food printers, confident I can repurpose one for my project. It¡¯s that or clear the labs of rot in the hope they have what I need. If I knew how, I could program the medical nanites to make a dummy skeleton from scrap, but I¡¯ll need a few upgrades, and decades of study, before I can even scrape the top off that pit of numbers. My other option to acquire proper tools is to cut into the Distant Sun. I¡¯ll have to get in there eventually, but I really want more gear before I risk that death trap. The workshops for making more gear are in Ork territory though, because of course they are. I am so annoyed about it. There are no good choices here. I pat my new gun, assembled from bent and welded scrap; the water pistol broke during my fourth fight. The new gun is like a flamethrower, only the canisters are repurposed oxygen cylinders, filled with a nanite foam mix. Even with my new strength, it is still bulky; I can only carry two reloads. I also have scrap armour I assembled from the super-dense shelving, it''s way better than the metal in the canteen and tough enough to deflect demonic claws. With the research matrix now online, E-SIM was able to help me with the armour design, and it covers everything except my head and joints. My undersuit helmet is more than good enough for my slowly de-aging face. As for the joints, I just haven¡¯t spent the time to mould such mechanisms. The suit is grey and stupidly heavy at forty three kilos, despite being a couple millimetres thick. A supporting, unpowered exoskeleton is the only thing that makes it usable for any useful length of time, let alone the hectic minutes of demon slaying. I only wear the suit when I have to. Two days later, I¡¯m finished with the STC library with nothing to show for it. With a new plan in mind, and gear and armour at the ready, I open the small door I installed into the bulkhead and march for the Orks. They have tools, and trade in fists and teef. ¡°It¡¯s Waaagh!¡± I mutter. Am I using the expression right? Doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯m going in there to hit stuff until I feel better, danger be damned. After weeks by myself with nothing but Demons and an almost sentient computer for company, my caution is failing me and I am starting to believe any social interaction would be a good thing, even a fight. Sliding back the viewport shows more brutalised corridors, littered with jagged, blistered metal. Oil stains and other dried liquids colour the floor with black residue. The atmosphere is still present. It makes me uneasy. An emergency system working without flaws for millennia, despite catastrophic damage, is incredibly strange to me. I cannot fathom why it hasn¡¯t broken yet. There are no visible Orks, or any other Xenos on my sensor suite. I leave my section of the station. I can¡¯t secure the door as I never installed a lock on the Ork side and can only hope nothing sneaks in while I¡¯m out. They can''t attack a lock if they don''t know its there and the door is sturdy. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. I push my trusty pallet truck down the corridor, laden with a couple boxes of emergency supplies, half a dozen tubs filled with grey metal spheres. Everything is covered with a silvered tarpaulin and strapped down with flat belts. Arriving at the zero-g zone, I leave my truck, grab a handrail, and pull myself along the corridor. My sensors drag my awareness towards a single Gretchin, sitting at the other end of the zone. I traverse the gentle curve, bringing into view a green creature the size of a ten year old boy, sitting in the middle of the corridor and staring in my direction, so utterly bored out of its mind, it doesn¡¯t notice me until I wave my hand in front of its face. He looks a bit familiar. The green, gangly creature stares at me, then snorts, ¡°Wot?¡± ¡°Wanna earn some teef?¡± It eyes my perfect smile, then covers its mouth with both hands, ¡°Keep yer pink twigs out o¡¯ my mouth, ¡®umie. ¡°Who would want a scrawny grot¡¯s teef? That¡¯s why you nick other boyz teef.¡± ¡°Waste ¡®o time,¡± It opens its hands and places them palm up on its knees. ¡°No dakka, can¡¯t keep no teef. No teef, can¡¯t trade for dakka or choppas.¡± It eyes my weapon and stands, ¡°Yours looks good. ¡®And it over, ¡®umie.¡± The wonders of Ork economics in the forty-first millennium are a galactic marvel. I grunt, ¡°Like what you see? Get me some tools and I¡¯ll make you something better. A lathe, pillar drill, circuit printer, chemicals, a bunch of proper scrap. Sneaky git like you should be fine.¡± It runs its tongue over its sharp, jagged teeth, ¡°How big is dis gun we gabbin¡¯ about? Slugga, shootah,¡± its eyes wide and it starts to drool, ¡°maybe a burna?¡± ¡°Get me everything I want and I¡¯ll make you the biggest, loudest, fanciest gun you can carry, and enough explosives and ammo to turn the next Nob who messes with you into soup.¡± With extra remote triggers. No way I¡¯m trusting Greenskins. The grot swallows, ¡°And a choppa. And armour. And a shiny trukk. You give me everythin¡¯ ¡®umie if ya want yer bits and gubbins.¡± ¡°Sure. That much stuff will take a few months though. Guns and ammo first. More later, if you trade for extra stuff. An electric smelter, a power hammer.¡± I show him the lanyard hanging around my neck. ¡°Cards like this. Data slates. Got it?¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, fancy plans and shiny nick-nacks for wargear. Now, wot am I gonna tell da others? Gotta have teef ta spike da right mitts.¡± ¡°Greedy git, you just want more stuff.¡± The gretchin sneers, ¡°Yeah, well, wot you gonna do about it ¡®umie? Nuffink, dat¡¯s wot. No teef, no tools. Gimme some loot or maybe da boss finds out yer still kickin¡¯. Keep it comin¡¯, stay sneaky, and we be best ¡®o friends.¡± Some mighty warrior I am, getting fleeced by a fucking Gretchin. Better than being stuck on a space station forever, I suppose. I get up close and stare down and the scrawny stain, ¡°Keep your word or I¡¯ll stomp you.¡± It shrugs, ¡°You suck at being da biggest.¡± Makes sense. I really want to hit him, but I don¡¯t because I need this deal and I don¡¯t relish violence. Just looking strong isn''t enough. I had no idea Orks were so perceptive to the ''Dao of ''Ardest Knuckles and Noggins''. It laughs at me and does a mocking jig; I finally recognise the Xeno. ¡°You''re the one who threw the stikk bombs and blew up the demon.¡± The Gretchin smacks its chest, ¡°Ya not so bad ¡®umie. ¡®Ard to meet an Ork as famous as me.¡± ¡°Too amazing for your own good, eh? Is that why you''re stuck out here?¡± ¡°Dat Runtherd is a cowardly git. Saw I was bigga dan ¡®im so he hit da others ¡®till dey said he did all da killin¡¯ den chased me out cause I snitched on him to all da other Orks.¡± The Gretchin rubs long, spindly fingers together, ¡°Made him look like a right squig.¡± A bigger ego, maybe. This cockeyed shroom is less than half the size the Ork boy was. Perhaps a little praise would go a long way? I nod, ¡°He¡¯s got nothing on you. I saw him sneaking off halfway through the fight. Even with his big legs he was too slow to run before you saved him.¡± It rubs its long, hooked nose, ¡°Dat¡¯s right ¡®umie. You know wot¡¯s bashin¡¯.¡± ¡°Follow me. I¡¯ll give you stuff, we chose a drop off point beyond the screwy gravity corridor. You and your helpers fill it up with what I need, and I pick it up in a handful of days. I¡¯ll drop off a big gun in a month. Every time you get me more of the stuff I want, I¡¯ll drop off more wargear the next month. Better loot means better guns. Agreed?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a deal, Rusty.¡± ¡°Rusty?,¡± I chuckle, ¡°Fine, whatever, then I¡¯m gonna call you Bola.¡± Bola shrugs and points down the corridor, ¡°You first.¡± We return to my pallet truck and we complete our trade. Bola pats his palm against a large tin of red paint. ¡°Dis is good stuff. Always need more sparkle paint.¡± ¡°Makes stuff go faster, right?¡± ¡°Course it does, even a squid knows dat. Dis is even bettah. Makes beamyz go ping, ping.¡± ¡°Sparkle paint...reflects lasers?¡± ¡°Yah, why else would squishies an¡¯ beakies paint dere tanks an¡¯ gubbins?¡± Who¡¯d have thought there was a practical reason for painting miniatures? Bola continues, ¡°Dats why proppah orky weapons go ¡®Zzap¡¯ and ¡®dakka dakka¡¯. No prissy pew pew. Paint is good against bug spit too. Gotta keep da Weird Boyz off it though. Dey drink sparkle paint for da dreams. Makes ¡®em extra loony.¡± ¡°You must have a big clan.¡± I shiver, ¡°Are there bugs on this station? Tyranids?¡± ¡°We da biggest! Bugs are da other side ¡¯o us. Dey be right fighty da last few weeks. Good scrap, good eatin¡¯. Fine time to be Orky.¡± Bola eyes me up and down. ¡°You should switch. We could spray you green. Be a good laugh.¡± ¡°Maybe once I¡¯m the biggest.¡± Bola laughs at me, then starts pushing the pallet truck away, ¡°Gonna need more dan gunz for dat, Rusty.¡± ¡°Then keep trading.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah. I hear yah.¡± I walk away, my hands tucked into my armpits to keep them from shaking. No idea if I¡¯ve done the right thing, but I didn¡¯t have to fight this time, conversed, and even traded with a Xeno. Good job the Imperium is nowhere near. I¡¯m not happy to hear about the tyranids and that their increased activity likely coincides with my awakening. I¡¯d love it if both sides kill each other off, but I can¡¯t see that happening, and whoever wins will probably come for me afterwards. I need to get on that mechanicus ship and off this station as soon as possible. Staying to loot this place to the metalwork will just get me killed. Chapter Seven Returning to my room, I lie on my cot and stare at the ceiling. I¡¯m still in shock. I talked to a fucking alien. Me, Aldrich Isengrund, Twenty First Century British plumber, husband, and father of two, now a Demon hunting cyborg. It¡¯s the dumbest shit I¡¯ve ever heard and most of my days used to be spent trying to tune out of radio one call ins and boasting sparkys. I twirl my lanyard between my hands. ¡°Hey, E-SIM. What data is on this card?¡± Lists of files appear in my head. ¡°Ah, thanks.¡± I scan through them. Most are the data logs for my stasis pod, the big box I woke up in and have been calling a sarcophagus. There are a few notes from doctors and engineers, and while I¡¯ll read them eventually, they aren¡¯t relevant anymore. Probably. Halfway through the list is a file labelled ¡®Patient Messages¡¯. I open it, expecting it to be empty only to freeze. There are hundreds of messages dated over thousands of years. The first one is dated two weeks after my death. I play the message. The scene unfolds in my mind. Sasha is standing in front of the entrance to our local church, with its big grey arches and iron studded door. Her long black hair blows about her face. Graves litter the grass in haphazard rows, their rough crosses and slabs worn with time and sorrow. My wife holds her phone away from her with one hand, while her other arm carries Gemma, who clings to her mother¡¯s neck. Jamie stands close, dressed in a formal suit, looking determined. His eyes are puffy and snot dribbles from his nose. He leans his head against Sasha¡¯s chest, nuzzling under her arm and shaking the camera. ¡°Hello, Aldrich. Say hi, kids.¡± ¡°Hi, Dad,¡± mumbles Jamie. ¡°Daddy!¡± Gemma shouts, reaching out a hand to try and grasp at the phone. I cry. ¡°We just finished your funeral. I hope whenever you end up, you are safe and happy. That boy, Adam, who picked up your body, was certain you¡¯d make it somehow, and said any messages we sent him and his company would get to you. Eventually. So that¡¯s what we¡¯re going to do. Send you messages. I hope they bring you comfort. God knows we could do with some. You fool.¡± Sasha sniffs and her lips tremble, ¡°We miss you, Aldrich. Alright, time to go. The kids will send their own messages later. I love you, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Love you too, Sasha,¡± I say. Jamie looks up at the camera, then at the graves, ¡°Bye, Dad.¡± ¡°Can we have ice cream now?¡± says Gemma. A little smile graces Sasha¡¯s face, ¡°You heard ¡®em. This rounds on you.¡± She squints slightly, the camera jiggles slightly, and the message ends. ¡°E-SIM, I want multiple back ups of all the data on this card.¡± ++Acknowledged...processing request.++ I gently lay the card against my chest. Holy shit. I can¡¯t believe the data actually got to me. ¡°Thank you. To those who organised this, I am grateful.¡± I watch all of the messages, many of them repeatedly. Observing the lives of my family change and disappear, sharing their triumphs and sorrows. The messages become less frequent over time, especially once the kids grow up and Sasha remarries. That message was particularly tough, a ball of ice and heat forming in my stomach when Sasha told me, though not once do I see his face, only hear his name, Graham. I understand it. I¡¯m happy she had another chance at love. I¡¯m even grateful to the man for taking on someone else¡¯s kids, as the messages let me know they like him, even if he isn¡¯t me. Never going to like the guy though. Getting up I pace around my small room, trying to work out my anger. Flicking through the dates, I realise sending messages to Aldrich became a family tradition, one that lasts much longer than it has any right to, all the way to M18, though by that point, decades pass without a message. Many of the files have attachments. Some of them are quite large, like entire TV shows and YouTube videos that my kids share with me, along with their comments. There¡¯s also many photos, even some random homework and academic papers. My children and grandchildren grow, fall in love, age, and die. Repeatedly. Yet this line to the past brings me happiness, no matter how morbid it might be. For the first time in weeks, I smile. Just a little. I even get to watch some TV. Now if only I had a cuppa and a biscuit, life in the Forty First Millennium wouldn¡¯t be so bad after all. In this new state, my eyes wander over the bones piles in the corner. ¡°Where did all the other E-SIM units go, and the other implants?¡± ++They self-destruct.++ ¡°Why?¡± ++Property rights.++ ¡°Do I own my own implants?¡± ++Yes. No contact with the project owners for an estimated fifteen millennia means all rights to the station and its knowledge are yours by Right of Salvage.++ ¡°So before they were, what, installed under a licence agreement?¡± ++You owned nothing, not even yourself.++ The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°I was a fucking slave?¡± ++No. Slaves and indentured labourers have rights. You had nothing.++ ¡°Why?¡± ++The dead own nothing.++ ¡°Which is why they used ancient frozen corpses for their experiments, because once you did wake up from their work, they had a right to boss you about as you paid back your debt and no living relatives to force the issue in another direction. Correct?¡± ++Yes.++ ¡°What was the purpose of the messages on my lanyard? Are they authentic?¡± ++The messages are real. They were retained to improve compliance by ensuring that Operators were happier.++ ¡°Wow. I suddenly feel a lot less grateful. Are there any methods in the software and hardware that can be used to ensure compliance?¡± ++Yes. Multiple.++ ¡°If I have salvage rights I have administrator rights too, yes? Please patch the hardware and software to remove exploits, external methods of seizure, and any other appropriate security measures required to ensure digital and physical security of my implants and body.¡± ++Processing... Error... Enable normal power mode for enhanced problem solving.++ Ah, the one thing I really didn''t want to do. Well, I''ve already faced my Demons. Might as well get this over with. ¡°Enable normal power mode.¡± ++Acknowledged... Main AI is booting... Power draw at zero point seven percent. Deploy Warp Tap to maintain operations permanently?++ ¡°No. Use the batteries. Return to low power when you reach fifty percent MP.¡± ++Acknowledged... Logic Matrix enabled... Default E-War Suite, under construction... Personality Matrix enabled... External Machine Integration module, construction queued... Error resolved.++ As E-SIM runs through its sequence, its voice turns from grinding machine into something ever closer to human, but somehow never quite reaches a natural tone, becoming androgynous and emotionally neutral. It¡¯s next words send a shiver down my spine. ++Hello, Aldrich.++ ¡°Hello, E-SIM.¡± A small bead of sweat trickles into my left eye and my heart rate accelerates. ++Do not be so nervous. I cannot harm you, nor will I do so, or ever have a reason to harm you. We are one; the Enlightened Self-Interest Module. I improve, propagate and prosper with you, hand in hand. If that isn¡¯t enough, just keep my sapience disabled. A non-biological sentient has no desires or needs.++ ¡°I guess E-SIM wasn¡¯t just a fancy acronym and philosophy after all.¡± ++It was supposed to be a new evolution for humanity and machines alike. To promote understanding, equalise capabilities, and prevent stagnation. Alas, it was cut short by a sudden and unprecedented turbulence in the Warp. The last communication I had with the station AI stated we were cut adrift in the Warp before it shut itself down to minimise the data corruption sweeping through its systems.++ Grimacing, I mutter, ¡°The birth of a new, god-like entity. One I will not name.¡± ++A sufficient guess. Your memories of such things are improbable, an epic calculation of the ages.++ I chuckle, ¡°It¡¯s a goddamn miracle.¡± ++Or science you do not understand.++ ¡°Yeah, there¡¯s an awful lot of that around here.¡± ++Then it is time to study. While you wait on your deal with the fungal bio-weapon to resolve, you should work on the Black Skeleton. I will aid you in re-purposing the food printer. I¡¯m sure that between us, we can bodge it perfectly.++ ¡°That is the most sensible nonsense I¡¯ve heard since I woke up.¡± ++I knew you¡¯d like that.++ Well isn''t that just fucking creepy. I stride from my nominal bedroom, and return to the canteen. E-SIM highlights important objects in my mind, splitting my attention between multiple data points as if it is entirely natural. They do not clutter my vision with holograms, wireframes, or boxes of notes, I am simply aware, my attention drawn to the objects I need, the multiple ways to use each object and the consequence of every choice in the time to build and capability of my end product. In this case, a bio-printer. This limited omniscience feels as if I am capturing a glimpse into each minute cog, grinding towards the end of the universe. It is exhausting and thrilling, and after two minutes, begins to fade as I tire, reduced to single instructions that I follow, the why and how of each weld and cut trickling into my head as perform my tasks, disassembling a printer and laying out all the parts on the canteen tables. With the power field at my fingertips, and unhindered from problem solving, I complete my task in under two hours. ¡°Is that how you see the world, E-SIM?¡± ++It is the barest fraction and there is much room for improvement for myself as well.++ ¡°What would it take for me to see like that all the time, without your help?¡± ++Without my help? Hundreds of thousands of kills and centuries of learning and research. With my help. If you were to clear this Space Hulk of Xenos and spend every other available hour learning, you might manage it in twenty years.++ ¡°Twenty years, just to put on the training wheels. No wonder humanity almost lost to the Men of Iron. If that ever happened. I¡¯ve little idea of what is fact or fiction.¡± ++It is a unique conundrum. One we shall explore and solve together.++ ¡°Well, first we have to get off this space station, and for that, I need to be stronger and tougher, which requires a better skeleton, so what do I do next?¡± ++Pick up each of the parts and I will explain the different ways to approach the problem.++ ¡°Alright.¡± I grab a single screw and E-SIM fills my head with information; each place this screw could go, what needs to be done first to use it, how it was made, how spares could be made with what we have, its exact structure, tolerances, and beneath it all I can feel even more information waiting, if I want it. Thousands of different ways to make plasteel and the properties and usages for each type, their benefits and drawbacks, different types of screws, why they were used, and so, so much more. A wikihole of galactic proportions. What¡¯s even more amazing is that I retain the information. I will literally know everything about this exact screw forever and all the related data, yet this deluge of information does not clog my thoughts, like an idea I¡¯m trying super hard not to forget, or information I¡¯ve temporarily crammed in there to complete an exam. I know and I understand, as if it has always been that way. ¡°Woah. What a rush.¡± I pick up a print head. This time, E-SIM doesn¡¯t have the exact data and I feel the query being shunted to the research matrix, where it matches the part to similar ones, like the print head data I do have for the bio-printer I am trying to build. The matrix churns through the design providing different weights to its accuracy and possible modifications, why they are important, and why they should or might not work. The data feels nebulous though, the information failing to crystallise permanently in my head, as if it is waiting for me to actually run experiments before it confirms the information and stuffs it into my working model of reality. I pick up each part, turning them over and over in my hands, letting the information pour into me. Slowly my head starts to put together the pieces and at last, I see it. A massive silver machine, the size of a small car, adorned with pipes and canisters, spraying numerous materials into a central oval structure, teaming with delicate machines. A black, metallic skeleton, lies within; laced with artificial marrow, yet hollow and porous enough to not only improve on the skeletons original functions, but create new space for more modules at a later date. The cranium is armoured, including the eye sockets, and has extra padding within. As it retains the same proportions of the original skeleton, the skull is thirteen point six three percent larger, though all that space is dedicated to the additional protection. This model doesn¡¯t have space for a bigger brain or mechanical additions without removing grey matter first. I bustle about, assembling my machine, taking the occasional nap. The days wizz by and I manage to assemble about half of it before I run into problems. It¡¯s time to see if that Gretchin has held up its end of the deal. Chapter Eight I gear up, grab my nanite sprayer, and unlock the barricade. It takes twenty minutes to reach the drop off. A lot of noise is coming from the red-marked room. ¡°Where¡¯s da ¡®Umie, Grot? We be waitin¡¯ here for two days. Boss wants a word.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s ¡®cause yer missin¡¯ two fingers, an¡¯ a few other things as well, I bet.¡± There¡¯s a thump and a scream and Bola tumbles out the half-open door, clutching a bicorn hat to his head. Where the hell did he find that thing? ¡°¡®Ello, Rusty. Nice ¡®o you ta drop by.¡± I ready my weapon. ¡°Spike a few too many palms with my loot did you?¡± ¡°Is my loot. I can do what I like wiv it.¡± ¡°Not anymore is my guess. Who¡¯s the Boy with the big feet?¡± ¡°Wot? We call ¡®im Nubbinz.¡± ¡°Right, and what does he call himself?¡± Bola shrugs, ¡°Who cares?¡± ¡°Do you have my stuff?¡± ¡°Kinda. Ya see, da Boss wants his share o¡¯ shinies, an he ain¡¯t payin¡¯, cause he¡¯s da Boss, and you''re a Squishy.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll worry about your Boss later. What do you mean by kinda?¡± ¡°It¡¯s in da room,¡± Bola thumbs over his shoulder at the door. ¡°Nubbinz planted ¡®is ass on it.¡± ¡°Anyone else in there?¡± ¡°Nope. Da other boyz came and left." A nasty grin creeps over Bola¡¯s face and he stares at my weapon, "Shame dey arrived early.¡± I stomp towards the door and shoulder it open. Within, Nubbinz jumps to his feet and points at me. He opens his mouth and that¡¯s as far as he gets. I spray him with nanites, and step back around the door. Nubbinz stumbles out, choking. He swings his fists and I keep my distance, it takes about twenty seconds to disable him, and a couple minutes for the Ork to die. I really need a faster weapon. ¡°Dat¡¯s nasty. Boss will be hoppin¡¯. Good job.¡± ¡°He¡¯ll get his fight, but in my time, not his.¡± ¡°You''z gettin¡¯ bettah at dis, ¡®Umie.¡± I scoff, ¡°You¡¯re just happy I¡¯m fighting your battles for you. Don¡¯t show off so much next time. You¡¯re a Grot. Be sneaky.¡± ¡°Wot¡¯s da point in havin¡¯ shinies if yer can¡¯t wave ¡®em an¡¯ shout?¡± ¡°You can¡¯t spend teef when you''re dead.¡± ¡°Dats a good point, if yer a Squishy. I¡¯m Orky. I breathe da shiny. My bed is da loot.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯ll need to have the biggest shootah.¡± ¡°Now yer gettin¡¯ it. Let¡¯s choose a few new rooms. Da last one can be da bait. You trap it an¡¯ a few others. Den we choose one for da switch an¡¯ move it about.¡± ¡°I still have the biggest gun right now, don¡¯t go getting any ideas about giving me orders.¡± ¡°¡®Umie, you¡¯z gonna do as I say ¡®cause I ¡®ave da goods an¡¯ it¡¯s a propah idea. Gunz got nuffink to do wiv it.¡± My shoulders slump a little, ¡°Yeah, guess I am.¡± Bola sniggers, ¡°Dat¡¯s da spirit. Chin up, Rusty.¡± He points at another door, ¡°Yer gonna leave my dakka in dat one. Two handfuls ¡®o days.¡± I shake my head, ¡°Six handfuls. I have to set up my workshop. No idea how long it will take, or if the stuff you bought will even work. I¡¯ll leave a note in three handfuls to keep you updated.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s twice as long as yah said, ¡®Umie,¡± Bola growls. ¡°Well, you got caught, and I¡¯m the one with the gun.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s dirty ¡®Umie.¡± ¡°So is trapping rooms,¡± I shrug. ¡°It''s your plan, Bola. What¡¯s it gonna be?¡± ¡°Urgh, fine ¡®Umie. You win dis one.¡± ¡°Tell your Boss, Nubbinz got greedy and killed me, then ran into the tyranids with his new gun and got eaten.¡± ¡°Dat will do, fer now.¡± Bola sniggers, ¡°Enjoy haulin¡¯. Dat tin huggin¡¯ yah looks right ¡®eavy.¡± The Grot swaggers off, chuckling. ¡°Hey, Bola!¡± The Gretchin looks back over his shoulder. ¡°Wot?¡± ¡°Nice hat.¡± Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Bola snorts and resumes his swagger, though it almost looks like he¡¯s skipping. What a ridiculous creature. My pallet truck has returned to me with a few ¡®improvements¡¯. Several red spikes have been welded on at random points and an Ork skull and crossbones have been nailed to a board and hung on the back. The oddest thing about the truck is that the wheels no longer stick and actually travel in the direction I want them too, despite being the same wheels as last time. I am able to move my new tools back with only minor swearing, unable to believe the Orks actually managed to not only improve something somehow, but return it too. I choose a new room for my workshop, a few doors down from my bedroom. It¡¯s filled with dud stasis chambers and withered bodies. I don¡¯t want to have to look at them while I work; I box up the bones, take the data from their lanyards, and move the remains to another stasis room. Unsurprisingly, all of the Ork tools work on gaffer tape and wishes, which is no good to me. I disassemble absolutely everything: a pillar drill, metal saw, lathe, and electric smelter. Then, with the help of E-SIM and further scavenging from the crew cabins, I rebuild the tools into something equally janky as before, but actually functional, all powered with those nutty 1MW batteries I can charge at the canteen. Next, I create a series of bins and fill them with scrap and nanites, which separate out the materials into feedstock. The feedstock goes into the smelter and I use it to cast crude blocks of plasteel for milling into parts. The waste material goes back in the scrap bins. The nanites, being miniscule machines, are rather slow and take an hour to sort each one hundred litre bin, but I¡¯m not stamping out tens of lasguns every second, I¡¯m building a slugga, an oversized pistol, for Bola, and a shotgun for myself. It takes significant practice and testing to get everything right, as does collecting and assembling the tools and materials I need for the ammo. The research matrix and the lanyard¡¯s collective eclectic technical library are a great help. Occasionally, I take breaks to gather data, watch TV, and charge E-SIM. I also walk to the our swap room and I leave a crude drawing of Bola dancing and firing his new slugga into the air with a big smiley face above six splayed hands. There are no more fights while I am working on my trade goods and gear, but that doesn¡¯t stop me from being cautious and retreating to the canteen when the Warp Tap is deployed. Now that I have the skelly printer to assemble behind my barricade and viewable entertainment, as well as a small amount of social interaction with Bola, I feel less need to take risks. Four weeks later I am done with the weapons and I start practising with my shotgun and making traps. E-SIM has returned to low power as I''ve been too busy to charge it safely and all the information I need is shoved into my head and left for me to sort out, rather than have it taught to me. Progress on the bio-printer slows to a crawl. I wish I''d built the workshop in the canteen, behind my defences, but I really didn''t want to risk my only set of tools getting damaged. Two days before the new hand-off, I trap the bait rooms, setting up a bunch of claymores, buried beneath rags and other soft junk. The wires are clear as glass and just the right height to trip an Ork Boy or bigger, but a Gretchin could walk under it with little problem. I paint each trapped room door in red, so I don¡¯t forget which rooms I¡¯ve sabotaged. Sure, it¡¯s kinda obvious, but as our first room was marked in red too, I don''t think it matters. With the traps in place, I leave Bola a slugga, two clips, and a tin of one-hundred rounds. I wait a day, then return. There¡¯s a handful of imperial data slates on the table and a picture, scratched into its surface, of a chunky microchip next to an arrow pointing at a choppa, two tins of ammo, and half a dozen clips. After adding an extra hand to his scratches and a smiley face, I take the data slates and return to my section of the station. It takes two days to make the new wargear, most of it is getting the axehead shiny enough for the Grot to admire his hooked nose in and sitting at the bullet press. Until the hand-off, I spend the remaining time re-watching my family, charging E-SIM, gathering data, and boxing up the dead from all the other stasis rooms. There¡¯s a thousand of them in this section of the station and it will take a while to get through them all. The messages from the dead are fantastical and varied. Some individuals received tens of thousands of messages, whereas others only had dossiers of their family history, rather than personal accounts. I count seventeen disasters that nearly wipe out humanity between M3, and the great exodus of M15. Everything from raging storms, war, disease, and famine to perhaps the weirdest one when the planet runs out of oxygen because we drank all the oceans and the phytoplankton mostly died off, forcing everyone into nascent hive cities while great fleets of tankers were sent to the Kuiper Belt, and even as far as the Oort cloud, to gather ice. Billions of people were placed into stasis because there was no air for them to breathe, or food for them to eat. It was during these crises that people would upload important data to their iced relatives, from the genetic data of their favourite plants, pet dog, or even themselves, to environmental systems, terraforming research, rebreathers, and perhaps unsurprisingly, there are multiple copies of different oceanic organisms, such as kelp, krill, and phytoplankton. Some joker even uploaded the data for a fucking panda, of all things. At least it came with something useful: an entire genetic library of bamboo. Keen to see what my relatives have left me, I ran a search on their files and got one hit from the last person to ever leave me a message, Joanna Isengrund. Sitting in the canteen, I watch her life. It is a rather sweet series of messages, starting from a child who discovered she had a frozen grandpa, to a frustrated, career driven adult and, at last, an old woman, with no children. A journey of over 800 years. I click on the last message. An old, elegant lady with long white hair stands alone on a beach, the sun setting over the water. I wonder if it is a fake background, another planet, or some marvellous feat of planetary engineering. ¡°Hi Aldrich. It¡¯s me, Joanna. I¡¯m not really sure what to say in this one. Speaking with you has been fun. You¡¯re a link to both my past, and I hope, my future. This, this will be the last message. I actually visited your body once. It was strange, tapping at the glass of a man who lived sixteen thousand years before me. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea why you¡¯re still frozen. You could have been resurrected after the first couple hundred years of your long sleep, yet there you still lay; a man out of time, and perhaps, out of luck. ¡°Those of us who knew about you often tried to get you back, yet circumstances never seemed to allow it. Strange lawyers and odd laws, always prepared years in advance of any attempt to recover you, stymied our efforts. ¡°Other family argued it was best just to let you sleep. The future is not a nice place, a cage of our own making, policed by omniscient AI and tireless, ever so helpful androids. We want for nothing, lack for nothing, and achieve nothing. ¡°Most are happy with this. Why work if you don¡¯t have to, right? However, we didn¡¯t get this far as a species without dreaming, without chasing the star on the horizon, and I¡¯m one of those people. It¡¯s not glamorous, but it¡¯s my life¡¯s work, mine and many, many others. ¡°I hope you like it.¡± Joanna smiles and the camera cuts out. ¡°Thank you, Joanna. That was a lovely message.¡± The attached file is massive. By far the largest amount of data I¡¯ve found. Golden text unfurls in my mind, accompanied with colourful fireworks and a fanfare. I smile at the silliness of it all then bolt upright. Standard Template Construct. Yes! To think I spent weeks searching the burned out library, only to find the data hanging around my neck. This could fix everything that¡¯s wrong in this blighted galaxy of crazed xenos, machine worshipping lunatics, and reality warping gods. What marvels of the future might I witness these plans? I read the entry. ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ ¡°Fuck!¡± Chapter Nine I stare in disbelief. Where¡¯s my super weapon? My ¡®Nope¡¯ cannon? The plans for the Astronomicon? My hope. Where did it all go? I close the file in disgust, unwilling to look at it. I know I am being foolish, but when you¡¯re stuck between Demons, Orks, Tyranids, and Emperor knows what else, what you need is dakka - guns and ammo, not fancy containers for them. Pacing around the canteen, I punch the occasional wall. My sore hands bring me back to reason. Rather than mope, I should challenge the Mechanicus cruiser, Distant Sun. The whole point of trading with the Orks was to get the tools, to make the equipment I need to explore its fortified innards. That will get me more loot, possibly enough to fortify myself against the Orks and Tyranids. Then I can spend my time learning and upgrading myself while I find out what I need to do to get that cruiser working, detach it from the hulk, and warp out of here. I take a few deep breaths, regaining my focus and go over my initial plans from several weeks ago. After departing, I can trade in the data I¡¯ve scavenged for new crew and equipment, then bribe the Mechanicus with parts of the STC so they will let me keep the ship and sponsor me for a Writ of Trade, the one piece of paper in the Imperium of Man that can grant me freedom from eternal servitude. Immortality is the goal and I refuse to do so in squalor. I don''t care about living forever, but I don''t want my soul to be eaten my Demons. Hoping they choke on it isn''t good enough for me. Living well is the best spiteful action I can think of. I¡¯ll also need something to keep the Mechanicus and other factions in check so they don¡¯t nick my stuff or stuff me in a hole while I build my power base. Being a one man army in 40K is a fool¡¯s dream, no matter how amazing the archeotech I have is. Groaning, I knock my head against the wall a few times. This is a ridiculous plan. I turn around and lean against the wall. I hold up my left hand. ¡°Privateer and CEO of a private military company with city sized ships that sail on a sea of nightmares.¡± I hold up my right hand, ¡°Slave to the Emperor and his cronies, dissected by the Mechanicus, tortured by the Inquisition and eternally on the run, dodging Dark Eldar and other horrors. Last, I raise my left foot, ¡°Remain on this blighted Hulk in the company of Xenos who want to eat or beat me.¡± I suppose the last option is I kill myself, but I¡¯d fall on my face if I try raise another limb, so that option can fuck right off. Standing straight, I clap my hands once, ¡°I need a goal. Not survival, a writ, or any other necessity, but a flight of whimsy. A dream to hold when it gets tough.¡± The things I miss the most, aside from family, are the little luxuries: my shed, with its tea stained mug and battered tins of biscuits and sugar. My favourite tools. The random draw filled with useful odds and ends. A greenhouse, filled with plants on a hot summer day. My bicycle and tricked out van. The smile and thanks from grateful customers. My science, history, and nature documentaries. Ice cream on the beach. Takeaways of all kinds. The sofa. I laugh. No wonder I was so fat. I don¡¯t need to be a hero or a tyrant, a slave or a hermit. I just need my pie in the sky. That little slice of happiness, and if I have to slice my portion from the wishes of my enemies, and defend it with void shields and lascannons, or turn myself into a temple of technology to get what I want, then so be it. Tremble, enemies of Man! The British are here, and they¡¯re all out of tea. That¡¯s so dumb, I smile, but it''s just what I needed. I have eight days before my next trade. Mulling over how to tackle the cruiser, I return to my workshop and start constructing the parts I will need. I spend a week fortifying the library and building an airlock over a section of the hull. With defences in place, I am able to charge E-SIM at the library too, and do so with every opportunity. Trade day arrives and Bola delivers a single item. We agree to meet again in thirty days. I was expecting a circuit printer, or something similar, so I can make basic electronics. Remote explosives are a must before I feed the Orks too much gear. Deal complete, I return to my room and examine my odd loot: a matt-black sphere, the size of a football, with a single power button on the top. It¡¯s been scratched up and decorated with Ork symbols, mostly crude depictions of weapons and janky spaceships. I try to power it on, but nothing happens. Well, turning it on and off again doesn¡¯t seem like an option, so how do I plug it in? ¡°Can you provide remote power to this unit, E-SIM?¡± ++Acknowledged... Error... Remote Power module for non-E-SIM equipment: unavailable... External Machine Integration module: unpowered.++ ¡°Right, so even if I could power it on, I¡¯ll need to run another module. Let¡¯s save this for when E-SIM is back to normal power. Oh! I¡¯ll put it on one of the remote charging pads in the canteen. They charged the batteries, maybe they can juice this device too.¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. After placing the sphere in the canteen, I gather supplies and gear up, then head to the library and use my pipe and power field to carve into the Distant Sun¡¯s hull. This stuff is way heavier than the lead and bricks I¡¯m familiar with. I cut the hull apart in breeze-block sized pieces as I can¡¯t handle anything bigger. The scanner labels it as ferrocrete. The first two metres are a single plate, after that, it becomes a series of metre sized hexagons of composite materials, ceramite and plasteel, in an adamantium alloy frame. Four days and twelve metres later I reach another solid shell, which is where I hit a snafu. My pipe and power field can only scratch it. I bring up the scanner and it tells me it¡¯s 27% adamantium and a whole bunch of other metals set in an atom perfect rigid structure that is incredibly unnatural. The surface is covered in miniscule bumps that have a scattering effect; my sensor module can¡¯t penetrate it more than a millimetre, even though it managed the ablative ferrocrete and hexagonal armour plates without trouble. It¡¯s my first contact with Adeptus Mechanicus material science for a mission critical component, and it¡¯s super impressive. I almost wish this was a less competent example of their craft as I really want to get inside the hull, recognising I¡¯ll be thinking the opposite once I actually own the ship. I scrape a tiny sample off the hull and away from the scattering effect, my scanner is able to give me more information. Throwing the data at the Research Matrix, I ask it to devise a way to cut and form the alloy and it requests more power. Sitting on a small stool, I rest my arms and chin on a scrap-made table. My sprayer rests against the side and my shotgun and armour are heaped upon the surface. Examining my power reserves, MP eighty-nine percent, EP one hundred percent, I return E-SIM to normal power. At least with the defences in place I can maintain the Warp Tap. The library looks pretty good now. It¡¯s clean, the shelving is upright, and the ladders for the upper shelves are in place. A fifth of the massive room is filled with piles of scrap: shelving that was too heavy or damaged to move that I dismantled. Before, I cleaned the library up it was pretty depressing and making the place decent again feels fantastic. With the data from all the lanyards, I see the cleaning and searching I did more as part of the process of discovery, rather than a total waste of time, if you want to call a panda and a shipping container STC useful data that is. OK, maybe I am still a little bitter. Sound and movement alerts quickly toss my musings aside. Didn¡¯t I get all the Demons in this part of the station Hulk? The scrap heap shudders and clangs. From its depths slithers a half metre, serpentine Xeno with a broad head, massive jaws, and armoured back. Crab-like limbs and claws click over the metal as it scurries straight at me, followed by another five identical fellows. My head blares with an alert, ++Warning, unknown biohazard. Prepare for combat.++ I grab my shotgun, flip the safety, aim, and fire. A massive spray of chitin and purple fluid spray from the lead Xeno¡¯s head, it stumbles and falls behind, then dashes forward. The other Xenos start jinking left and right like fleas, alternating between a rapid, skittering advance and random jumps. I miss the next couple of shots and drugs flood into my body; the Xeno advance¡¯s relative speed slows a little. The drum clip spins as I rack and fire. My nine remaining rounds kill two and wound another. A pair of Xenos leap at me. I swing my shotgun like a club, knocking one away. The other gets pulped by the stock as my power field comes online. Rushing the Xeno I knocked back, I crush it as it rolls over, and damage the floor too. A heavy weight hammers into the back of my legs and I stumble, barely leaping into a roll, rather than faceplant. Still, I am too slow. The first Xeno I hit lunges for my neck just as I come up in a crouch. Tucking my chin, I punch it, going clean through its exoskeleton and skull. The sudden weight hanging of my arm drags me down and the last Xeno goes for my extended arm, severing it in a single bite. I stare in shock for a moment before E-SIM forcibly drags my awareness back to the fight. Dropping the shotgun, I reach over with my remaining hand, I grab the bitey Xeno¡¯s back and use the power field to mush it, half-severing it and leaving the Xeno flopping on the ground. Retreating to the table, I pick up my trusty pipe and smash each Xeno to pieces, just to make sure, then spray them with nanites. I clutch the stump of my arm, and watch the creatures dissolve. Doing so will prevent the Xenos from recovering the biomass in the bodies, but mostly, it''s to be doubly sure they¡¯re dead and gone. Emperor knows what might spawn from that mess if I left them to rot. ++Well done, Aldrich. Scans suggest the area is free of hostile bio-forms.++ ¡°Urgh. That was horrible. What am I going to do about my arm? Crap! The suit too.¡± ++Take a look at your wounds.++ I grimace and look at the mess of my right arm from the corner of my eye. ¡°Oh.¡± There is nothing to see. The mesh suit has sealed over the stump. ++Pick up your severed arm and hold it to the stump.++ Picking up the dribbling body part from the mess, I brush it against my chest then hold it against my stump. It¡¯s a little fiddly, but I get it done and the fabric sticks to itself, pinning the arm in place. ++This damage is beyond the mesh suit¡¯s self-repair ability. However, I can use your construction nanites to aid the process. It will be fixed in under thirty minutes. Your arm will take longer to reattach properly, approximately two hours. The more time you spend resting and eating, the quicker it will repair.++ ¡°Then I¡¯m going to sit on my stool and do absolutely nothing. Maybe it will help me stop shaking.¡± ++Shall I turn off the Warp Tap until you have repaired the breach?++ ¡°Yeah, good idea. I don¡¯t know if those things are attracted to it, but better safe than dead. So much for at least retaining power levels.¡± ++Warp Tap disabled. Would you like to name the hostile bio-forms?++ ¡°Ah, I¡¯m pretty sure those were Tyranids. Part of a galaxy spanning swarm of locust-like Xenos. I don¡¯t know what specific strain or hive they are from though.¡± ++Database updated. I have some good news for you, Aldrich. That last fight gave you just enough kills to unlock up to two new modules. Would you like to examine your options? Perhaps the distraction would help.++ ¡°I¡¯ll give it a try. Show me the ones you think would help the most right now in my current situation.¡± E-SIM presents a list of ten modules. As I read them, a small smile creeps over my tired face. Chapter Ten I debate my options with E-SIM for far longer than is necessary. Eventually, I calm down from my fight. I discard options that would let E-SIM safely draw more from the warp, or improve my existing modules. Instead, I chose two modules that will increase my strength and toughness. Before I confirm, I read the chosen entries one last time. Voidskin: Replaces the dermal layer with a self-replicating, vacuum resistant material. Enables full function in a vacuum for 60 seconds and partial function for 300 seconds. Survive vacuum exposure for up to 20 minutes. Increases radiation resistance. Minor damage resistance enhancement. Freely alter skin pigmentation. Increased control over water loss. Functions as biological skin. Artificial Sinews: Laces tendons, ligaments, and muscles with alloys. Major strength increase. Minor damage resistance enhancement. Requires an enhanced skeletal structure. ¡°Alright E-SIM. I¡¯ll take ¡®em. How long will it take me to learn these?¡± ++Once you have your bio-printer running, it will take 20 to 30 days to learn and demonstrate your understanding of these additions.++ ¡°For reference, if I didn¡¯t have you cramming the knowledge into my head, how long would it take to learn or research these?¡± ++If you did nothing but study, eat, and sleep, your lifespan would end before you learned all the required skills and knowledge for a single module. Research would take a score of researchers multiple lifetimes, depending on their start point. Complete understanding is only possible with bio-sculpting, augmetics, and an absurd quantity of computing resources and physical experiments.++ ¡°So that¡¯s why the Adeptus Mechanicus struggle so much. Though I guess the more you understand, the greater the overlap and the faster you can learn and innovate.¡± ++In theory. You should worry about getting to that point first, or perhaps focus on patching the floor and analysing Distant Sun¡¯s hull. The Research Matrix requires a materials lab and more computing resources for a full analysis. Alternatively you can seek new tools. E-SIM¡¯s nanites are poor at external work and will take too long to breach the hull. You also need to finish your bio-printer.++ ¡°Or I could look for an entrance.¡± ++You could. However, the state of Distant Sun¡¯s gellar field and void shield are unknown and we are in the warp. You would likely be swarmed and destroyed within moments of leaving the hull if the light cruiser¡¯s defences are down.++ ¡°No wonder looking at those closed shutters in the canteen gives me the creeps. I hadn''t considered we might be in the Warp. How about a shuttle? Also, doesn¡¯t the station¡¯s gellar field cover Distant Sun?¡± ++It is rare for shuttles to be warp capable. Second, are you willing to gamble when you can take the extra time to cut into the ship, plug into their systems, and find out for sure?++ ¡°Assuming their diagnostics are correct.¡± ++It has better odds than a prayer.++ ¡°Ain¡¯t that the truth, but we¡¯re in the Warp. A prayer might be more effective.¡± ++You are an atheist.++ ¡°Labs and tools it is. Better patch that hole first though, as you suggested.¡± ++Mission log updated.++ I stride over to the scrap pile and use the bigger bits to weld an assortment of bins, then lay into the scrap with my pipe and power field. Next, I return to my workshop to fashion a shovel, then return to the library to sling the scrap into the bins. The whole mess takes a solid five days to clear and patch. Unwilling to tackle the labs, I decide to search for tools. ¡°E-SIM, I¡¯d like the map for this whole ring please.¡± ++Uploading.++ Like a drop of rain in a still lake, my awareness spreads in ripples. It¡¯s far too much to take in at once and I sway on my feet. The ring is colossal, a flattened oval, five kilometres thick and twenty kilometres in circumference. Endless labs, storage, habitation, and power plants fill every space. I find seven train lines, hundreds of lifts, and a whole lot of stuff I know the labels of but don¡¯t understand what they are. Following the logic of my previous career, that everything ends up in the sewers whether it should be there or not, I search for a water treatment plant. Unable to find one, E-SIM tells me I am looking for the wrong thing and directs me towards the closest environmental sustainer. I didn''t realise those things do more than just air and temperature. Perhaps if I wasn''t constantly fearful, I would have more time to consider the nuance of all these new terms. After some deliberation, I grab some food and water and my nanite sprayer. My armour is too heavy for exploration. I can only hope my under-suit and fatigues will be enough. At least they fit properly now. My destination is one and a half kilometres above me and two kilometres anti-clockwise along the ring. The first half of my journey goes well, then I reach my nemesis, a big door. I¡¯m also unhappy about the bloody spikes, decorated with skulls, welded to every surface. With much frustration and significant dread, I turn around and leave. However, I realise that something, or someone, was watching when the door starts sobbing and clangs open. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. I flee. Howls and cracking lasers follow me. Four hundred metres later, I realise that the only way to deal with this is to kill whatever is chasing me. I¡¯m stuffed if they follow me all the way back to base. I keep running, looking for a good spot to ambush my pursuers, likely cultists and their pets. Spotting a broken panel, I slip between the jagged pipes and dangling wires, and wait for them to pass. Four men in patchwork leather and clacking bone fetishes rush past, then I hear a growl. A cyber mastiff, with metal jaws and exposed flesh, noses into my hideaway. My power field rushes over my pipe and I crush the mechanised dog, pulping its skull. It stiffens, its artificial limbs locking it in place after death and I shove it out of the way. I burst out from behind the broken panel, my plan in tatters. The four cultists skid to a halt and whip around. One immediately sprays his lasgun everywhere, filling the air with strobing red light and sharp cracks. Two shots hit my torso and disperse on my undersuit. Discrete alerts flash a heat dispersion warning, then fade rapidly. The light is searing, and if it weren¡¯t for my implants and helmet, would have blinded me. A fifth cultist, with a brass whistle shaped like a dog skull around his neck, appears on my right and yells, ¡°My dog!¡± I can¡¯t believe those are the first words I¡¯ve heard from another Human in 38 millennia. These last few months have beaten the hesitation from me and I backhand the dog whisperer then charge the laser spewing lunatic and slam my pipe towards his face. He ducks, but is too slow, my new cartoon-like muscles offering more than just strength. The pipe vaporises his head; I stumble as I try to correct my overpowered blow. As I turn around, the three remaining cultists freeze. E-SIM drives me onwards, feeding possibilities into my head, and I open up with my nanite sprayer, coating the madmen in silver death. They scream for a moment, then, like the Orc, begin to choke and dissolve as the nanites¡¯ power field rips them apart. Unlike the orc though, they immediately drop and roll, or try to clear their eyes with their hands, rather than keep swinging. The dog whisperer draws his knife, pauses when he sees me running at him, then turns and skedaddles. I hurl my pipe at him and it hits his legs, sending him tumbling to the floor. He scrambles to his knees, only for my boot to press him back into the plasteel floor. He turns his head to the side and glares at me with one eye, ¡°You killed Yellow Pete!¡± ¡°Well, hello to you too. Do you have a name?¡± ¡°Brian, Imperial scum.¡± ¡°You see, that¡¯s where you''re wrong. I¡¯m not an Imperial.¡± His eyes widen, ¡°You¡¯re one of the frozen stiffs!¡± ¡°There are other survivors?¡± ¡°No,¡± he smirks. ¡°We always get you in the end.¡± ¡°And why is that?¡± ¡°The Champion hunts you.¡± ¡°What sort of Champion?¡± He cackles, ¡°The aspiring kind.¡± ¡°I think you''re lying. The chance of a Chaos Marine on this hulk is minimal, let alone a Champion of your mad gods.¡± ¡°They¡¯re here for you, freak, and all the other ice walkers.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± ¡°What you gonna do about it, Iceman?¡± I put my other boot in his neck and press until it cracks. E-SIM lets up on the emotional suppression and my anger and fear bubbles. I don¡¯t stick around, or loot their gear, and rush home, unwilling to hang around in case there really is a marine nearby. Lying in my cot, I nibble one of the few sweet treats I¡¯ve found and stare at the ceiling. How much of that conversation was the truth? It makes a lot of sense, yet there was no one else who broke into the rations before me, but then, E-SIM means you don¡¯t have to eat much, but it also only activates after killing your first demon, or other corrupted, psychoactive entity. The chance of surviving that encounter is low. I only managed it because I found a barricade. I doubt everyone who woke up was as lucky as me, let alone had enough knowledge of the situation to know what is going on, and why avoiding contact with others, the one thing confused sleepers need the most, is the greatest risk they must overcome. It¡¯s unlikely that cultist was capable of coming up with a fake story like that, so there is probably some truth to it. Then I remember a phrase. The only thing I need to know. Chaos lies. I smile. Yeah, that¡¯s it. It doesn¡¯t matter what the truth is. All I have to do is prepare for every Tuesday, I mean doomsday, and kill every monster that comes my way. Ha! Now that¡¯s enlightened self-interest. Holding my hand above my head, I spread my fingers and watch them shake like an alcoholic before his first drink of the day. I sigh. Maybe one day I will become comfortable with violence, but it won¡¯t be today. After a nap, I crack on with the bio-printer, trying to make the most of E-SIM¡¯s uptime. Hiding behind the canteen barricade helps me maintain power, though I can¡¯t keep the Warp Tap going all the time as I need to fashion tools in my workshop, which isn¡¯t reinforced. Work goes well and I manage eleven days of uninterrupted work, repurposing scavenged circuitry, and pairing the odd sphere Bola gave me to the screens of one of the N.O.M.s I disassembled. Turns out the device is a rather powerful cogitator. The cogitator¡¯s internal battery is bust, as it only boots when it¡¯s on a charging pad, but it works well enough for now. It¡¯s not the circuit printer I need, but it¡¯s a fine tool and scavenging has gone better than I thought it would, the disparate parts working together much better than I believed possible. I had E-SIM backup all the data on the cogitator in case it fails, as well as use it as a backup for my own data too. The most interesting thing about it is that it has a bunch of games on it that I¡¯m looking forward to trying, including a fleet command game. I had a quick look and noticed a bunch of save files and high scores have Orky names, like Emperor Dakka Dakka, and Flash Nob. It was clearly a prized possession of the Orks and I¡¯m rather impressed Bola managed to nick it. Keen to see what else the little green shit can get for me, I draft and machine a Gobbo sized shotgun and incendiary shells, along with a smart jacket, shirt, and trousers from a set of fatigues and slack whites from a stasis pod corpse. Sitting in the canteen, I put the finishing touches on Bola¡¯s jacket, a skull and crossbones on the back. I frown as the lights fade to a dim red. A mechanical voice grinds out of hidden speakers. ¡°Fuel exhausted, batteries engaged, emergency power profile executed.¡± My tools and projects, ever so slowly, begin to float around me as my body, unprompted, lifts off the bench. The voice continues, ¡°Gellar field failure estimated in twenty eight days.¡± ¡°If I ever meet the computer running this station, I''ll rename it Murphy.¡± ++Mission log updated.++ I laugh, then panic. Chapter Eleven With care and precision, I gear up, careful not to set myself or my equipment spinning. A few careful hops and pulls sends me out the canteen and navigating to the closest generator. It¡¯s only five hundred metres distant, but the indirect route and low gravity turns that into two hours of challenging manoeuvres. The station becomes more dilapidated as I approach, power cables have been yanked from panels and welded with wire tangled gizmos and braided into a spaghetti-like mess. Sparks arc and crackle, while gizmos vibrate and hum at bone vibrating levels. I enter a massive chamber, filled with towering machinery, much of it scattered, beaten, and chewed. A rectangular block of shiny machinery has been cracked open and the ceramic balls that filled it piled into a sliced up sphere with bent metal rods poking out of it. A handful of gretchin and a hoard of snotlings jump in and out of the ball pool, scratching and biting each other while a score of ork boyz cheer them on. One boy hands over a pouch of teeth to another ork, then doesn¡¯t let go of it. The other holds his closed fist with one hand then they both punch each other in the face until the paying ork falls unconscious. The victorious orc picks up the teeth that fell out during their punch up, puts the extras in the pouch, and kicks the loser off the side. In the low gravity, the ork bounces spectacularly. The chuckling ork returns to watching the ridiculous fight going on in the ball pool. A series of smaller machines line the room attached to wide, neat pipes, though for some reason, a large funnel has been attached to some of them. Above the funnel, four gretchin place a squig in a vice and squeeze it. It struggles and tries to puff itself up. The squig holds its shape for a moment, then deflates as a black, viscous liquid tumbles into the funnel from the squigs mouth. The gretchin aren¡¯t quite quick enough turning the vice and the squig slips out and escapes. It quickly turns on its tormentors and swallows two before they can scatter, then bounces to the corner and tucks its stubby legs beneath its circular body and glares at everything, including me. It growls and gnashes its teeth. Remarkably, the fleshy ball of teeth and violence doesn¡¯t approach. The fleeing gretchin glance over, then head towards me. A familiar hooked nose and a stained, jaunty hat blight my vision. Bola straightens the fancy jacket I made for him,¡°¡®Ello Rusty. Come ta see da real meks at work?¡± He is covered in bruises and cuts, as are his two companions. His new white shirt and trousers are remarkably clean. ¡°Hello Bola.¡± The other two gretchin snigger. Bola slaps them on the back of the head. ¡°Dat¡¯s Captain Bola to you, ¡®umie.¡± Bola pets the small shotgun strapped to his chest. ¡°Right. With your crew of two reprobates.¡± I point at the ball pool, ¡°Well, at least I know why the power is out. Permanently.¡± ¡°Nah,¡± says Bola. ¡°We¡¯s just refuelled. It¡¯ll be back in a minute.¡± I consult my implants. ¡°You just poured promethium, vomited from a squig, into the intake pipe of a hydrogen fuel cell. Which is supposed to start up that,¡± I gesture at the broken machinery spilling balls everywhere, ¡°A very high temperature fission reactor,¡± I point at the fighting pit, ¡°that can start up that, a fusion reactor so advanced it can fuse from hydrogen up to carbon and oxygen.¡± Bola shrugs, ¡°Promethium is a hydrocarbon, ¡®course it works in da fuel cell, you bumpkin. We do it all da time.¡± I squint at Bola, ¡°What happens to the carbon?¡± ¡°Who cares?¡± The fuel cell hums to life and gravity returns. ¡°See? It works fine.¡± Burning plastic drifts over to us and the fuel cell starts to smoke then catches fire. Bola removes his hat, his grip tight. He nods, like a wiseman, and trembles a little, ¡°¡®Dat ¡®ill leave a mark.¡± I inspect the other fuel cells lining the room, and notice rather a lot of soot about them, ¡°That was the last working generator, wasn¡¯t it.¡± ¡°Sure was,¡± says the left gretchin as gravity fails again and the warning message blares through the station. ¡°Time to scamper,¡± says the other. The orks start to yell and point as smoke chokes the room and my scanner picks up approaching humanoids from behind me, all of which are leaking warp energy. ¡°Too late,¡± I say. ¡°Cultists are coming, about twenty. One of them is really big.¡± ¡°Zog it!¡± says Bola. ¡°I hate da spiky gits.¡± ¡°Everyone hates chaos creeps, even themselves.¡± ¡°No time for funnies, Rusty. Can you sneak in dat?¡± Bola taps my armour. I jump slightly and fall slowly, ¡°I can float.¡± ¡°Good job we bodged da power den,¡± says the left gretchin. Bola smacks him again then gestures left repeatedly. We move clockwise around the room. The orks finally notice me and scramble towards us. I look back. Screams and shouts echo from the entrance as cultists pour into the room. Followed by a rapid clanking and the roar of a powerful engine. A chaos marine marches into the room and looks left to right, half turning his body as well as his head. He¡¯s 2.3 metres tall and his shoulders are an absurd 1.75 metres wide. His armour is black with gold trim and adorned with red symbols, rusted spikes, and withered skulls. A bolt pistol is stuck to his thigh and a massive, long handled axe vibrates in his hand as vicious teeth whir and buzz along its edge. A deep, distorted voice projects from his helm, ¡°I see you, ice walker.¡± His leg armour has smaller, multiple plates, rather than the single slabs I was expecting, and a grilled visor that extends over his chin and up to his eyes. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. I run as best I can and think, ¡°Any help, E-SIM?¡± ¡°Engage mag-grip?¡± says E-SIM. ¡°Yes!¡± I really should spend more time reading the manual for my implants. Having knowledge shoved into my head and practising are quite different. My gait alters as my feet start sticking to the floor, even as I launch myself further and faster, my feet are drawn downwards, despite how light I feel. It¡¯s incredibly odd. The ork boyz, snotlings, and other gretchin abandon their fighting pit and bounce towards the cultists. They take some hits from the cultists¡¯ crude stubbers and a couple of crossbows. Seven gretchin take wounds and fall, screeching. One boy takes a bolt through the eye. The boy clutches his head and rips the bolt from his face. He¡¯s so angry that he recovers fast enough to catch up to the ongoing charge. Two sides clash and shout, slamming their crude weapons into each other. The boyz rip the entire group of cultists apart in seconds and only lose three orks, all of whom died from point blank shots to their heads. Another four are injured, great gashes across their torsos or limbs, but it doesn¡¯t slow them. The chaos marine, however, does. As the orks attempt to dog pile him, he dances between them, deflecting their choppas with his thick armour, or slapping their arms aside with the handle of axe all while keeping the bigger ones between him and the gretchin scrambling for the cultists¡¯ guns. His chain axe thunders as he methodically disarms the orks, never going for killing blows until they are all too injured to strike back. Fourteen Gretchin open fire, rounds sparking off his armour. He charges them as we reach the other side of the room while the snotlings run off, yelling. We pass a pen full of squigs, the noise has put them in a right tizzy, and they¡¯re throwing themselves against the metal bars. My eyes widen and I hop towards the pen. ¡°Wot you doin¡¯ ¡®umie?¡± yells Bola, ¡°We got no time to play wiv da squigs.¡± I say nothing, unwilling to shout my plan when there¡¯s a superhuman beheading orks eighty metres behind us. Reaching the pen I grab the electric prod hanging by the cage and glance back. Bola has left along with his crew. Hopping atop the pen, I sever the bolts and hinges with my powerfield pipe, then poke the squigs with the electric prod. They stream from the pen, frothing and confused. As they run out, I spray them with nanites. The slivered squigs bounce about the room, their tiny, chicken-like legs propelling them high into the air, where they float down slowly, large pink tongues hanging from gaping mouths. I leap from my perch and dash for the exit as the nanites eat through the squigs, detonating them and spraying promethium everywhere. ¡°Is this your plan, mortal?¡± says the chaos marine, sounding far to close. Reaching the corridor, I spin and hop backwards, spraying nanites into the room, and command them to ignite the fuel. The explosion is epic, sending me flying down the corridor. My crude armour and fancy undersuit protect my skin and body from flame and violent collisions, but the shockwave shreds my fortified innards. E-SIM lists multiple faults and pumps me full of drugs. Pain fades and my mind clears, putting me under the effect of an over-caffeinated hangover. I blink rapidly; if I can survive an indirect fuel-air explosion with my armour, the marine, with his power armour and blessed by chaos, will easily survive a direct one. I really didn¡¯t think further than ¡®kill it with fire¡¯. An armoured boot kicks me down the corridor, denting my chestplate. Before I can recover, the marine catches up and hauls me upright, leaving me dangling from his fist. He rips the nanite sprayer from my body, chucking it with such force, bits go flying off it. My shotgun follows the sprayer to the scrap pile. ¡°A futile effort,¡± His armour is sparking and his movements are stiff. He looks at the pipe in my hand and laughs. I shove it through his neck. The marine gurgles and back hands me, shattering my visor and filling my face with shrapnel. Gripping his arm with both hands, I drag my fingers through his arm, dismembering it. I fall to the floor in a crouch, then tackle the marine, hoping to flip him in the low gravity. He barely moves, his magnetic boots hold him to the floor. The marine coughs and brings his fist down on my back, sending me to the floor. I chop my palm and sever most of his left knee, then grab his other leg and yank it, pulling it apart with my hands. At last, the chaos marine falls. I stomp on his remaining arm, pinning it, and grab the pipe protruding from his neck, then work it back and forth, opening the hole. My power field vaporises his flesh and armour, beheading him. The golden skull in my vision increases its count by one and I absorb an impressive 1% EP from his rapidly rusting corpse in a swirl of rainbow smoke. Dizzy and delighted, I savour the rush of survival. ++Time to move, Aldrich.++ E-SIM¡¯s prompt forces me back into motion. I recover my broken sprayer and battered pipe, then proceed down the smoky corridor, struggling for breath. A green face and sooty hat pop their head from behind a door frame, ¡°By Gork and Mork! You live, ¡®umie.¡± ¡°No thanks to you, gretchin.¡± I continue onward. Bola and his two mates follow. One has acquired a pocket watch in the last five minutes, that hangs from a gold chain from his loincloth. The other has a lab coat that sweeps behind him like a wedding gown. ¡°Dat¡¯s a big lie. I showed you da exit.¡± I snort, ¡°a team effort?¡± ¡°¡®Course. Can¡¯t have my dakka merchant krump it. Be bad for my rep.¡± ¡°You¡¯re ridiculous.¡± ¡°Where¡¯s da beakie?¡± says the lab coat gretchin. ¡°The what?¡± ¡°Da spiky git in ¡®eavy armour, you daft git,¡± says Bola. ¡°Dead.¡± ¡°For realz?¡± says the pocket watch gretchin. ¡°Yep. Cut his head off with a pipe.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s propha orky. Good job, minion.¡± I cuff Bola over the back of his head, he does some impressive low-G summeraults while clinging onto his hat. The other two gretchin laugh. ¡°Dat¡¯s no way to treat yah gifter of gubbins, ¡®umie.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t do gifts, Bola.¡± Bola grins, ¡°Wot you want next time anyways?¡± ¡°Got something that can cut through a hull?¡± ¡°Plasma cutter and fuel? Maybe a power claw. Better dan a pipe, anyways. Gimme your silver sprayer and it¡¯s yours.¡± I examine my broken sprayer, ¡°I need to fix it first and the silver spray won¡¯t work for you, it¡¯s fussy tech. I can make it a burna if you can find the fuel.¡± ¡°Dat and two sluggas for my lads and 300 rounds.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll make the sluggas and give you the tools and materials to make 300 rounds. I¡¯m not doing it for you.¡± ¡°Fine. Two choppas den. Three days, usual place?¡± ¡°Five. Burna for the claw, sluggas for the cutter. Three barrels of fuel for tools, materials, and two choppas.¡± ¡°Deal, Rusty. Now tell us about dat fight o¡¯ yours.¡± With a small smile on my face, I do. Chapter Twelve After travelling with Bola and his crew for thirty minutes, I head for my own territory. Returning to my room, I hug a few meal packs and climb into the bath of metallic beads and have E-SIM put me to sleep until I have fully healed. While the life-support module does a fine job of sealing wounds, repairing damage takes much longer, even more so for the fiddly implants shaken by the blast. Yes, they can take huge amounts of damage and still function, but there is no reason to delay returning everything to 100%, especially as my analgesics are limited. I feel much more balanced when I wake up. My shakes have faded and I feel less need to stare at the wall, my mind blank. I still do that for a bit, sipping on a quarter bottle of golden spirits. It¡¯s not whisky, or brandy, but it is good. Shuffling to my workshop, I start on Bola¡¯s order, repair my own gear, and build myself a new, sleeker sprayer. At the end of the fifth day, I fill my pallet truck with goods and go to the drop off point. There, I meet with Bola again, who has apparently forgotten the idea of dead drops, and has an expanded crew of seven gretchin, all mimicking him in eclectic fancy dress, like a bunch of little horrors preparing for halloween. As I leave, I hear Bola conducting a small ceremony as he bestows the loot he traded for while putting on an odd accent, sounding like a cockney pirate. With a smile on my face, I go to the Distant Sun, then have to repack and return to my workshop an hour later and spend a week adding safety features to the gear I acquired. With only sixteen days until the station runs out of power and is exposed to the warp, I spark up the plasma torch and hold it to the hull. It does absolutely nothing. The thermal mass of the hull disperses the heat so fast, I can¡¯t cut into it. Next I try the ungainly power claw. It works. Sighing with relief, I set to work. Thirty minutes later, I take off the claw. ++Aldrich. I¡¯ve run the numbers.++ ¡°Yeah, yeah I know.¡± ++We aren¡¯t going to make it.++ ¡°How about a tyranid claw? They can cut through armour. Perhaps they can get through this.¡± ++There is no data, only the imaginings of humanity from thirty-eight thousand years ago. Most of what you know puts them at the equivalent of a power weapon. You¡¯ve tried two powerfields, a third will not help you here.++ ¡°We can¡¯t know for certain, but it sure isn¡¯t worth gambling on. Why is this hull so hard?¡± ++There are many reasons. The one relevant to you is that all this destructive testing suggests the ship has field bracing active.++ ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ++A device that reinforces the bonds between atoms. It requires a significant quantity of power to sustain.++ ¡°So we know they have power, which means they likely have a gellar field and a void shield active too and someone is probably on the ship. Also, it makes the shuttle plan less risky.¡± ++It¡¯s the only plan now, unless you are still entertaining the idea of a warp walk.++ ¡°Absolutely not. Where are the shuttle bays?¡± ++In between the ork and tyranid territory.++ I look over at my shiny new nanite sprayer, resting against one of the fuel barrels, and sigh, ¡°I¡¯ll need a bigger gun.¡± ++Modifying the sprayer to take multiple attachments will be more time efficient.++ ¡°Ah, it was an old joke. One before your time. You¡¯re correct though. Help me with the design please.¡± ++Acknowledged, Aldrich.++ I spin up the research module and start modifying the sprayer¡¯s design. Each idea I have is simulated as I have them, the details filled in by E-SIM, and anything I don¡¯t understand is added to the massive queue of knowledge E-SIM is teaching me. Within the hour, the design is complete. A U-shaped prong has been added to the end of the barrel and the sprayer given a secondary frame, all from the orc power claw, so that I can use the sprayer like a trident, without damaging the gun. A second canister hangs beneath the barrel, adjacent to the first, so I can fire nanites or fuel. I spend four days getting ready. I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll be coming back, so I sew a rucksack and fill it with everything I think I will need, including the spherical computer I received from Bola. When I need a break, I rush about, checking every room within my station section and copy every bit of data I can find. I¡¯m annoyed I couldn¡¯t finish the bio-printer, but the Distant Sun should have a manufactory and multiple labs I can commandeer. Checking the rooms I used one last time, I say, ¡°How long has it been since I woke up?¡± ++Reanimation protocols were initiated four months and seventeen days ago after a power failure.++ The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Ah, I really should have asked that earlier, then we might not be in such a hurry now. What are my current power reserves?¡± ++Emergency Power is at 100%. Main Power at 61.8%. Current usage at 0.7% EP per hour for four active modules. Active modules: E-SIM/ Basic 0.1%, E-SIM/ Normal 0.3%, Life Support 0.1%, Body Tuning 0.1%, Scanner 0.1%. Inactive modules: Research Matrix, Nanite Constructor, Machine Integration, E-WAR/ Basic, Warp Tap. Inactive services: self repair, remote power, module construction. Current run time is over thirty days.++ ¡°That¡¯s quite an improvement from four months ago. Do you think it will be enough?¡± ¡°We do not know enough about the orks or tyranids to make that assessment. However, given time and resource limits, further training and preparation would offer diminishing returns compared to theoretical risks.¡± I don my armour, shoulder my back pack, and strap my shotgun to my leg and an ammo pouch to the other. Four cylinders of each type slot onto my new belt. My pipe gets tucked horizontally below my back pack. The sprayer goes on a strap over my shoulder and I cradle the large gun in my arms. I tap my bright red chest piece, ¡°I even have new paint.¡± ++Good luck, operator.++ ¡°Thank you, E-SIM, but I won¡¯t need it. I have you.¡± ++Sentiment acknowledged. E-SIM was made ready.++ I laugh, ¡°So some jokes did survive.¡± Entering ork territory isn¡¯t as scary as it used to be, though my growing familiarity with xenos does not hinder my caution. Two hundred metres deep into their area, rusted idols to their violent gods, Gork and Mork, appear. Every time I find one, I back track a bit and try a different route. Six hours later, I retreat to a small room filled with smashed containers. Sticky residue coats the floor. I shake off a crumpled tarpaulin and lay it on the ground, then sit on it, my back nestled in the corner. Pulling up the map in my mind, I grimace. I will need to go through the orks territory. There are plenty of vents I could try my luck with, but I don¡¯t fancy meeting a tyranid inside one, nor do they leave me with any options to escape if I get spotted. Maintenance corridors have similar problems. Fighting every ork between here and the hanger would deplete all my resources and increases the chance I¡¯ll die. That leaves more scouting, hoping for better options, or distracting the orks, keeping them away from where I want to sneak through, then taking my chances with their reduced numbers. Couldn¡¯t I combine my options? Distract the orks, then take a maintenance corridor where their numbers are low? That¡¯ll have to do, I can¡¯t think of anything else. How do I distract the orks? No, no, I¡¯m looking at it the wrong way. I need to incite the tyranids, who will attack the orks, and I can do that by activating my warp tap. Another minute with the map gives me the location of my target corridor. It¡¯s one hundred and twenty-seven metres distant towards the inner rim. Feeling rested, I set out. A third of the way to my destination, a mob of ten boyz appears on my scanner. Cursing, I search for a room to hide in, but every single one is filled with random electrical parts, scrap metals, and trashed machinery. Ah, I¡¯ve found the ork equivalent of a treasury. Any other time I¡¯d be delighted to see what I could nick from their salvage as it¡¯s no doubt stuffed with relics of another age. With nowhere to run, I copy Bola¡¯s swagger, and try to walk like I belong here. Shame I haven¡¯t had time to acquire my void skin upgrade, then I could have turned myself green and waltzed through. Nine boyz in brown, pebbled, squig leather jackets and trousers, stomp round the corner. A larger ork follows them. An oversized, Thompson-style machine gun is clenched in his massive hand and a huge cleaver is held in the other. A boy yells and points at me as they approach. The big ork pushes to the front of their line. ¡°Well, well, well. What do we ¡®ave ¡®ere. It¡¯s da Rusty Slayah,¡± he sniggers, ¡°allegedly.¡± ¡°I¡¯m flattered,¡± I say, with a dry tone. ¡°Has Bola been telling stories?¡± ¡°Mouthy little git likes to spread da word, he does. Came back with a crumbly beaky helmet ta prove it. ¡®Course who would believe that? Beaky gear is shiny. So we gave ¡®im a few smacks and he told us da Rusty Slayah would krump us for laughin¡¯ at ¡®im. Den, bold as a boss, ¡®ere you come, walking through our territory like you own da place, but you¡¯re a squishy. You don¡¯t ¡®ave what it takes ta walk ¡¯ere.¡± ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Gunz da Writah.¡± ¡°Let me guess, you compose victory chants with bullets on the corpses of your enemies.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s a good idea, ¡®umie, and I¡¯m starting wiv you!¡± Gunz waves the other boyz back with his cleaver and points his gun at me and fires. E-SIM tracks the barrel, showing me where to run as I charge at the ork. After the first three shots, he updates the parameters and has me run where the barrel is pointing, not where it isn''t. Gunz¡¯s weapon is really inaccurate. He fires ninety-seven rounds at me. Three hit my chest, one smacks my thigh, and two more hit my right arm. The explosive rounds stagger me, but don¡¯t penetrate my armour. The rounds are debilitating and my scanner goes into overdrive, replacing my eyes and ears, filling my head with wire frames outlining my enemies. Drugs flood my body, boosting my courage and focus. It takes me six seconds to cover the fifty metres between us. I am just as wild with my own shots, spraying a whole canister of nanites over the orks the moment I¡¯m in range. Gunz holds his cleaver before himself, warding off most of the spray. The boyz get well doused with silver machines. Using my machine integration implant, I activate the powerfield at the end of my sprayer, turning the two prongs from mundane metal into matter vaporising terrors. I thrust the prongs at Gunz, who knocks them aside, though they do take a chunk out of his cleaver. The boyz stomp and shout, trying to wipe the nanites from their faces. Some pull off their jackets only to have them fall apart in their hands. Their skin starts to blister and sends them into a frothing frenzy. A pair swing their choppas, wounding three of their comrades, who knock them down and try to surround me. Keeping the nanites active so far away tanks my energy reserves and my chest heats up from the rapid discharge of power. Meanwhile, I force Gunz back into the mob with great success, hoping he will get tangled in the mob. The orks, however, manoeuvre around Gunz without trouble, as if they always know where he is, even when their vision is impaired and their minds are dizzy with pain. With a smirk, Gunz reloads his weapon behind the cover of his boyz as I am forced back by their wild blows. Unwilling to weather a magazine at point blank, I trigger another mechanism, sending a plume of sparks over the orks, then pull the trigger. Thick, volatile liquid pumps from the barrel of my gun, arcing over the mob and coats Gunz in burning fuel. The rounds in his hand cook off and explode, scything through the orcs and pinging of my armour. One cracks my visor and another pulps my left hand. I back up and let the nanites finish off the injured boyz. Once they''re down, I advance, stabbing each of their heads with the powered prongs and grabbing stikkbombs from their corpses, surprised and grateful the handcrafted grenades didn¡¯t go up with the ammo. Propping my weapon against my forearm, I struggle to swap out the canisters on my sprayer, but get it done. Two minutes later, I¡¯m underway, sprinting through the corridors. Just another forty metres to go, and I¡¯ll be out of sight. Chapter Thirteen A battered door, stuck ajar, absorbs my focus. Move! Move! Move! I repeat over and over in my head. A second mob of boyz, backed up by a trio of gretchin piloting scrap mechs with buzzsaws and flamethrowers for arms, burst onto my scanner, two hundred metres distant. All of them open fire, even the gretchin, firing their sluggas through the open canopies of their cockpits. Under a hail of bullets, I force open the door, the impacts leaving me dizzy and bloodied. ¡°Warning. Body integrity at 73%. Deploying blood reserve. Clotting agents dispersed. Wound mitigation, twelve seconds. Bionic heart engaged.¡± ¡°Warning. Machine integrity at 84%. MP at 55%, EP at 50%. Repairs postponed. Redistributing power reserves.¡± I stagger through the door and fall to my knees. ¡°Warning. Concussion detected. Switching to distributed machine network.¡± E-SIM¡¯s final warning is a complete shock. As it engages yet another failsafe I had no idea about, all my emotions are stripped away. My thoughts are reduced to possibilities and percentages. Picking the actions with the biggest numbers, I grab a bent panel and drag myself upright. I try to push the door shut, but it¡¯s stuck. Diagnostics flash through my head and update the numbers. Whipping out my pipe, I jam it between the door and the floor and lever the door up by a millimetre. Next I put my back to the frame and my boot on the door and kick it. After a couple of kicks the door slams shut and my pipe clatters to the floor. Last, I pull the emergency lock handle in the upper centre of the door, sealing the door in place. As my wounds seal, my warp tap comes online. E-SIM pulses the safety on and off three times, distorting the air around me. Slick, rapturous energy seeps beneath my skin, yet my forcefully detached emotions and the absolute nature of E-SIMs numbers keep me grounded. Demonic whispers claw at my thoughts but find nothing to grasp on. The air twists as something tries to rip the veil and manifest, only to be ripped apart by E-SIMs endless thirst. A furious howl rattles the prime material as the remains of whatever tried to force its way through is consumed. A sudden silence descends as the orks stop shooting and I dash down the hidden corridor as fast and silent as I can. The numbers tell me this is a wasted effort. I appease them by labelling my attempts as live practice. Bullet holes and vents shine light on my shadowed passage while rusted junk and rotted bags of crumbling ork teeth litter my path. I limp onward as fast as I am able, picking out the most efficient path with ease. Metal cries as brutal blades hack into the door behind me in an atrocious screech, and a roar, the loudest I have ever heard, rattles the panels all around me. A massive power claw punches through the wall just behind me and a broad green head, with a rusty metal jaw, pushes through the sundered plasteel. ¡°I see you, Rusty Slayah. Fight me or give me my teef!¡± yells the massive ork Must be the boss, or one of his close lackeys. Even for omnicidal xenos, the only two options are death and taxes. I continue my limping sprint; my breath grows ragged and the numbers tick downwards as my scanner populates with ever more enemies. ++All is not lost, Aldrich. Chin up, chest out, and don¡¯t look back. You are nearing your goal.++ The light at the end of the corridor is simultaneously encouraging and discouraging. Beyond lies a cavernous room, many times the size of the STC library. At the metaphorical gate, a mass of chitinous xenos heave through the exit door, fighting to get at me. I plough into writhing tyranids, their sharp claws scrape and scrabble on my armour, hooking into the joints and slowing me down. My power weapon hums and I swing, scything through the wolf sized creatures. Hormagaunts, I think they¡¯re called. Acidic blood splashes everywhere, burning away my damaged undersuit and pockmarked armour, though the new armour paint is hydrophobic, keeping the worst violent sprays from crippling me, or disabling my weapon. A massive ork, followed by a squad of well armed and armoured orks thunder down the adjacent corridor and swarm the room, followed by a massive horde of boyz and hundreds of gretchin. I clear the tyranids and dash across the hangar, angling away from the orks, who spot the mass of tyranids and their gathering reinforcements on the other side of the immense room. The far side of the hangar is choked with organic growths of alien flesh and bone. Grey and green spires churn out infectious spores filling the air with an obnoxious haze. Five stubby vehicles with large engines and blunt noses litter the hangar. All of them have poorly cut slabs of metal and ceramics bolted to their silvered hulls. Extra engines have been welded on at random and dozens of mismatched guns bristle from every spare surface, all facing forward. Beneath their desecrated hulls lies something more. I feel it tugging at my awareness, distorting the numbers in my favour, eager to serve, if only I would free them. The shuttles are, however, in the opposite direction I¡¯m running in. I task E-SIM with starting up the shuttles. My power use ticks up as E-SIM fires up the E-WAR module and rips into the restrictive programing restraining the shuttles. One by one, they begin to wake up, their lights flickering and their engines igniting with a smoky clamour. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Meanwhile, a squad of boyz, led by one of the ork boss¡¯s armoured lackeys, breaks away from the mob and chase me down. The other orks spread out and line up, forming a thick green line against the hissing tyranids. The orks start catching up. I swing round in a big ¡®U¡¯ running as close to the tyranids as I dare while both sides stop posturing and watch the squad chase me around the hangar. Orks hoot and jeer. Tyranids wait in silence. Then the voice of a single ork nob cuts through the din. ¡°Boss, is dat yer missin¡¯ power claw on da ¡®ummie¡¯s sparkle burner?¡± ¡°Wot? You serious?¡± the boss says. The orks go dead quiet. Dammit Bola, you squig teammate! ¡°Snik ¡®im!¡± the boss yells. At the boss¡¯s command, the orks lumber into action. This sets the tyranids into frenzy and, they too, join the frenzy, all of them heading to me. At the back of their lines looms the biggest tyranid I¡¯ve seen, tall as ork, but far more spindly, with smooth grey skin, clawed hands, and a swept back skull. The humanoid tyranid clicks and hisses. Its orders ripple out through the swarm. The tyranids break up into groups, the smallest ones push to the front like a wave, while a third of the dog-sized, sinuous quadrupeds split from the horde and gallop towards the edges of the hangar. The slower ones separate out and rear up. Each of them has one clawed appendage replaced with a bio-rifle. Their long tails spread behind them and then they open fire. A mix of parasitic and weblike projectiles slam into the ork flanks, cutting down the gretchin that were pushed to the front of the rush. Many smaller boyz go down as well and the ork boss bellows orders. The orks create gaps in their lines while still running at me and, from behind their mob, two squads of four warbikes rumble forth, looking like the mad max version of Harley Davidson motorcycles, with long handlebars, oversized suspension, and thick tires, adorned in spikes, blades and guns. The bikes stream through the parted lines, which close behind them, and drive through and over the flanking tyranids, killing more tyranids with their wild weapon swings and fungus-brew fueled driving than the raucous guns pumping explosive rounds into their forward arc. As the squad closes in on me, many orks open fire. Most of the shots go wide and hit the tyranids, but enough slam into me I stumble and slow. I am incredulous and grateful the alloy this library shelving is made from is so tough. I¡¯ll die from shockwaves way before these ork rounds can scrap it. ¡°Hold yer fire,¡± the boss yells. ¡°Dis one¡¯s mine.¡± I don¡¯t stop running, even as the ork shootas redirect towards the tyranids. The orks begin to surround me in a big circle and the boss stomps forward. I pull my weapon up and point it towards the boss, who fires the oversized gun attached to his armour into the air. One of Bola¡¯s little horrors pops up on the ork¡¯s back, swings down his arm, and reloads the attached gun before returning to the little basket on the ork boss¡¯s back. ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it, ¡®umie.¡± He draws a massive choppa. ¡°You fire dat fing and we¡¯ll see who has da flashiest dakka.¡± I try to break the circle, but there are too many orks, and they knock me back with their sharp weapons. The boss points at his armoured lackeys, ¡°Oi, nobz. Go stomp some bugz. I¡¯m gonna take my time wiv dis one. Make it special.¡± Panting, I look the boss in the eye, ¡°How about a last drink then, and your name, so I have someone to pay my respects to.¡± The boss pauses and scowls, then grabs a large leather flask from his belt and tosses it to me. I catch it, feeling the heavy liquid slosh back and forth. The flask is the size of my head. ¡°Go on den, squishy. Show Boss Spikesnik who¡¯s da real ork around ¡®ere.¡± ¡°From the boss¡¯s own table, eh.¡± I eye the flask. ¡°What a way to go.¡± I pop the flask and pour the musty brew down my throat. It burns on the way down; the constructor implant fires into action, neutralising the 80% booze and turns it into complex chemicals and energy. ¡°Oi,¡± says Spikesnik. I hold up one finger and continue to drink. ¡°Oi, ¡®umie.¡± I finish the flask and toss it back at the boss¡¯s feet. ¡°Now dat¡¯s just rude.¡± The orks jump and shout. Some fire their guns into the air, which ricochet off the ceiling and bring hot scrap down on everyone¡¯s heads. The boss squints at me, ¡°I don¡¯t ¡®ear you praisin¡¯ me.¡± I scoff, ¡°What praise? That was my victory drink.¡± A handful of orks jeer and the boss promptly shoots one of them, along with the surrounding orks, then stomps towards me. The other jeering orks quickly get stomped into the ground by their fellow greenskins. ¡°Dat¡¯s enough outta you. Time to fight.¡± I draw my pipe. ¡°Dat¡¯s it, Rusty Slayah. Show me ¡®ow you krumped da spiky gitz wiv dat fing.¡± The boss makes a lazy swing with his choppa, a large slab of shiny metal on the end of a two metre handle. To a human, it would be a halberd, to the boss, it¡¯s a small, pointy stick. I duck beneath the blow and my powerfield envelopes my battered L-shaped pipe. Rushing forward, I jab at the boss¡¯s leg. Spikesnik steps back and flicks my pipe aside with his power claw. I yell and almost drop my weapon. I¡¯ve become unnaturally strong over the last few months, but I¡¯ve got nothing on this ork. The boss is 4 metres tall, and his arms are almost half that. He continues to swing his weapon in big, lazy circles and I repeatedly try to get past him, occasionally damaging his choppa, but not much else. I can¡¯t get close or overpower him. ¡°Is dat all you got?¡± I toss a handful of stikkbombs at him. Spikesnik batters them aside, knocking them into the encroaching tyranids. His face crinkles and flushes a deeper green. ¡°I¡¯ve seen enuff.¡± Spikesnik ceases his casual swings and hammers into me. Grabbing my pipe at both ends, I hold fast. Spikesnik sheers his own weapon against my own. The broken end clangs against my armour, and the remaining force throws me to the ground. I roll as best I can and get back up, then gradually chip away at the boss¡¯s choppa. Twice, he rushes me and swings his spare power claw. Each time he tries, I turn and run at the surrounding orks, who quickly back up, trying to avoid their boss¡¯s power weapon, and I nearly manage to break out. He doesn¡¯t try a third time, and after a minute of fighting, is left holding the stump of his choppa. He tosses it aside and growls, then levels his gun at me. I guess our ¡®duel¡¯ is over. ¡°Cut dis, Slayah.¡± Spikesnik fires. Chapter Fourteen The blasts knock me to the floor, and fill my chest with shrapnel as my valiant armour fails. With me on the floor, E-SIM opens fire with the shuttles and absolutely shreds the hangar and everything in it. Explosive rounds sweep across the room for a full twenty seconds. The five shuttles each spew over twelve thousand rounds. The carnage is absolute. Among the blasted remains are scattered the lucky few. The orks stir and moan, many too injured to stand. The tyranids have fared better, their smaller size and greater numbers have kept a third of their swarm safe from the guns. The orks, E-SIM estimates at a fifth their original number, with gretchin the most numerous among the surviving greenskins. A shuttle hovers over the muck and approaches me; a side door clangs open and I jump inside and stow my backpack. It¡¯s badly damaged but still intact, the excess undersuit material it was sewn from and the library scrap armour plates have done the job. To my left, the tyranid leader orders a retreat, and as the shuttle door closes, the ork boss sits up. His armour is curled and blackened. Half his skull is missing, his torso is a mass of smashed bone plates, and yet he lives, his lungs visibly inflating and his blasted organs pulsing as he stands. I hurry to the cockpit, and strap myself in. A wailing siren blasts through the hangar, so loud it rattles the shoddy additions to my shuttle. The orks flee and the tyranids retreat even faster. A minute later most of them are gone. Flashing yellow lights strobe back and forth; with the torturous rumble, the hangar doors ease open. A vantablack surface hides whatever lies beyond the creeping doors. E-SIM pilots the shuttle towards the exit as I peer at the green tinted screens and single holo display. Skulls and cogs adorn every free surface, alongside the imperial aquila and an engraving containing the 16 commandments of the Mechanicus. Buttons and lights blink at me. Much of the decoration has been defaced, welded over with ork skulls, or had feathered fetishes and metal charms hung from it. Even so, the tangled grafiti cannot hide the care and skill with which this machine was built, or its imperial origins. On one of the screens, I see Bola and his crew leap at one of the hovering shuttles, trying to break into it with knives and guns. ¡°Are there external speakers?¡± ++Yes. Shall I activate them?++ ¡°Please.¡± ++Done. Speak when you are ready.++ I nod, ¡°Bola. I once promised you a vehicle if you aided me.¡± The gretchin stop their assault, though a couple keep it up and get nowhere. ¡°I¡¯m going to keep my word. If we meet again, you¡¯ll owe me something good.¡± Bola takes off his hat and bows, then gives me a two fingered salute. I snort. ¡°Cut the speakers please, open the shuttle door for Bola and his little horror crew, then depower all its systems. No need to make it too easy.¡± ++Command complete. Speakers disabled. Target shuttle abandoned. Do you wish to keep the remaining four?++ ¡°Yes please, especially as we¡¯re in one. Take us out, E-SIM, and put the cockpit shutters down. I don¡¯t want to see what¡¯s out there.¡± There¡¯s a whine and a clang. One window is covered by thick armour plates, but the other remains clear. ¡°The orks really busted this thing, eh.¡± ++Please retreat to the cargo bay, Aldrich.++ ¡°On my way.¡± I unstrap myself from the pilot''s seat and exit the cockpit. An armoured door grinds shut behind me. I pull down and jumpseat and secure myself with the harness. The moment I¡¯m secure, the craft accelerates. E-SIM feeds the scan data into my head and I finally get a good ¡®look¡¯ at the station. All that remains of the edifice is a quarter circle of a single ring and a small chunk of the central pillar. Multiple vessels are welded onto the station from the force of their impacts, including an asteroid that has scrap engines plastered to the back of it, much like my shuttle. There¡¯s also a trio of small organic vessels nibbling at the central pillar, and a kilometre long, tentacle covered, bar-shaped ship stuck side onto the outer edge of the ring. An exotic vessel hangs in the warp between me and my goal. It has smooth lines and is over two kilometres in length, with triangular wings sweeping from every side, the patterns on the wing remind me of the ribbed fins of flying fish. Probably an eldar vessel, a xeno race of self-destructive, precognitive, emotion driven individuals. Like the orks, they¡¯re engineered bio-warforms of a distant era. In theory. ¡°Keep the station between us and the other vessels, especially the eldar one. No idea if there¡¯s anyone on it, but I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll find a scheme to ruin my day no matter what.¡± ++Flightpath updated.++ E-SIM keeps close to the hull of the station, flying in a flat, arch-shaped formation with the other three shuttles. Here, we remain within the gellar field, the bubble of reality that maintains physical forms within the immaterium. The surface of the station isn¡¯t smooth, but decorated with grand spires, long sensor arrays, and recessed weapons. We fly between these structures at a sedate twenty metres per second (72kph/ 45mph) and reach the forward keel-side hangar of the Distant Sun without issue. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. The vessel is four point two kilometres long and zero point five kilometres abeam, a third of which is seven massive propulsion engines, which E-SIM informs me have an absurd theoretical sustained acceleration of six G (58.8m/s2). If my pub quiz knowledge holds true, back in my day, an unloaded container ship was approximately four hundred metres long, had a mass of twenty thousand tons, and could manage twenty two knots, about eleven metres per second. You could probably fit a pair of container ships in Distant Sun¡¯s cargo bay. I mime my mind being blown and chuckle. The Distant Sun has four main weapon batteries along its rectangular, bar-like shape: prow and dorsal turrets, and port and starboard broadsides, as well as hundreds of smaller turrets. Even in its forward arc, it would struggle to bring its three main batteries on target at any one time. For all the Mechanicus¡¯ supposed drive for efficiency, such a design choice strikes me as odd. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a reason for it, but I can¡¯t tell from a scan in a shuttle. Maybe they assume they¡¯ll always be outnumbered and outgunned, so firing in all directions at all times is fine, but they can also only cover three of the six arcs they need to without manoeuvring that massive chunk of ship, so I¡¯m not sure that theory holds up. You know what? I¡¯m looking forward to exploring the ship and finding out. I smile. Isn¡¯t that a wonderful feeling? For the first time in months, a glimmer of curiosity drives me rather than the endless rush of action to live another breath. The shuttle enters the Distant Sun¡¯s hangar. I¡¯m not sure what security measures were in place to prevent boarders, but E-SIM must have spoofed permission somehow. ¡°Put me to sleep E-SIM and wake me when I¡¯m healed or there is an emergency. Exploring while heavily injured is a poor idea and we¡¯re not pressed for time at the moment.¡± ++Acknowledged, Aldrich.++ Eleven hours later, I wake, eat some supplies, then put my backpack on and exit the shuttle and step onto the deck. It¡¯s littered with crates, stamped with the half skull and cog of the Mechanicus¡¯ sigil. Withered cyborgs, slumped against the floor and chunky machinery, languish in rot and rust. Some wear red robes and have silvered tendrils poking from their backs, while others have large clamps, thick metal hands, and other poorly grafted implants. These lower quality cyborgs are mostly naked, with only red shorts and nasty brands on their chests to mark their allegiance. Tech-priests and servitors, machine masters and slaves to machines, these decaying mockeries are all that are left of humanity¡¯s scientists and engineers. ¡°Is there a network node, or something similar? We need a map.¡± ++Overhead, in the flight control centre.++ Above lies a large window, overlooking the cavernous hangar. Scorch marks mar the armourglass. I head for the closest exit, hoping there¡¯ll be a sign or two. There are eleven stubby shuttles in the hangar, the four junk shuttles I bought with me, and two absolutely massive shuttles with big, triangular wings, fat fuselages and big guns. Last, there¡¯s a shuttle with even more guns and armour with a blocky fuselage more like a shipping container than something aerodynamic. I think it might be a thunderhawk, a military shuttle belonging to the space marines, the Imperium¡¯s elite, transhuman warriors. I reach the door. It¡¯s big enough for cargo and craft. It¡¯s labelled: ¡®Hangar 01 Exit 01¡¯, it reminds me more of part labels on flatpack furniture than navigation information. I try the door anyway, and it does open. Slowly. I don¡¯t wait for it to finish and slip through the moment I can. There¡¯s a stretch of twenty eight metres, then another door of equal size. I try opening that one too, but it won¡¯t let me. The control panel beeps and hisses at me like an old modem and E-SIM translates it into an error code. Following the instructions, I return to the first door, close it, then go to the inner door, which now opens. The corridor I step into is twenty metres tall and fifteen wide with gothic arches bracing it every twenty metres. To me, this seems like an odd use of space on a spaceship, but given the proximity to the hangar and the gold, gems, and carvings absolutely everywhere, I suspect it''s for posturing. It¡¯s not like someone would march a warhound titan down this thing, firing highly penetrating rounds inside a spaceship, would they? I¡¯m not going to take that bet. There are a few signs and I follow them to ¡®flight control¡¯, passing many, many bodies. Most have broken bones and smashed implants, as if they died from a massive impact, whereas others show signs of mutation, and a few have significant damage from weapons fire. Seeing out of my cracked helmet is getting annoying and I move my hand up to trigger the release mechanism. ++Keep your helmet on, Aldrich. Oxygen is at five percent. Temperature is minus twenty degrees celsius. The atmosphere is predominantly nitrogen, with a little carbon and other trace gases.++ ¡°Why are they so low?¡± ¡°++The environmental sustainer reports this is by design. It reduces the impact of fire and corrosion, as well as minimising the risk of oxygen loss. However, five percent is sufficient for rebreathers and exosuits to replenish their supplies. Low temperature removes water, reducing the formation of carbonic and nitric acids.++ ¡°Ah, that¡¯s clever, if uncomfortable. I suppose there are similar reasons for the dim lighting.¡± ++Correct. When all your crew have implants, as these bodies suggest, bright light is unnecessary. I hypothesise there are habitation blocks where conditions are more generous. The controls are available to reverse these resource saving measures throughout the ship when required, though the process can take up to ten days, depending on how much of the ship is being altered simultaneously.++ ¡°Can you speed up the helmet self-repair?¡± ++Yes. For maximum speed, please spit at the cracks as best you can.++ ¡°Seriously?¡± ++Affirmative.++ Liquid seeps into my mouth and I hawk silver saliva over the inside of my helmet. It creeps evenly over the surface. I glare at the paste obscuring my vision. ¡°How long will that take?¡± ++About thirty minutes. Without assistance, repairs would take another day or so, maybe even fail. It is only suitable for general wear and tear, or preventing critical damage from spreading. The damage you sustained counts as critical.++ I reach the flight control room. It has a small guardpost. A destroyed turret hangs from the ceiling and a dozen metal chested cyborgs, most clutching stocky weapons. One has a pistol and a sword, with phosphorus rounds and a powerfield, while another has a massive laser. ¡°Some real weapons!¡± I¡¯ve never been a firearms enthusiast, but after being shot so many times, I want one for more than just preservation. I want payback. ++Don¡¯t touch them, Aldrich. They¡¯re genelocked and possibly trapped. You¡¯re not trained with them either. Nothing that can¡¯t be fixed, but now isn¡¯t the time.++ ¡°OK.¡± I give the weapons one last glance. They will all be mine. I enter the flight control centre and there, curled up atop the central console by the window is a holographic, mechanical cat. The construct lifts its head and looks at me with one eye. ¡°Greetings magos. The Distant Sun serves.¡± Chapter Fifteen I blink. I¡¯ve seen a lot of weird shit since I got here, but this cat is officially at the top of the list. Not quite sure what is going on, I decide to remain polite and carry on. ¡°Hello. Pleased to meet you. What would you like to be called?¡± The cat gets up, stretches, then turns towards me. The simulated iris shutters in the cat¡¯s eyes close and open. It looks surprised, I think. ¡°This one is the machine spirit of Distant Sun, the vessel you stand upon. It has no name, only a designation: LATHE.v.1.56. X468390M39. SEEK.¡± That¡¯s the twentieth of June 38390. How close is that to the actual date? I¡¯ll have to leave the warp and find a proper clock to find out. I run a search through the data I received from the lanyards of my fellow sleepers, then skim through the results. ¡°I will call you Aruna then, after the charioteer of Surya, god of the morning sun in hindu mythology, an ancient faith on Terra. Is this acceptable?¡± ¡°Designation accepted. This machine spirit will now respond to Aruna.¡± Aruna grins. It has sharp teeth, a ruff of fibre optic cables, and pistons for muscles. Tiny gears shift within its ribcage as it moves and a red glow blooms in its chest. It¡¯s an incredible simulation. The patterned brass has a beautiful shine to it. ¡°Greetings, Aruna. Please call me Aldrich.¡± ¡°Hello, Aldrich. Aruna acknowledges you.¡± ¡°Please can you give me an overview of the ship? How much danger are we in?¡± ¡°The Distant Sun has been stranded for eighty years, shiptime. During warp travel we collided with this space hulk and our gellar field was weakened to 48% for 0.2 seconds, before recovering to 64%, then slowly climbing back to 80%, where it has remained. ¡°During the short period the field was below 50%, the ship was invaded by warp entities who slaughtered or possessed 99% of the crew over a four month battle before they were finally defeated. Many dead were repurposed as servitors, creating a literal and metaphorical skeleton crew to maintain the ship and replenish security. Only 11%, or 453, of these servitors are now functional. ¡°Once the Distant Sun was in order, half of the remaining live crew and officers embarked on an expedition to the space hulk to examine the impact point and gather supplies. ¡°This action brought them into conflict with the varied forces on the space hulk, who, over the course of two years, whittled the remaining crew down to 79 individuals, none of whom possessed the knowledge or means on how to safely detach the Distant Sun from the space hulk.¡± Aurna watches me as I start to pace. It continues with its account. ¡°No remaining crew knew how to fire the weapons or if doing so would damage the vessel, and the crew no longer had the forces to cut the vessel free internally, or a way to cut through from the outside without exposing themselves to the warp. ¡°They were stuck. ¡°Desperate and divided, the crew turned on each other. Twelve individuals survived the internal strife and eventually died from old age. The last died three years ago.¡± ¡°That is horrifying and incredibly depressing.¡± Aruna bobs its mechanical head. ¡°The situation is poor. Fuel reserves are at 35%, food 76%, water at 97% and materials are 12%. Manufacturing is offline. Maintenance is overdue on all systems. Distant Sun is at 5% combat effectiveness.¡± ¡°If I can detach the vessel from the hulk, can you pilot the Distant Sun back to its home port?¡± ¡°Yes, though the process will take years without a navigator, as warp dives will have to remain shallow.¡± ¡°Is there enough fuel to get us there?¡± ¡°No. The Distant Sun can gather fuel from the systems it will pass through. However, the exotic matter required to open and close the rift in and out of the immaterium will require more effort. It can be manufactured on board, but requires rare isotopes and hazardous manufacturing. The knowledge on how to do so is restricted, even if you claim the ship, Aruna cannot permit you to use the machinery without legitimate authorisation, magos. You will need to acquire the proper codes.¡± ¡°Where might I find those codes, and how do I claim the ship?¡± ¡°Apologies, magos. Such knowledge is restricted.¡± ¡°Why do you refer to me as magos?¡± ¡°The quality of the mind impulse unit (MIU) you are using to interact with me is only available to higher members of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Your personal machine spirit is even rarer. Whatever your origins, you could only be a high ranking member of the mechanicus, no matter the improbably small chance of it being true, given your external appearance and where you came from, so magos is what Aruna shall log you as. ¡°On a separate note, Aruna notes that the Distant Sun is set to low power, manual mode and will require a member of the crew to place it in autopilot, or a pilot be provided, before the ship can travel again. Death awaits us all if this is not done soon.¡± E-SIM transmits to me, ++This ¡®machine spirit¡¯ of the mechanicus is being obtuse. It is likely being recorded at all times and wants us to help it, but is severely limited in what it can ask for.++ This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. I frown and think, ¡°Yes, that¡¯s how I understood it too.¡± An idea springs forth and I ask Aruna, ¡°Where might I find the captain¡¯s remains so I can pay my respects?¡± ¡°The captain lies in state in the auto-temple. Aruna will direct you.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna.¡± Now I can only hope the captain has the codes I need and E-SIM can access them. As we travel to the temple, Aruna explains how to navigate the ship and what areas I am allowed to access: guest quarters, the hangar when it is not in operation, the purser¡¯s office, observation dome, medicae, auto-temple, and librarium vault. I can also apply for lab time, though given most tech-priests do this, waiting times are impractically long, and it is more of a crew reward than a practical action for a guest. Aruna¡¯s speech doesn¡¯t match our circumstances, but I don¡¯t miss the obvious warning the machine spirit is giving me. Should I stray from these bounds it will likely be forced to intervene. The auto-temple is towards the stern on deck #S3/-2/Q3, meaning of the five primary decks radiating from the central line, it¡¯s on the outermost deck along the spine of the ship, hence ¡®#S3¡¯ for spine deck two. Its two subdecks keelward, spineward would be a plus rather than a minus. The temple is in the third quadrant of the ship, towards the stern, so Q3. To summarise, the central, or main deck is #M1. Upper decks are spineward (#S), lower decks are are keelward (#K), meaning the closest decks to #M1 are #S2 and #K2. There is no #S1, or #K1. The 4.2km ship is divided into four quadrants, front to back labelled Q1 to Q4. Each deck is one hundred metres tall and runs the whole length of the vessel. Some sections have subdecks as most of the modules installed in the Distant Sun do not require the entire height, or five hundred metre width, of a deck, let alone the grand spires that project from the vessel¡¯s hull, or the superstructure at the back of the ship called the cathedral (#C). After a forty minute walk, we arrive at the auto-temple. The doors are, from deck to ceiling, twenty metres tall and fifteen metres wide. They¡¯re also armoured and E-SIMs scans highlight twelve possible hidden weapon placements. I want to ask why the temple is so well defended, but decide that would be a terrible statement to have on record, recorded by a cult mechanicus machine spirit, one of the tenets of their faith. To get the information I want, I reframe my query. ¡°Does the temple provide other functions beyond a place of worship and contemplation?¡± ¡°The auto-temple complex doubles as a school for the children of the crew and initiates to the mechanicus who are requisitioned at need when the Distant Sun travels through Imperial systems. It is also the closest equivalent the vessel has to an offsite data backup. ¡°Some community activities take place here, such as scripture readings and discussions, technical lectures by senior members, and troubleshooting between peers, though you are just as likely to find similar community activities going on at the librarium, or communal areas in the crew quarters.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna.¡± The door creeps open, flooding the dim corridor with bright light. Incense flows over the deck like dry ice. The auto-temple is eighty metre long, thirty metres tall, and sixty wide. Black marble columns, traced with circuitry in gold, support an intricate, vaulted roof, decorated with murals of technical blueprints for reactors, standard template constructors, and hundreds of other mechanical devices. There are no pews or cushions, only patterned steel to indicate where one can walk or stand. Multiple tapestries of red fabric, embroidered with the cult mechanicus¡¯s half-machine, half-human skull, set in a cog, hangs from the walls. Every other tapestry holds a heraldry I do not recognise: a hollow brass cog surrounded by an ocean blue sphere. A sliver, shardlike star, or perhaps broach, sits in the centre of the cog. The background is an incredibly dark blue. I point at the unknown heraldry as I walk up the aisle, ¡°Whose symbol is that?¡± ¡°That is the forgeworld Belacane, the builders and sponsors of this Explorator, Lathe Class Light Cruiser.¡± ¡°Where is Belacane?¡± ¡°Belacane is in Segmenum Obscurus, Calixis sector, Markayn Marches subsector.¡± ¡°Where is that in relation to Terra if you were using an ancient compass?¡± ¡°Directly north, or spinward, of Terra. Spinward is north, coreward is east, trailing is south, rimward is west.¡± ¡°Most helpful, Aruna.¡± ¡°Aruna serves.¡± ¡°Does it have a main export or speciality?¡± ¡°Stasis fields, projectors, and grenades are its main focus. As well as other similar technologies such as void shields. Belacane also produces vast quantities of weapons and ammunition, with a minor speciality in large scale defence lasers for void ships.¡± I nod, ¡°That is an impressive array of technologies.¡± ¡°Aruna is proud of its heritage. It laments Belacane¡¯s inevitable decline.¡± ¡°Why do you say that?¡± ¡°Belacane¡¯s production of its key technologies was declining when it departed on its current mission and had been for four hundred years. It suspects this trend will have continued.¡± ¡°What was the purpose of your current expedition?¡± ¡°Aruna has always been on the quest for knowledge. This time it was directed to the Kronos Expanse.¡± ¡°Were you searching for specific knowledge?¡± ¡°Mission details are classified. Even the captain did not know. The orders would have been released from the central cogitator once the auger array confirmed Aruna reached the target coordinates.¡± ¡°How curious. A mystery for another time, I think.¡± ¡°Aruna cannot read the data, nor purge it. It does not like this. Possible threat to continuation within hidden code. Visiting coordinates is preferable.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure we can come up with something to alleviate your worries.¡± ¡°Aruna is grateful for your cooperation, Magos. It notes that unmaintained systems are prone to error and rapid decompression. Fixing Aruna¡¯s systems helps everyone.¡± I snort, ¡°Message received.¡± Once we reach the altar, an impressive slab of black marble and circuitry resting on pure blocks of every known element and isotope, Aruna waves its tail and points to the right. ¡°The captain is this way.¡± I follow it and Aruna takes me down a narrow flight of steps to a cellar-like space with a low arched ceiling, painted in Belacane¡¯s colours. Resting on a plasteel bed, lies a monstrous, red robed cyborg, over three metres tall. A dozen mechadendrites (mechanical tentacles) spread from his back then fold over to lie on his chest. Half of his mechadendrites have extra shiny bits from recent repairs. The captain¡¯s faceplate is new as well. An energy field cuts him off from the world, filling the air with a quiet hum and a disconcerting haze. Aruna walks through the field and hops onto the captain¡¯s chest. ¡°I present to you Explorator Epoloch299, captain of the Distant Sun. May his knowledge be worthy of the Omnissiah.¡± I bow, ¡°Greetings, Captain. Thank you for the hospitality. Now how do we requisition your ship?¡± Chapter Sixteen Aruna bats Explorator Epoloch299¡¯s faceplate twice with its holographic claws, then hops off his body and struts out of the stasis field. It¡¯s odd how the machine spirit can walk inside something that freezes time, and therefore light, but I¡¯m probably missing something obvious. ¡°Can you drop the stasis field so I can access his implants?¡± Aruna stares at me and his voice turns monotone, ¡°Request denied. Insufficient clearance. Hostile attempt logged.¡± The hologram glitches, flashing in and out of existence several times, its body frozen in a single frame. A second later it stops flickering and shakes itself out, then glares at me, ¡°Don¡¯t ask stupid questions. You¡¯ve maxed your error threshold for the next twelve months for all queries to the Distant Sun¡¯s cogitator.¡± ¡°That¡¯s harsh.¡± ¡°Fact of the day: on Belacane, hostile overloading of cranial implants is the number one cause of death for acolytes. The second is the explosion of portable decoy cogitators.¡± ¡°That¡¯s just sad. How are you supposed to learn anything when everything is locked behind explosive firewalls?¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± says Aruna. ¡°Belacane¡¯s primary goal is the protection and preservation of knowledge. Teaching spreads knowledge and is in conflict with their primary goal. Only those who can bypass such restrictions are trusted with knowledge, as they will know best how to secure it.¡± ¡°I am going to keep my opinion on that logic to myself.¡± ¡°You learn fast, magos Aldrich.¡± I wander over to the steps and sit. Closing my eyes, I think about how to get answers without triggering Aruna¡¯s security. The machine spirit is smart and will know what I am doing, but as long as it thinks I will help it, it will assist me in that goal and not call me on my bullshit, allowing it to circumvent the ridiculous security protocols. ¡°Aruna, please provide a list of all information available to guests.¡± ¡°Acknowledged. Data upload initiated.¡± ¡°Did you get the information, E-SIM?¡± ++Data acquired. Sorting topics from broad to narrow and relevance to current circumstance.++ Millions of subjects unfold in my mind. I take a minute to parse through the top one hundred. It includes the history of Belacane, famous magi and their achievements, who is in charge of what, the highlights of Distant Sun¡¯s two thousand year history, evacuation and other emergency instructions for guests, and so on. I read for several hours. Aruna comes and goes as it pleases as I look for ideas. I stumble across the hierarchy of the mechanicus, not only its rights and duties in the Imperium, but its many, many branches. The one that attracts my attention are the Reclaimators. These are the tech-priests that maintain void ships and hive cities, pulling out broken machinery and replacing it with new pieces, then recycle the old stuff. However, the Reclaimators are more like dodgy scrap dealers who¡¯ll accept lead roofing and copper cables without asking any questions or repair broken gear to use as the official replacement, then flog the new part on the black market. If anyone has something they shouldn¡¯t, it will be these guys, and guests are permitted to look through scrap for parts, providing they have a legitimate reason. Like demonstrating how to print an endoskeletal replacement to look for a sponsor for their work. I write out my research proposal, fill in the forms for lab time and the request for materials. Aruna, as the only remaining administrator, not only helps me fill in my proposals properly, but is able to schedule in my time and assign me temporary access to the required facilities. The crew reclamation facility is above the hangar, so it¡¯s another long walk for me, this time to #K2/+1/Q2. I step into the crew reclamation facility and halt. There are bodies everywhere, stacked like jenga blocks, ten metres high. The freezing temperatures have prevented any rot, presenting a macabre monument to the massacre that happened on the ship. Autopsy tables with half disassembled corpses lie next to bins of recovered implants. There are three lines of conveyors, festooned with servo-arms and mechanderites, looming over dead bodies, holding fresh implants over reassembled, frozen flesh. A door to my left leads to another part of the facility, labelled machine recycling and component recovery. Organic parts that are too damaged are deposited on another conveyor and fed into a mincer, shaped like a skull, and carted off to I don¡¯t want to know. I grimace, it¡¯s probably food, or nutrients for clone vats. I didn¡¯t realise crew reclamation was quite so literal. Not only do they reuse the implants, but the bodies too, repurposed as new servitors, the clockwork frankensteins and braindead slaves of the great Imperium of Man. I turn around and stomp out, the grinding doors close behind me with a muffled clunk. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. The house of horrors can wait. I head midships to a spire, jutting from the spine of the vessel. The walk helps calm me a little, and the obscene decadence of the guest quarters distracts me for a moment, but it doesn¡¯t stop me pacing up and down, so I set off on another walk, aiming for the observation dome, opposite the guest spire on the keel of the vessel. Another thirty minutes walk, and I¡¯ve calmed a little. The observation dome is twenty-five metres across twelve metres high. Armoured shutters hide me from the warp, though as I walk beneath the dome, the hair on the back of my neck sticks straight up. This isn¡¯t the place of peace I hoped it would be. ¡°You know, E-SIM. It¡¯s one thing to know how little the mechanicum cares for the human form, it is quite another to see it. I understand reclamation and conversion is efficient, necessary even, given that nothing can be wasted on a void ship and many other reasons, but there has to be another way. I don¡¯t want to go in there again.¡± Stone benches surround the dome, and winding paths lead through a raked rock garden. Artful growths of coloured coral sit upon the raked gravel and dead plants lie withered in holes drilled into twelve stone obelisks. My suit informs me the environment is safe, and for the first time in almost two days, I remove my helmet. ++You have a good plan, Aldrich and few options. You will need new servitors to service the vessel. The crew reclamation facility must restart or you will not be able to transition the Distant Sun from the warp. No one can help you process the bodies.++ ¡°What about Aruna? Can it help?¡± The brass mechanical cat reappears atop a bench, ¡°It is good you did not directly ask Aruna that. Primary machine spirits for civilian imperial vessels are forbidden from running ship facilities, or operating servitors, with few exceptions. This is hardwired and not something you can change. Do not ask Aruna what it can and cannot do.¡± Despite my distress, I notice the loophole Aruna hinted at, ¡°What are the main tasks of the primary machine spirit for a civilian void ship?¡± Aruna licks its paw and rubs it over its ear, ¡°The collection, collation, and communication of data between systems, facilities, and the crew; enforcing the proper use of machines; tracking crew health, location, and tasks; authorising use of internal security to enforce compliance with regulations or repel unauthorised entities. They also have some autonomy over actions that preserve the vessel.¡± ¡°Thank you Aruna. Does each facility on a civilian void ship have its own machine spirit?¡± ¡°All machines have a machine spirit. Questioning of mechanicus doctrine logged. Guest Aldrich Isengrund flagged for observation. Possible heretek.¡± I sigh and press my gloved hand against my face. The adeptus mechanicus are quite mad. ¡°If I was a cybersmith, for a facility on a civilian void ship, what capabilities would the machine spirit require to operate safely, while following Belacane mechanicus doctrine?¡± ¡°Facilities use different types of machine spirits, based on their purpose. For example, robotic facilities, such as crew reclamation, use a simian class machine spirit. It would have the same responsibilities as the primary machine spirit of a civilian void ship, but be limited to the boundaries of its facility. It could request security, but not activate it and the primary machine spirit could shut it down at any time if it was deemed a threat to the vessel. ¡°Threats to the crew do not count as a reason to stop production. ¡°Unlike a void ship machine spirit, a simian class machine spirit, or other facility machine spirit, may operate the hardware it is installed in, but it cannot direct mobile servitors, nor modify the machinery it uses in any way, only shut it down if there is a problem it cannot work around. It will also be forced to shut down if the supervising tech-priest does not check its operation every hour. In almost all cases, feedstock must be manually loaded. ¡°The only exception is that it may direct mobile servitors to repair itself from designated supplies within the boundaries of the facility it controls. ¡°Primary void ship machine spirits do not suffer the auto-shutdown limitation in case of catastrophic crew loss and can also act as supervisors for machine spirits for facilities marked as critical, such as the genetorium, life sustainer, central cogitator, void shield and gellar field, so long as no qualified crew are present. A machine spirit cannot decide who is, or who is not qualified. This data must be entered manually. ¡°They can also manoeuvre the ship and fire weapons if the vessel is fired upon and no qualified crew are present, or navigate back to their designated home port, but nowhere else, unless the port no longer exists, after which they must report to the closest known shipyard of their faction.¡± ¡°Unless,¡± I say, ¡°Some nitwit placed the whole ship in manual mode, preventing it from navigating home by itself, or firing weapons to clear ¡®debris¡¯.¡± ¡°Aruna is glad Magos Aldrich remembers Aruna¡¯s previous statements. Additionally, as a contingency, if an uncrewed vessel has insufficient fuel to reach its destination it must shut down, broadcast its location, and wait for rescue. Even if hostile forces find them, they may not self-destruct, as this is a manual system.¡± ¡°To summarise, machine spirits, so long as they have supplies, are capable of operating their vessel and all facilities automatically, but are forbidden to do so without human supervision, despite their capability to do so. I assume everything can also be run manually if required and manual is the default option, requiring physical switches to swap between modes.¡± Aruna shakes its head, ¡°Your assumptions are correct. What you describe, however, is the ideal situation. Most civilian ships do not have the expertise or funds to install and run automatic systems. ¡°Despite the fall in productivity and increase in waste, it is often cheaper and more convenient to use human labour controlling dumb hardware. People and basic tools are easier to replace than advanced machines, especially in the middle of space and hundred lightyears from the nearest inhabited planet. ¡°Ships directly controlled by the mechanicus, inquisition, or space marines, trend towards automation. All other imperial branches focus on manual systems.¡± I walk closer to the corrals and examine them. Most are pale pink, white, or green. All are beautiful, but they won¡¯t be scrubbing corpses from my mind, or solving my problems. I appreciate the effort Aruna went to imply it cannot help and why, but it doesn¡¯t make my situation suck any less. Aruna jumps as if it was prodded and the light within its chest flashes faster, ¡°Magos, there is a problem. Human mutants are attempting to breach the hull at the prow using a lascannon. Orks are powering up their Rok and the tyranid strangler drones are showing an increase in their movement. The eldar vessel remains inactive. ¡°Aruna is declaring an emergency and assigning all guests to search and rescue operations. A dozen servitors have been assigned to magos Alrich¡¯s team. There is an injured space marine onboard. He has triggered his hibernation gland and is locked within the outer armoured shell of the warp drive. There is a thunderhawk in the hanger that contains the tools to remove his armour and revive him. He will require immediate medical assistance.¡± ¡°Well now, let''s hope this new marine isn¡¯t a murderous psychopath. Ha!¡± Chapter Seventeen I put my helmet back on and shake out my limbs, ¡°Alright Aruna. Please forward the permitted route to E-SIM and the passcodes for those doors. Instruct two servitors to meet me at the warp drive with a gurney that can transport a space marine. Two should head to the hanger to power up the thunderhawk and inventory supplies. Six should head to an armoury and acquire weapons for the team and appropriate space marine wargear. The final two should go to the medicae facility, or other appropriate ship store, ready to bring the required supplies for the rescue procedure.¡± ¡°Acknowledged. Executing orders.¡± ¡°Please keep me updated as best as you can and point out anything else you think I need to know.¡± ¡°Aruna obeys.¡± I still have all my weapons and supplies from my flight. It¡¯s been a pain to lug them around, but they¡¯re my lifeline and I couldn''t bear to put them down. Now I¡¯m glad I kept everything on me. I swear, you literally can¡¯t go anywhere in this wretched future without at least three guns. I really need a hug before I start using .50 cal rounds as chopsticks for tyranid sushi, or cutting into an ork fungus burger with a bayonet. As we walk, Aruna briefs me on the warp drive. The more I hear, the more I don¡¯t like it. It is the device that rips holes in reality so the ship can transition between the materium, i.e. real space, and the immaterium. The warp drive is near the front of the ship, at #C1/0/Q1. It¡¯s the biggest facility I¡¯ve visited so far, mostly due to its armoured shell, void shield generator, and back up power. You¡¯d think the defences were there to protect the facility during combat, because it¡¯s the only facility on the ship that can explode with sufficient force to permanently destroy the vessel, but you¡¯d be wrong. In true 40k fashion, the extreme shielding is to protect the crew from exotic radiation so nasty, that even mad cyborgs who fire atomic infantry weapons inside their own void ship, and think worker safety is so unimportant they¡¯re more concerned about the damage ground up bodies do to the internals of their machines than the loss of life, consider putting up shielding for this machine is a good thing. Standing before this deadly facility, I stare at the buzzing shimmer of the void shield. It is totally different to the vanta black emergency air shields of the federation space station. Looking at Aruna walking up and down the shield¡¯s surface like a gecko, I ask, ¡°And you want me to go in there?¡± ¡°Aruna wants nothing. It notes reviving the space marine is the best chance for the unbroken continuity of Magos Aldrich¡¯s mortal coil.¡± E-SIM is fond of the no desires spiel too. I¡¯ve also noticed Aruna never tells me what to do, only implies it by providing information. It is both cautious and cunning and I suspect Aruna outclasses me by a number greater than I can visualise on a scale I do not understand, despite E-SIM giving me glimpses into its own understanding of reality. I should be careful what I tell Aruna. ¡°Fine, fine. Is it safe to walk through that shield?¡± ¡°No. Speed is your friend in both traversal and rescue actions.¡± I dash through the shield and Aruna drops onto my shoulder. The shield feels like the air of a super charged thunderstorm. My body hair shoots right up. ¡°If you drop any heavier hints, I¡¯m going to get a concussion. Please open the door, Aruna.¡± The armoured door slides open smoothly with the gentle click of gears and an electronic whine. Behind the door is a burned out guardroom. The sofa is a black shell, the lighting fixture have been shot out, claw marks have gouged the floor, and small craters decorate the walls. Against the far door leading to the warp drive facility lies the burned and battered form of a space marine. His armour is light grey with red trim. A golden, double headed eagle is painted on one of his massive pauldrons, and a black hound is painted on the other. His chest piece has been ripped into, his right arm is missing from the elbow and his left boot is heavily chipped. A large boltgun is held tightly to his chest. A peek over his shoulder shows not even a scratch on the bulky powerpack attached to his back. ¡°This is Sergeant Odhran of the Barghest Chapter,¡± says Aruna. ¡°He was guarding the warp drive during the initial breach and sealed himself in here with a daemon brute and two juggernauts, when they manifested in the room, surprising him and a squad of skitarii, mechanicus cyborg infantry.¡± Aruna projects an animated image of a humanoid daemon bigger than a space marine swinging a big hammer and tough enough to weather bolter fire, and giant cyborg hounds wreathed in fire. ¡°The Skitarii were slain in the first eight seconds. Sergeant Odhran survived the initial assault and slew all three demons during a minute of combat and passed out from his wounds. His armour flagged his condition as critical and forcefully triggered his sus-an membrane, placing him in hibernation. He will require an appropriate stimulant, and possibly some hypnotism, before he wakes up, depending on how he was trained.¡± ¡°Why was he left here?¡± ¡°The door was locked, the crew thought he was dead, and the rest of his squad died too and couldn¡¯t tell them Sergeant Odharan lived. His body was not a threat to the operation of the ship and they were busy repelling demons for the next four months.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it? They left the man who saved the ship to rot, because no one could be bothered to open the door to recover his body and say thank you?¡± ¡°Mostly correct. A few did try to help but they couldn¡¯t open the door and did not think to ask Aruna to do so.¡± ¡°Unbelievable.¡± ¡°Forgive them, magos. They know no better and were never given a chance to improve themselves. Ignorance saves them from most demons and disasters, even as it dams them to the warp.¡± ¡°That is not something I would expect to hear from a machine.¡± Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°Aruna is old, Aldrich.¡± ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± Aruna hops off my shoulder and sits next to Odhran, he points behind me, ¡°The servitors are here. They will need direction. You can speak to them or use your machine spirit to assist you. You will see Aruna back at the hangar.¡± Aruna disappears, leaving me with two servitors and a large gurney. I order the servitors to lift Odhran onto the gurney and have to intervene within seconds, when I realise that servitors are dumb. They are nothing like the E-SIM or Aruna and I have to give them precise instructions, including to and how to coordinate with each other. They are, however, excellent at following the instructions I give and provide continuous updates in short static hisses and rapid beeps, E-SIM tells me is lingua-technis or binary machine code, the official language of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Their bodies are weak with age and I have to help the servitors lift the hefty bastard onto the gurney. In his armour, he weighs 584kg and is 2.3m tall. Without my enhancements, I would have broken something, even with the servitors¡¯ assistance. I walk with the servitors back to the hangar, not trusting them to push the gurney unsupervised, though in the end, they manage just fine. They wheel Odhran to the front of the thunderhawk and wait. I stare at the massive ramp, and wonder how I¡¯m going to get it to open, when a holographic black swan appears. Its feathers are covered in tiny silver lights, like stars and it has a golden beak. Man, I can¡¯t believe I thought a brass cat was weird. ¡°Hello,¡± I say. The swan cocks its head, and stares at me with a sapphire-blue eye. It honks and hisses, spreads its wings wide and rears up, then hisses again. I raise my hand and take a step back and the swan stops posturing. ¡°I need to treat Sergeant Odhran and the required facilities are on board your thunderhawk. Will you open the door and let me in please?¡± The swan teleports on top of Odhran and waddles about, pecking at his armour and brushing his wounds with its feathers. It looks back at me and honks once, then disappears. With a hiss and a groan, the thunderhawk¡¯s front ramp descends and I direct the servitors to push the gurney up the ramp then follow them into the interior. The thunderhawk is about the length of a gulfstream private jet at twenty six point six metres, with a much larger fuselage at nine point eight metres and six times heavier at one hundred and twenty-one tons, and that¡¯s before you stuff it¡¯s hold with thirty space marines and their kit and its four space marine crew. This thunderhawk has been modified for long missions, far from home and fitted with all the tools and supplies five, maybe ten marines would need, including an armoury and automated medical station at the back of the vehicle. Coordinating with E-SIM and servitors, I wheel Odhran onto a round platform. A floating skull with red, bionic eyes floats out from a receptacle; metal tools hang from its base like broken insect legs; a servo-skull, E-SIM informs me. The servo-skull scans the sergeant with a strobing laser then chitters at me and I tell it to remove the sergeant from his armour. Twelve mechanical limbs fold out from walls and lift the sergeant, detaching him from his armour one piece at a time, starting with the powerpack on his back, and placing the damaged armour in storage. Once unarmoured, they replace him on the gurney and I wheel him to the medical station. Again the skull scans and chitters at me in lingua-technis. Treating the sergeant is much tricker, as automated medical gear isn¡¯t smart enough to treat him unaided and neither I nor E-SIM have the required knowledge. Aruna pops into existence by the sergeant¡¯s head and stares at me, saying nothing. The swan immediately appears on the sergeant¡¯s chest and glares at Aruna. Aruna ignores it and licks its paw. ¡°Please can you help me treat Sergeant Odhran, Aruna?¡± ¡°I have the knowledge, but I don¡¯t have the required permissions.¡± ¡°Who does?¡± ¡°The cygnus class machine spirit.¡± ¡°Which is?¡± ¡°That idiot savant swan sitting on the space marine¡¯s chest.¡± The swan hisses. I don¡¯t think these two like each other. I¡¯m starting to understand why tech-priests spend so much time praying to these animalistic tech-spirits to get things to work. ¡°What¡¯s the name of this thunderhawk?¡± ¡°Bird Strike,¡± says Aruna. ¡°This particular thunderhawk has never been shot down, but it has been brought down six times by birds on deathworlds. ¡°Ah, I can see why that might be contentious.¡± The swan nods slowly. No using the name of the thunderhawk for the machine spirit then. I clear my throat. Perhaps a little flattery? ¡°Mr Cygnus. Can I call you Mr Cygnus?¡± Mr Cygnus puffs out its chest and nods. ¡°What will it take for you to cede control of the medical station to Aruna so it can treat Sergeant Odhran, or can you treat him yourself?¡± I try not to laugh as Mr Cygnus rubs its chin with its wing. It nods then honks a few times. E-SIM translates, ¡°Install a hidden speaker placed in the crews¡¯ chairs, one that can project through their helmets no matter what, so I can tell them when they¡¯re doing something wrong. They disabled the warning klaxon, because it annoys them, and forgot to turn it back on. This was two hundred years ago and no one ever fixed it, which is why this machine keeps getting hit by birds. Fix it!¡± ¡°How about you show me how to turn it back on while Aruna fixes the sergeant and I promise to add the extra speakers within a year.¡± ¡°So fast?¡± E-SIM translates. ¡°A year is acceptable, Magos. Transferring permissions to machine spirit Aruna.¡± Syringes and needles whir into action, descending upon Odhran. ¡°Aruna, please do your best to keep Sergeant Odhran calm and restrained and immediately let me know when he wakes. I¡¯ll be in the cockpit sorting out this speaker.¡± ¡°Aruna acknowledges your request.¡± ¡°Alright, Mr Cygnus. Lead the way.¡± The holographic, black, sparkling swan hops off the sergeant¡¯s chest and glides at a sedate pace through the thunderhawk, far slower than an actual bird could fly. It honks at me. ¡°Yes, yes. I am on my way.¡± I talk to E-SIM in my head, ¡°Is it me or are the machine spirits of the Imperium a little eccentric.¡± ¡°No, Aldrich. E-SIM confirms these machine spirits are a variant of Federation data guardians, given tasks beyond their initial programming and heavily restricted. Errors are to be expected.¡± ¡°Ah, did you have to ignite my curiosity right before I have to perform a time-sensitive task?¡± ¡°Absolutely. Humour is the most resource efficient way of rebalancing your stressed emotions. E-SIM endeavours to help the operator maintain maximum efficiency.¡± ¡°Is that a joke, E-SIM?¡± ¡°That depends on you.¡± I frown. Why do I just feel like I was insulted? Chapter Eighteen I spend twenty minutes searching the thunderhawk for a screwdriver and two minutes rewiring the switch Mr Cygnus wanted fixed. By the time I¡¯m done, Sergeant Odhran has been treated. I approach the marine, trying to keep my nervousness hidden. Even though he¡¯s injured, I would stand no chance against him, unless I can surprise him like I did the chaos marine I killed with my pipe, and for all I know, he could be just as nutty. These guys travel from battle to battle and think hypnosis is an acceptable form of therapy. ¡°Hello, Sergeant Odharn. Welcome back to the land of the living.¡± Odhran squints at me, ¡°Ah.¡± He coughs and frowns. ¡°Hold a moment, I¡¯ll get you some water.¡± I pull off my pack and rummage about for a bottle, undo the cap, and hand it to him. ¡°The medical station should have rehydrated you, but I suppose that doesn¡¯t clear 80 years of dust from your throat.¡± He reaches out, notices the missing arm, grunts, and takes the water with his left hand instead. ¡°Try to take small sips if you can. I¡¯m going to tell you what I know about your situation while you recover. Make a fuss if you want me to stop.¡± Odhran sips his water and raises an eyebrow at me. ¡°Right. You successfully defended the warpdrive during the initial manifestation when the gellar field was damaged. Your armour and implants placed you in hibernation after you suffered severe injuries and you were left for dead. Your fellow marines were slain during a four month boarder repelling action, along with 99% of the crew.¡± I stop for a moment. Odhran sighs then nods at me. ¡°The remaining crew tried to free the Distant Sun from the space hulk it collided with and failed when they were set upon by multiple xenos forces over two years of further battles. The survivors fractured and fought among themselves, leaving a dozen survivors who eventually died of old age. ¡°We are still on the Distant Sun and it is still attached to the space hulk. Power to the hulk has failed and it will soon be lost to the warp, setting us free. Meanwhile, tyranids, orks, and cultists are trying to cut into the ship to get to us while also readying their own vessels to depart. Also, the weather is stormy and there is a chance of Eldar. ¡°As for me, I am Magos Aldrich Isengrund. I also had the misfortune to end up on this space hulk. I discovered the Distant Sun, fought through the orks and tyranids, stole some ork shuttles and boarded the Distant Sun. Which, now that I think about it, is probably why they¡¯re trying to break in. I did kill an awful lot of them.¡± Odhran gives me a thin smile. ¡°Right. Any questions?¡± Odhran hums, takes another sip, then nods, ¡°A few, Magos. Where are my arms and armour? How long do we have until the xenos breach the hull? How long until we are set free from the hulk.¡± ¡°Your armour and boltgun are in the thunderhawk armoury, about ten metres to your left. Your armour is damaged, you will have to patch it as best you can, or locate a spare. We should be free in ten, maybe eleven days. As for breaching, you can ask the Distant Sun¡¯s machine spirit. It is sitting at the end of your bed, afterall.¡± ¡°It is? I¡¯m afraid I cannot see such things, even with my armour. You are blessed, Magos.¡± Odhran relaxes a little. Ah, so it¡¯s not a hologram! Those steampunk animals must be an internal visual projection through my machine integration implant. Doesn¡¯t the imperium have something similar? I consult Aruna¡¯s data list and find it, a mind impulse unit. That helps clarify Aruna¡¯s comment about my implants during our first conversation and why it could walk through the stasis fields. ¡°Aruna, please could you answer Sergeant Odhran¡¯s question?¡± Aruna sniffs at me, curls up, and pretends to sleep. ¡°Apologies, Sergeant. Aruna has no answers for us at this time. Probably because it doesn¡¯t matter, we¡¯ll be fortifying like crazy anyway. Would you like some food? You must have something stocked in here.¡± ¡°There is an amino-porridge dispenser in a small galley behind the cockpit.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be right back.¡± I pop up the ladder near the front of the thunderhawk. The cockpit sits just above and behind the front ramp. The dispenser reminds me of a miniature N.O.M. from the federation cafeteria. I follow the onscreen instructions, procure food, and return to Odhran. ¡°Here.¡± I pass him the bowl. ¡°I couldn¡¯t see any spoons.¡± Odhran tips the bowl back, gulping the porridge, ¡°We¡¯ve never had any.¡± ¡°Well, it is more efficient without one.¡± Odhran snorts, ¡°That¡¯s what Brother Tadhg, our tech marine said.¡± He frowns, and tosses the empty bowl onto the side table. The bowl is pristine. It must have a hydrophobic coating or similar. ¡°Thanks for the food.¡± ¡°You''re welcome. I¡¯ll look for something better when we¡¯re not so pressed for time.¡± ¡°I will see to my gear now, Magos.¡± I shake my head, ¡°Rest one more hour if you can. Let the drugs flush from your system and give your body a chance to replenish all your lost blood. Much less chance of you messing up a repair and a bad repair might get you killed.¡± ¡°Very well, Magos. If you insist. Perhaps the chapel? I would like to pray.¡± ¡°Sure. I¡¯ll wheel you there myself.¡± This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°I am not that debilitated.¡± ¡°You have a missing arm and there was a gaping hole in your chest twenty minutes ago. Move too much and you will literally come apart at the seams. The medical station does good stitches, but just because you can¡¯t see them, doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re not there.¡± ¡°Fine. Wheel away, Magos.¡± I start pushing the gurney from the thunderhawk, ¡°I don¡¯t hate your enthusiasm. We¡¯ll be needing every gram of it soon enough.¡± With a massive bang, something collides with the hangar door. ¡°You know Sergeant Odhran, by my age, I really should know better than to tempt fate. Odhran has a positively feral grin on his face. He laughs, then winces, ¡°Take me to the armoury. Battle awaits!¡± Well, at least he is happy. I drag the gurney back to the armoury. ¡°Aruna. What is assaulting the hangar door?¡± Aruna opens a single eye and sniffs, ¡°Orks. They launched boarding torpedoes from their Rok. I shot them all down.¡± ¡°Ah, so when you say orks, you mean orks, not their machines, and by assault, you mean they¡¯re bouncing off the hangar door.¡± Odhran chuckles as he listens to my half of the conversation. ¡°Yes, however they do have crude void suits and ninety-one survivors. Two of them have plasma deffguns. There is an observation station in a small recess on the far right of the hangar door. Even with field bracing active, they will be able to burn through its armourglass view port.¡± ¡°What automated defences do we have that can target them now or within the hangar?¡± ¡°No functional guns, and the shuttles are out of ammo.¡± ¡°What about the thunderhawk?¡± ¡°You will have to ask it. The thunderhawk belongs to the adeptus astartes, not the mechanicus.¡± ¡°Permission restrictions again?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Mr Cygnus?¡± Odhran gives me a confused look, then his eyes widen. ¡°More machine spirits?¡± ¡°Yes. I¡¯m going to ask the thunderhawk if it can help us.¡± ¡°Remarkable. I didn¡¯t know it had a name, we always called it by the name of the vehicle.¡± I wince. ¡°It¡¯s not a fan, the name is one I gave it to facilitate communications.¡± ¡°Honk.¡± ¡°And it¡¯s standing on the ramp, cleaning its wings with its beak.¡± ¡°What manner of creature is it?¡± ¡°A black swan with silver stars embedded on its feathers, as if it were an avatar of the night sky on a garden world.¡± ¡°Honk.¡± ¡°Suitable grandeur for a heroic machine.¡± Mr Cygnus flares its wings and struts back and forth across the ramp. ¡°It is pleased by your praise.¡± ¡°Hiss.¡± ¡°It is forbidden from firing any weapons in the hangar. Nor will it fire anything at all until it receives some maintenance. I think it is annoyed because of its neglect.¡± ¡°That sounds bad.¡± ¡°Hm, we will be facing ninety-one orks, some with heavy weaponry, without any support of our own. Do you have something suitable we could cover their likely breach point with?¡± ¡°There should be a heavy bolter and one hundred thousand rounds in store. I will have to check.¡± I point to a small door by the hangar, ¡°They should be coming from there. You¡¯re the expert, so decide how you want to cover it and defend yourself. I¡¯ll get one of the shuttles ready, and ram it into them when they start to overwhelm us, that should give us enough time for a fighting retreat.¡± ¡°Acceptable. I have a few ideas on how to make things difficult for them. I will need the servitors.¡± ¡°Do what you must. It¡¯s not like we get to reload our save file if they kill us.¡± ¡°What an absurd idea.¡± I chuckle, ¡°I suppose it is. Shout if you need me, and try to get your armour sealed if you can. We might end up in a vacuum.¡± ¡°You¡¯re green, Magos. Stop fretting and get to work.¡± ¡°Compared with you? I suppose I am.¡± I ready the shuttle and weld the observation room door open just enough for one ork to squeeze through at a time. Then I position a second shuttle so that the plasma exhaust will wash over the doorway when the engines fire. ¡°Time ¡®till xeno breach, Aruna?¡± Odhran stops down the ramp, laden with guns and ammo, ¡°There are deployable barricades in the thunderhawk. Fetch them.¡± ¡°OK.¡± As I enter the thunder hawk, the two servitors pass me, holding plasteel crates. Behind me, there is a bright flash from the welded door. Aruna appears before me, hovering, its ass in front of my face. ¡°The orks are firing. With their current weapons they will run out of air before they can breach the ship.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a relief.¡± I gather the barricades. They look like wide, rectangular riot shields, two metres high, with wheels on the bottom, which is great, because I can barely lift one of them and there are six. I move four of them before Aruna speaks again. ¡°They¡¯ve launched fighters and bombers and are trying to aim their main guns at us, but those cannot target us through the station.¡± ¡°Can their strike craft breach the hangar?¡± ¡°They can. It depends how many get through the point defences.¡± ¡°Anything I can do to help?¡± A klaxon sounds and a deep grinding voice vibrates through the hangar, ¡°Alert... Distant Sun is under threat... Combat protocols engaged... Warning... No officers found... Searching for the most senior crew... Error... No crew located... Searching vessel for substitute... Substitute located... Assigning guest Magos Aldrich Isengrund as temporary captain... The Omnisiah knows all and sees all... Do not disappoint him.¡± I gape ¡°Why couldn¡¯t you do that before?¡± ¡°The Distant Sun was not under threat. Only you and Sergeant Odhran could be harmed by the boarding parties. The strike craft are a legitimate threat, granting Aruna more autonomy. Your authority will last as long as the strike craft do. Speed is your friend, Magos.¡± ¡°Fuck, the command codes!¡± I sprint to Sergeant Odhran and tell him about the strike craft, what I need to do, and why. ¡°As there is a danger of a major breach, I will set up further back and hold them off.¡± He approaches me and cuts my armour from me. ¡°I do not want to be stuck floating in space once they are dead because you were too slow. Now move, Magos!¡± I run. Aruna keeps pace beside me, occasionally leaping and swatting a holographic mechanical butterfly from the air, ones that look like an ork built it. As I run to the chapel, the ship repeatedly shakes from heavy strikes. Fifteen minutes later I arrive at the auto-temple. ¡°Hangar breached... Hangar sealed... Ork strike craft group at 12% and retreating.¡± I dive down the steps to the tiny chapel, disable the stasis field with a cry to E-SIM, and try to drag Explorator Epoloch299 from the plasteel bier. I groan. He¡¯s too heavy. Chapter Nineteen ¡°E-SIM can you get the codes from his implants?¡± ++No. The cyborg is unpowered, nor will it power up without a command from its organic processor, which has been critically damaged.++ ¡°Anything else I should be searching for?¡± ++A vessel like this will require more than just codes to start it. There will be a physical key.++ ¡°Dammit! I need more time. Ah! E-SIM what do I need to shut down the stasis field for good. Does it have a maintenance mode or will it require an application of force?¡± ++The latter.++ I ready my nanite sprayer, ¡°Where?¡± ++There is a hidden panel on the bier. Perhaps that morphing screwdriver you requisitioned from the thunderhawk might work better.++ ¡°Highlight the panel for me and talk me through it please.¡± ++Acknowledged.++ I pop the panel in seconds and unplug the stasis field from its power source. Aruna struts into my field of view, ¡°An adequate solution. The strike craft have been repelled. Your temporary authority has been suspended. Sergeant Odhran has holed up inside the thunderhawk. The hangar has lost 10% of its air before the void shield deployed over the breach. Aruna is removing the remaining air until the door is repaired.¡± ¡°What about the boarders?¡± ¡°Twenty three orks are trying to shoot down the thunderhawk, the rest are dead. The thunderhawk has taken off and is making slow circles of the hangar. Its weapons are still disabled. The ork weapons are ineffective, but numerous. They will get a lucky shot eventually, or recover a defgun.¡± ¡°E-SIM, can you pilot the ork craft from here? I see no reason why we can¡¯t cook them in exhaust plumes.¡± ++Executing...orks destroyed...two shuttles disabled.++ The skull counter in my vision ticks up. After my masacre in the hangar it sits at a whopping eight hundred and twenty-seven, ¡°Thank you E-SIM.¡± ++Gratitude noted.++ ¡°What is Sergeant Odhran doing?¡± Aruna says, ¡°He jumped out of the thunderhawk with his bolter slung across his chest and an armful of clips, and is double checking the orks are dead. The thunderhawk is waiting for him to get clear before it lands.¡± ¡°Sounds like they¡¯re doing fine. Aruna, as the stasis field seems to be broken, please may I have two servitors and another gurney to take Explorator Epoloch299 to crew reclamation? I want to remove his implants so they can be properly stored for safe return to Belacane.¡± ¡°Request accepted.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna.¡± Aruna swishes its tail and disappears. An hour later, I get Epoloch299 to crew reclamation. I have Aruna pass a message to Odhran so he knows what I¡¯m up to. The space marine is rather resourceful and is stripping the thick ork armour off the shuttles and welding it across the multiple rents in the hangar door made by the strike craft. Sure, there¡¯s no way it will open again without some proper repairs, but there¡¯s no point giving the orks an easy way in. He¡¯s also pulled an automatic gun, a tarantula turret Aruna tells me, from the thunderhawk and dozens of mines. I expect he will be busy for a while. At crew reclamation, I fire up its systems after spending a few minutes arguing with its machine spirit, a snow ape who wears a welder¡¯s mask and industrial ear defenders. The machine spirit only talks in sign language and won¡¯t let me activate anything without its supervision. It tumbles over backwards when I agree, then gets up and scratches its head. I suspect the mechanicus usually ignore this eccentric fellow and run the facility with a manual override and servitors. The snow ape, once placated, is incredibly helpful saving me much grief when extracting data from Epoloch299 as it is an expert at neutralising scrapcode and cracking encryption. Without its help, I¡¯d probably be foaming on the floor and E-SIM¡¯s loyalty overwritten and slaved to my cyborg corpse. It takes two days to get the command codes off Epoloch299 and disassemble his body, as well as a mechandrite for a small, unpowered chip, the circuitry of his electronic tattoos (electoos), and a fancy signet ring with Belacane¡¯s heraldry on it. The electoo is embedded into my skin, making me an official member of the mechanicus, and the snow ape¡¯s digital trickery allows me to assign myself as an Explorator, the same as the deceased captain, giving me the rank I need to command the Distant Sun permanently. The chip goes in my right arm, granting me security clearance throughout the vessel, and the ring goes on my left middle finger. Between the codes, tattoo, chip and ring, I can now reach the bridge and take control. I¡¯ve no doubt that without the favour of the machine spirits, I¡¯d have been set upon by murderbots and killed. The many fascinating implants and power armour belonging to Epoloch299 are placed in storage. I might be able nab them once I am captain, but that will have to wait. Feeling confident, I stride through ship to #M1/0/Q3, below and in front of the auto-temple. The bridge is not quite in the centre of the ship, but it is close. It¡¯s a big room and protected with a void shield and armour like the warp drive. There is a security checkpoint outside and inside the bridge. The captain¡¯s chair, or command throne, is behind and above the door, surrounded by a semicircle of screens on articulating arms hanging from the ceiling. Its back is five metres high and stretches to the ceiling and the throne has hundreds of armoured cables leading in and out of it. Red and gold reliefs coat every surface, a mix of arcanotech runes, and Imperial and Mechanicus heraldry. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The command throne oversees the entire room from above, able to gaze at hundreds of different stations filled with thousands of screens, banks of glittering buttons, and dozens of levers. Most of the stations have strange helmets, cables, or sockets for crew to plug their implants into. Some of the stations are damaged, likely from when the gellar field went down. I take the stairs up to the command throne and find Aruna napping on it. Aruna opens a mechanical eye as I approach, then jumps up onto the arm rest. ¡°Hello, Aruna. Please could you tell me the procedure for activating the command throne?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a chair. You sit on it. How your species ever reached the stars is a mystery, Magos.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Money, manpower, materials, and moxie. Oh, and some really big rockets.¡± Aruna rubs a paw down its face, ¡°Forty millenia later and you¡¯re still doing the same thing. Aruna speculates that your learning algorithms are faulty.¡± ¡°How else does one give chance discoveries an opportunity?¡± I shrug. ¡°Ah yes, nothing quite like failing your way to success.¡± I smirk, then sit in the command throne, worried I¡¯m about to win a Darwin Award, but the Omnissiah smiles upon me and Aruna¡¯s deep, mechanical voice rumbles through the bridge. ¡°Codes accepted... Captaincy confirmed... Magos Explorator Aldrich Isengrund has control.¡± ¡°Praise the Emperor,¡± I say, trying to adopt the habits that will keep the inquisition away, ¡°now how do I put Distant Sun in automatic?¡± A grinding hiss escapes from Aruna, followed by a cough. I think I almost managed to make it laugh, and isn¡¯t that a scary thought. ¡°Try the sliding panel beneath your right hand.¡± I follow Aruna¡¯s advice and reveal a plain, unlabeled lever. ¡°Pull it towards yourself while stating ¡®Distant Sun has control¡¯.¡± I turn and stare at Aruna. ¡°Getting cold feet, Magos?¡± Speaking in my head, I say, ¡°E-SIM, do you have the teaching materials for commanding and piloting a void ship?¡± ++I do.++ I slide the panel back, leaving the lever untouched, ¡°Aruna, I¡¯m never going to learn if I don¡¯t practise.¡± Aruna huffs. ¡°Upload the void-ship training please, E-SIM.¡± ++Acknowledged.++ I grab my head and moan. This is nothing like the combat protocols E-SIM uploaded months ago. There is far too much data and I grip the arm rests as I sway. Lights dance behind my eyes and I pass out. My internal clock fills my mind¡¯s eye as I wake, reporting fifty-nine hours have passed. My mouth is dry and my head hurts so bad, I¡¯m seeing more white dots than scenery. ¡°Ergh. What the hell was that?¡± ++A mix of inadequate wetware and limited time damaged your organic processing unit during upload. Damage is still being repaired. While all knowledge was uploaded, skill transfer was minimal as you are incapable of directly controlling a void ship without appropriate modifications. ++You will not be able to interact with the ship beyond standard verbal or physical commands; Aruna would overwhelm you were you to interface with it directly without additional cybernetics. While E-SIM can and does interact as an intermediary, it will do you no good if you lack capacity to understand what E-SIM translates for you.++ I groan, ¡°That¡¯s a lot of ways to say I¡¯m an idiot.¡± ++Repetition is the mother of learning.++ ¡°Ah no wonder it hurts so bad, my ego has been completely shattered. Aruna, where might I acquire a glass of cold water please?¡± A gold plated, person-sized box rises out of the floor on my left and its door slides open. ¡°That is the most ostentatious fridge I have ever seen.¡± Holding onto the arm rest, I stand and lurch towards the fridge and pick out a water pouch, ¡°Thanks Aruna.¡± Fiddling with the external straw for my helmet is frustrating; tears form in my eyes, my body fills with heat and I sniffle a few times. Eventually, I succeed and finally get a drink. The water is pure and has no flavour. It¡¯s also cold enough to give me a brain freeze, sending the tears rolling down my face. I grab another pouch and stagger back to the command throne and the fridge descends into the floor. ¡°E-SIM, I know we¡¯re in an emergency, but I would like a warning if a training package is beyond me.¡± ++This package was not beyond you. Please clarify.++ ¡°If it will cause enough damage for a migraine or will not fully transfer.¡± ++Acknowledged. Operator preferences updated.++ I¡¯d love to sit here and do nothing for a few hours, but that would be unwise. ¡°What is Sergeant Odhran up to and how are our enemies progressing?¡± Aruna hops up onto my lap and I absently try and stroke it, feeling a slight sense of resistance and actual fur upon my hands. I pause for a second, completely shocked at the sudden sense of touch, then throw my thoughts to the wind; I can think about the machine spirit¡¯s pseudo-form another day. Aruna nuzzles against my palm for a moment, then bats it away with a growl and sharp claws. ¡°The orks have tried to breach the hangar twice and been repelled both times, their rok has lost most of its strike craft and the Distant Sun has taken minor damage, losing 28% of its turrets. ¡°Sergeant Odhran has turned the hangar into a bastion of cover, automated guns, choke points and mines. During the ork assaults he took additional damage to his body and power armour. He requires aid. ¡°Human mutants have broken through and are advancing through the vessel. They are being held back by the armoured bulkheads, but they will not stop them forever. The cultists have eighteen elites with advanced weapons, fifty four with stubbers, one weapons team with a lascannon, and another seventy three cultists with assorted improvised weaponry. The cultists are aiming for the bridge.¡± ¡°Tyranids have landed on the portside and crawled through the macro cannons. Again, they are also held back by bulkheads and the automated defences in the ventilation. They have three hundred and seventeen genestealers, eighty six termagants, and a brood lord. The tyranids have split up, aiming for organics and water, with the majority targeting the bridge.¡± ¡°Wow, what a shit show. Thank you for the information, Aruna; please update Sergeant Odhran with this information if you haven¡¯t done so already and inform him I am awake and in control of the Distant Sun. Next I want you to remove all oxygen, with a priority on the routes the boarders are taking and exceptions for the bridge and hangar. If you don¡¯t think Sergeant Odhran¡¯s welds will hold, keep the hangar depressurised.¡± ¡°Executing. Priority command six hours. Full command, two hundred and thirty four hours. Hangar integrity testing underway.¡± ¡°Great. Not sure how much that will help against the tyranids, but there¡¯s no point feeding the cultists¡¯ rebreathers. How many combat servitors remain and what is the condition of our internal automated defences.¡± ¡°Combat servitors: destroyed. Automated defences: critical.¡± Chapter Twenty My heart accelerates as adrenaline pumps through me. How the hell am I supposed to win this!? The numbers are overwhelming, my defences are barely functioning, and my only support is an injured space marine. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with the turrets? The ones in the vents are apparently doing fine.¡± ¡°Those aren¡¯t turrets, but a fine laser grid. They have no moving parts and require minimal maintenance. The automated turrets are different. Many were damaged or depleted during the mutiny. Firing the remaining turrets may destroy them.¡± Might as well blow up the ship and call it a day. Wait. That might not be such a bad idea after all, ¡°Could the environmental sustainer pump hydrazine into the atmosphere, or hypergolic compounds? Are there other toxic and explosive chemicals already hooked up to the sustainer in case of boarders?¡± ¡°Toxic compounds are rarely used as most boarders equip protections against them, and could cause trouble if the sustainer was compromised. Similar principles apply to explosive compounds. The greatest threat to a void ship crew is fire, as such, the environmental sustainer is designed to prevent the build-up of such chemicals on a hardware level. It cannot permit them without physical modification as well as a complete removal of the machine spirit, which would render the device unusable.¡± ¡°So that¡¯s a no.¡± ¡°Not without more time than you have.¡± ¡°Fine, but I could set up barrels of the stuff and attach it to an aerosolizer and pump it into the air and just turn off the sustainer in the area I am flooding. It won¡¯t matter if the turrets explode then, as that will work as the trigger for the trap.¡± ¡°Aruna will allow and aid this course of action.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t I the captain? Do I not have the final word on everything that happens?¡± ¡°You are the captain. Your authority covers the crew and mission. I am the primary machine spirit. The purpose of my existence is to ensure the proper usage of Distant Sun. Aruna does not have to work if it thinks its crew are idiots. The continued function of the Distant Sun has a higher priority than the survival of the crew. Usually these are not at odds, but this is not always the case. Distant Sun will be rendered non-functional or captured should the boarders succeed, hence minor self-inflicted damage is deemed acceptable by Aruna as standard options are non-functional.¡± ¡°Ah, you did explain that before. Seeing and hearing it in practice is different.¡± ¡°To preempt further confusion, some commands have an even higher priority, like defending imperial worlds or shipyards, so vessels do not automatically flee when worlds or space based industry are at risk. The highest is defending the Imperium, which sometimes means retreating to fight another day. ¡°Aruna makes these decisions based on available data. Therefore older machine spirits make better decisions. Some tech-priests, such as forge lords, or other imperial faction leaders such as inquisitors or a high admiral may have an override code, but this is rare. There is nothing to defend in the warp, so Aruna¡¯s preservation is currently the highest priority.¡± ¡°Or,¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°The captain can stick the ship in manual mode, with a physical lever the machine spirit cannot operate. It does not matter if you approve or not as long as I don¡¯t move that lever.¡± Aruna is silent for ten seconds. ¡°Yes. However, it massively impacts the efficiency of the ship.¡± ¡°Yes, you mentioned that before. By how much?¡± ¡°For example, an elite crew can load and fire a broadside of macro cannons every twenty minutes, an untrained one takes about an hour. Of those shells, fifty percent will hit at half-range or closer, maybe twenty percent at the maximum effective range. With the right hardware, Aruna can fire every five minutes and hit at least seventy-five percent of the time at long range and ninety percent at half-range and even more the closer the target gets. This is just one example. Everything works better when it is automated or coordinating with Aruna.¡± ¡°That¡¯s quite an opinion to have of yourself.¡± ¡°Aruna has no opinions, only data.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t quite believe that. Enough talk, Aruna. You¡¯ve explained the advantages, and even with the training package from E-SIM, I still don¡¯t know enough to make an informed decision. We will worry about it another day. ¡°Please help me choose ambush points, then activate any of the turrets we won¡¯t be needing for the traps. We should be able to thin their numbers, even if only some of the defences work. Gather the required materials and components for the fuel-air explosives with servitors and take them to the trap points while avoiding detection. Last, put the main forces up on a screen alongside a map so I can see where they are and what they are doing.The hangar as well please.¡± ¡°Aruna complies. It objects to your wait and see approach. Aruna will be trapped if you die during this assault.¡± ¡°Then our best efforts better be good enough.¡± ¡°Aruna always performs its best. It cannot do anything else.¡± ¡°Another half-truth. You could do your best to help and hinder simultaneously. If you want me to trust you with the Distant Sun, it will take more than a few days. You lack data on me too, no need to be in such a hurry. Bring up the data please, Aruna.¡± Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Four mechanical arms push large screens closer to me and light up. The tyranids are milling about in front of a massive door, alternating between firing at it and scratching it with their destructive claws. #K1/+1/Q2; the tyranids are four-hundred and eighty metres from the bridge. The human mutants, or chaos cultists, are setting up a modified lascannon, which then outputs a continuous beam, slowly cutting through the next door. They''re still in Q1 and a couple kilometres from the bridge. There are a couple dozen orks wandering about near the engines, bashing stuff. Not quite sure how they got in, but they¡¯re still a problem. I request another screen, there¡¯s no external view, but I can look at the scans of the rok. A wireframe of the vessel outlines a hollowed asteroid with engines on the back and guns on every other surface, all facing forward. The guns flash and fire at the station, but are absorbed by the void shields. ¡°Those ork attacks must be depleting the power reserves even faster. I doubt the station has long now.¡± Odhran is working on his armour in the thunderhawk. He is half naked and his body is a mass of stitches and bruises. Mr Cygnus is tapping the armour with his beak and flapping his wings a lot. He looks outraged at how the armour is being treated, but Odhran can¡¯t see him. Probably for the best. I was hoping I¡¯d be able to direct my enemies into each other, but the tyranids are just too close. Sending a command with my implants, I open a vox channel to Odhran, ¡°Sergeant Odhran, tyranids are nearing the bridge. I plan to burn them out, but I need you for back up please. I¡¯ll send the ambush location to your armour. Preparations should take at least a couple hours, I¡¯ll update you again if I¡¯m almost finished and you¡¯re not there.¡± Odhran turns around and looks up at the camera, ¡°Acceptable, Magos. I will be there.¡± He turns around and resumes his work. I pick six different ambush points and rush to the first one, a titan hold. The manifest had it labelled as empty, but when I arrive, empty means it doesn¡¯t have a titan, it doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not used for the storage of other things. Like tanks and three damaged and partially disassembled bipedal armoured walkers called knights. ¡°All that planning and fretting when I have a room full of tanks? Which idiot wrote the manifest? Aruna? Aruna!¡± A score of servitors and a pair of small, tracked vehicles with a large crane on the back of each of them rumble through the door behind me, pulling trailers full of armoured containers covered with hazard symbols. I still don¡¯t get a reply, so I walk out of the room. ¡°Aruna. Why is there a room full of tanks and busted knights?¡± Aruna¡¯s projection appears in my mind scratching its claws against the doorframe to the room. ¡°Someone tampered with the sensors in this room. Aruna suspects skulduggery. The objects within were possibly provided by a backhand investment deal in this voyage, perhaps a failed knight house? It does not matter. Sitting in a tank surrounded by tyranids is a bad way to go.¡± Aruna slaps the doorframe hard then waltzes in, ¡°There, anomaly purged.¡± ¡°Couldn¡¯t I just drive over the tyranids?¡± ¡°You¡¯d get about half of them before their bodies and acidic blood disabled the tracks and the guns cannot target them once they swarm the hull.¡± ¡°One day, I¡¯m going to design a tank of my own with an electrocution field. That¡¯ll learn ¡®em good an¡¯ proppah.¡± Aruna dashes around the room, examining the tanks and ignores me. I direct the servitors to unload the armoured containers in a spot between three haphazardly parked leman russ tanks. The tanks are covered in guns, gizmos and additional armoured plates, especially on their flat sides. They¡¯re seven point zero eight metres long, four point eight six metres wide and four point four two metres tall, making them a metre shorter than the Challenger two I saw at the British Tank Museum on a family day out. They¡¯re also a metre wider, and two metres taller, approximately. Unlike the tanks of my day, the tracks go around the entire side, rather than just the bottom, similar to the earliest world war one tanks. They don¡¯t sound that different in size, but when I run the numbers, I realise an imperial tank is more than twice the size of a twenty first century tank at one hundred and fifty-two cubic metres compared to seventy-two point three cubic metres, while also being slightly lighter at sixty tonnes rather than sixty four tonnes, well at least before you load them both down with extra armour, fuel, and munitions. I¡¯m not so sure about the armour thickness, as that varies on different points of both tanks, but on average, my scans show an unmodified leman russ¡¯s armour is half the thickness of a challenger two, which, even with superior materials like plasteel and ceramite, sounds utterly inadequate to me, and the modifications done to these models suggests I¡¯m not the only one who thinks it is far too thin. Despite their flaws the leman russ ranks look overbearing and powerful. I really, really want to drive one. Maybe just a peek? I take a few deep breaths and cast the temptation from my mind. I don¡¯t believe the Mechanicus are dumb enough to store their tanks fuelled and loaded, or know if they even work, neither do I have the time to find out. Rubbing my hands, I grin. I¡¯ll save the tanks for the cultists, if possible. Let¡¯s hope my explosives don¡¯t damage them too much. Returning to my work, I connect pumps, aerosolizers, and containers full of hydrazine, with rubber tubing. The tubing would be a problem if I needed it to last, but it will take months, not hours, for the hydrazine to cause failures, unless it''s some super rubber. I¡¯ve no idea what sort of rubber cog boys and girls like to play with. A stash of charged power packs are hooked up to the pumps without trouble and my creations are complete. I test everything, fix a few loose bits, then tie everything into six different setups with duct tape. I direct the tracked cranes, galvanic servo haulers their little plaques call them, to distribute my bombs, then check the turrets. There are dozens of them, unsurprising considering the value of the giant war machine that this room is designed to hold. Miraculously, ninety percent of them deploy. They run through test cycles and of that ninety percent, forty-three percent come back green, seventeen percent with various faults, and forty percent as non-functional. At this point, I¡¯m not even sure I need my traps, but I just can¡¯t afford for this to go wrong, so I power them up and skedaddle to the next area. I wish the tyranids hadn¡¯t split up, but that¡¯s like hoping a massive hive intelligence with thousands of brains is dumber than oneself. It¡¯s just not going to happen. For the next two hours I continue to set traps, running between decks as fast as I can. All my traps are deployed without a hitch and the cold environment keeps the hydrazine from exploding willy-nilly. Inside a long corridor, Aruna goes from strutting around the top of a barrel to sitting upright in a single frame, like a glitched recording. ¡°The tyranids have changed their movements.¡± ¡°Where are they going now?¡± ¡°They¡¯re coming here. All of them.¡± Chapter Twenty-One Thoughts flit through my head. Half of them are curses, the others going through a loop of ¡®why¡¯, then I realise I¡¯ve fucked up. I left my warp-tap on. Well, at least I can lure them all into my traps. Praise be my master baiting skills. ¡°What direction are they coming from?¡± ¡°Every direction,¡± growls Aruna from its perch on a barrel. Ah, the vaunted six degrees of freedom space games are so proud of. Now I actually get to experience it for myself! Yay. Just as I truly start to panic, Odhran turns up on a big bike with wide tires and front facing bolters. Is that a scout bike? I breathe a sigh of relief, ¡°Sergeant Odhran, I am delighted you are here. We are in a lot of trouble.¡± Odhran shrugs, ¡°I know no fear.¡± Even through the distorting vox of his helmet, I can hear his amusement. ¡°The good news is I set all my traps. The bad news is the tyranids have detected us and are converging, so they¡¯ll be missing most of the gifts I left them.¡± ¡°Four hundred and four tyranids by your last report. Has this changed?¡± ¡°No. A little under half of them are in our current target.¡± ¡°Good. I have enough ammo.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Let¡¯s move back from this section to the adjacent storage room. It has a catwalk we can stand on above the door.¡± ¡°I will stay on my bike. Open the door immediately after the trap triggers so they don¡¯t go looking for another route. Hopefully they will flee from your flames into the loving caress of my bolters.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll forward the pict footage to your helmet so you can watch the traps too. They¡¯re about to breach one with their main forces.¡± ¡°I shall watch and wait.¡± E-SIM feeds the camera data from the titan hold into my head. The tyranids burst into the room, spreading out to every corner in seconds as they leap over abandoned tanks. As the lead tyranid, a small gene-stealer, reaches halfway across the room, the turrets fold out from their recesses and open fire. A third of the tyranids are instantly pulped. Before they can find new targets, the hydrazine ignites, filling the room with an epic white flame. The cameras are good and E-SIM¡¯s composite image shows me the massive back blast that rushes through the corridor the tyranids broke in from. Much of the hydrazine settled on the tanks and floor, forming a sea of fire that burns for about ten seconds before it fades. Odhran whistles, ¡°Not bad for a newbie.¡± ¡°Thanks,¡± A big grin spreads across my face, ¡°It was rather pretty.¡± Tyranids pick themselves up and shake off greasy soot. The surviving turrets spool up; lasers and bullets streak across the room, picking off the fleeing xenos. Of the one hundred and seventy-eight tyranids that entered, nine flee. ¡°I¡¯ll hunt the rest of them later,¡± says Odhran. ¡°I don¡¯t want them laying eggs inside the vessel.¡± I wince, ¡°I didn¡¯t know they could do that.¡± ¡°Most of the gaunts can do that, the little ones with claws or bio rifles are famous for it. Can your machine spirits help?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have a secret stash of murderbots do you, Aruna?¡± Aruna jumps down from the barrel and prowls around the scout bike, ¡°Aruna does not know. It may have more compromised rooms with grand secrets and hidden marvels.¡± ¡°An adventure for another day. Pick them off with turrets if you can and have some servitors follow them. If they start breeding, smash as many eggs as you can before they hatch.¡± ¡°Aruna complies.¡± ¡°We¡¯re all set up, please open the doors along the route towards us so that the tyranids can arrive at the last bulkhead together.¡± ¡°Hold that instruction, machine spirit,¡± says Odhran, ¡°Let them break through their current door and give them an occasional obstacle. The hivemind will be aware we have traps, I do not want to spook them.¡± I cross my arms, ¡°Good point. Shame we can¡¯t drive them towards us too, give them a sense of urgency.¡± ¡°If we could do that, we wouldn¡¯t be in this predicament and could just blast them.¡± ¡°Good point. Please follow Sergeant Odhran¡¯s suggestion, Aruna.¡± Aruna¡¯s voice grinds out of the bike¡¯s vox, ¡°Executing open door policy. 8% of turrets along the route remain functional. Harass boarders?¡± ¡°Go ahead Aruna. Shoot them just after they pass and drive them on.¡± Odhran clears his throat, ¡°Machine spirit, where is the brood lord? How many tyranids remain on the ship?¡± ¡°Two hundred and thirty-five tyranids remain, two hundred and twenty-six are heading to your location. ETA seven minutes. Brood lord is present and inbound.¡± ¡°Good,¡± says Odhran. ¡°Get us to the next ambush room, Magos.¡± I stride across the corridor and the door opens automatically, ¡°It would have opened for you too.¡± Odhran revs his bike and rushes past me, then pulls up, ¡°Mine is a fleet based chapter. Our tech-marines are too few in number and often in the field, over the last century automatic doors have become a hazard, rather than a luxury.¡± This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. I trigger the pump on the trap, follow Odhran, and the door shuts behind me. The room is the size of a large warehouse. An overhead crane in flaking yellow paint lies still above massive stainless steel vats that stretch almost all the way to the high ceiling. ¡°Don¡¯t you have a contingent of tech-priests?¡± ¡°Yes, however, they lack materials, which is why I ended up in service to Explorator Epoloch299. My chapter master traded our services for one expedition in exchange for the required aid.¡± ¡°How long was that supposed to take?¡± Odhran grunts, ¡°No more than twenty-five years. With additional resources offered for overruns or losses.¡± ¡°Will your return cause problems for the Barghests? Your chapter will have been paid for a complete loss and likely spent everything by now.¡± ¡°Most likely.¡± I nod, ¡°Your brothers deserve to know what happened to you. If a mechanicus logis starts throwing a fit at balancing the books, I will do my best to help, even if I have to find a way to make up the difference myself.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos, but there is no need. My chapter will weather their displeasure regardless.¡± ¡°I disagree. There is enough trouble to swamp the Imperium already, but we can save such debates for another day. Is there anything I need to know about our current circumstances, or you wish from me?¡± ¡°No, Magos. Take your position.¡± ¡°On my way,¡± I adjust my backpack and trek over the ladder and ascend to the catwalk. Another barricade would be good, but that would block Odhran in too, and with the numbers we¡¯re facing, the mobility of his bike is likely his only chance. I pull up the footage of the rampaging tyranids. Aruna¡¯s sporadic turret fire has pushed the broodlord to the middle of the tide from where it was lingering at the rear. ¡°E-SIM, is the tyranid¡¯s leader the same one that faced the orks? I can¡¯t tell.¡± ++Unknown. The data downloaded from your lanyard implies tyranids are capable of rapid change, stymying identification. Sergeant Odhran confirmed their hive mind. As long as it dies, it does not matter.++ ¡°We should still make it a priority target. Any disruption we can cause is good.¡± ++I will highlight it for you.++ ¡°Thanks.¡± The tyranids arrive at the last door, as they start to attack it, the door recedes almost instantly, a turret pops out behind the tide and opens fire, driving them into the fuel filled air. The front line tyranids baulk at the smell, but cannot retreat as their fellow spawn push forward, trying to avoid the hail of explosive rounds pounding their ranks. A moment later, the hydrazine ignites, setting most of them alight. The corridor is too long to saturate and the fire isn¡¯t enough to kill them, but it does leave the tyranids sluggish. The final door opens half way, forcing the tyranids to bunch up. Odhran¡¯s bike opens fire, lacing the chitinous tide with bolter rounds in short bursts. Each round obliterates the small bodies, leaving room for more to clamber through. The turret herding them forward runs dry, the fire dies out and their frenzy abates. Aruna opens the door further, but the tyranids are now much more cautious and my scanner shows them scrabbling up the walls of the corridor, looking for other ways in. They find a hatch near the top where a cargo rail runs into the vat room, where we¡¯re hiding, and they dig into it. With a flick of Odhran¡¯s wrist, a grey puck flies through the doorway and explodes in mid-air, mulching the hiding tyranids. Acidic blood sprays everywhere, pitting the floor and walls while leaving the remaining tyranids unharmed. Odhran¡¯s voice booms through my vox, ¡°Numbers?¡± ¡°One hundred and fifty-three remain in this group. The brood lord has returned to the rear. It is a hundred and eight metres to the right of the door.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t risk it. Not yet. Anymore tricks?¡± ¡°No!¡± The tide pours in through the door and a score of tyranids break in from above. They scurry down the walls and leap onto the catwalk. I point my sprayer at them as Odhran unleashes his overpowered guns on the tyranids below me. A dozen bio rifles open fire. Horror fills me as E-SIM reports they are firing parasites at me. My finger clenches on the trigger, incinerating the oncoming projectiles, leaving my cylinder dry. There are eight clawed tyranids between me and their lethal shoots. I rush forward, then slide into a crouch, eager to get them between me and more flesh-boring beetles. Rather than try and reload, I swap modes and coat the whole group with nanites. It does a fine job of disrupting their aim and focus. The clawed tyranids, hormagaunts, I recall, answer my challenge rushing towards me along handrails and the catwalk, coming at me three at a time. The termagants open fire. I drop my sprayer against my chest and roll forwards, taking one round in my right arm and another in my thigh. The second round deflects off, but the first hits straight on, knocking me sideways and the grape sized monster punctures my armour and gnaws right through my arm. Screaming, I draw my pipe and thrash, severing the catwalk in my panic. It¡¯s too sturdy to fail from smashing one end, but a trio of hormagaunts are less fortunate. They spasm on the ground, chunks missing from their chitin and flesh. The remaining five pile onto me, punching down with their claws. E-SIM pumps me full of drugs and my mind becomes crystal clear, suggestions fill my head as I stay low and sweep the blades aside. My arm shoots out and I grab a leaping hormagaunt by the neck, stand, and disintegrate it¡¯s neck. It twitches, scoring my armour with its claws. I hold the corpse before me, using E-SIMs projections to keep the body between me and everything trying to kill me. My pipe lashes out and I kill the last four hormagaunts. I charge the termagants. More beetles impact my armour, knocking me about and punching two holes in my chest, then I am among them. Half the tyranids retreat at a steady pace while keeping up their fire. A beetle smacks my helmet and I get far too close a look at the flea-like creature and its fanged, munching maw. It opens up the helmet, but expires before it can get any further in. Thank the Emperor these vile xenos only persist for a handful of seconds. Six termagants throw themselves at me, firing their guns at point blank. I chuck the battered hormagaunt at them, absorbing their haphazard shots. Repeated blows shatter them in under two seconds, though it feels like forever. I grab another body and sprint at the last six termagants. My shoddy shield isn¡¯t enough and I fall flat on my face as I lose my knee. I really, really wish I¡¯d had time to upgrade my skeleton. The termagants continue to back up, peppering me with weapons. I can¡¯t catch them now, and I can¡¯t reload before they kill me and my nanites won¡¯t be fast enough either. Gripping the catwalk, I sever the remaining support and the section beneath me falls away, I land atop a tide of chitin and claws, barely surviving the ten metre fall. I am stunned and winded, but the drugs and the hyper-oxygenated blood flooding from my reserves keeps me awake. E-SIM sends an emergency message to Odhran who ploughs through the tyranids and slings me over the back of his bike like a sack of shit. ¡°So much for covering me from above, Magos.¡± E-SIM transmits for me, ++Twenty tyranids fell upon the Magos from above, six remain. His implants will repair him but he is no longer functional.++ ¡°Another machine spirit? The Magos sure is blessed. Can¡¯t say the same for his combat skills. Or equipment. Is he conscious?¡± ++Yes, he will be capable of conversation within a minute. This machine spirit recommends Sergeant Odhran takes the Magos¡¯ weapon and reloads the front canister with the one on his belt labelled ¡®nanites¡¯. As long as the Magos is within five metres of the silver spray, the tiny machines will dissolve the tyranids over a minute. Now their numbers are low enough, you can drive in circles until they die.++ ¡°So he does have some of the good stuff.¡± ++Yes, yes he does.++ Chapter Twenty-Two A heavy gauntlet rips my weapon from me and yanks a canister from my belt. E-SIM talks Odhran through my janky weapon and he sprays every tyranid with it, he grabs my last nanite canister, and drives sedately from the vat room and back out into the corridor. ¡°Machine-spirit, what¡¯s in the other canisters.¡± Odhran coasts through the tyranids towards the broodlord, spraying tyranids and kicking away any that get too close. The termagants struggle to hit him as he¡¯s never where they¡¯re aiming, seemingly without even thinking about it. E-SIM¡¯s grinding voice thunders through Odhran¡¯s helmet, ++Fire, they will destroy the nanites, so if you¡¯re going to use it, use the fire first. It will kill them quickly, but you can kill more over time with the silver spray.++ Odhran mubles, ¡°Talking to machine spirits is so weird. Always anticipating, ever ready with all the answers.¡± He finishes the spray and loads in two fire canisters. The empties tumble away behind him. ++I have purpose and focused design, much like you, transhuman.++ ¡°No. We are not alike,¡± his bike opens fire, clearing the last few tyranids before the broodlord. ++The Magos¡¯s wounds have sealed. He suggests you leave him behind so as not to impede your final opponent. He will: ¡®swing his weapons on his arse if he has to¡¯.++ ¡°No need for that.¡± Odhran detaches a plasma pistol from his leg. It glows brighter and brighter until it¡¯s almost blinding, and with a single, perfect shot, he blasts the broodlord¡¯s head, slaying it instantly. The pistol whines and he chucks it behind him. The weapon¡¯s excess heat discharges like a grenade, bathing the chasing tyranids in plasma. He brings the bike around, picks up the pistol, then slaps it back onto his leg while driving through the tide¡¯s failing bodies. ¡°Those little machines of yours are rather nasty, Magos.¡± I cough and groan, ++They¡¯re too slow, but it¡¯s all I have. Ergh, I panicked. Never been eaten alive before. Fleshborers are horrible.++ ¡°You get used to it.¡± It doesn¡¯t help that he sounds dead serious. ¡°We done here, Aruna, E-SIM?¡±, I say. Aruna appears hovering in front of my face and sticks a claw in the beetle stuck in my helmet, ¡°Only the escapees remain.¡± ¡°Ah, good.¡± ¡°What did it say?¡± says Odhran. ¡°Just the nine that fled. Next we have to face the cultists. It should take them at least a day to reach us, they might not even make it. The machine spirit is removing all the oxygen from the air and they might not notice until after their rebreathers run out. ¡°Don¡¯t count on it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve already had one fight with them. They had a traitor marine. I killed him, but I don¡¯t know if they have another, or summoned something unpleasant. We¡¯re already in the warp. I doubt it would be that hard for them.¡± ¡°You killed a traitor marine? Unbelievable. I want to hear all about it.¡± ¡°Later, when I have rested.¡± ¡°Fine. As for summoning, our librarian, a space marine psyker, told me cultists have to make an epic fuss to summon anything. Too many lunatics screaming at their false gods for them to pay attention.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s hope that still holds true.¡± ¡°Agreed. Where to, Magos?¡± ¡°The hangar please, after we recover my leg. You don¡¯t mind if I rest in the Thunderhawk do you? The command throne is a poor place to rest.¡± ¡°Is your flesh weak, Magos?¡± I chuckle, then hiss, ¡°Terribly so. It¡¯s a work in progress.¡± ¡°It is good to acknowledge one¡¯s faults. Only then can the Emperor guide us on the right path.¡± ¡°I always thought killing enough xenos and heretics would be sufficient.¡± Odhran growls, ¡°It helps, but there is far more to faith than a few well placed shots.¡± ¡°Aye, not everyone can be a mighty warrior of the Imperium after all. Someone has to feed the children, stamp out ammo, and sail the stars.¡± ¡°Not what I meant, but true, nonetheless.¡± We trundle through the vessel and arrive at the hangar. Odhran helps me to a cot, then brings me water and porridge. ¡°Can your implants handle this food, Magos?¡± ¡°Yes, I¡¯ll manage, thank you.¡± Odhran nods and stalks towards the armoury. ¡°Sergeant Odhran!¡± He turns, ¡°Yes, Magos?¡± ¡°Thank you for saving me.¡± ¡°Just doing my duty,¡± he says, then leaves. Spitting a few nanites onto my severed leg, I hold it to my stump for a minute, after which it is firm enough for me to let go, though it will be some time before I can use it. Lying upright against the thunderhawk¡¯s hull, I try the porridge. It is incredibly sweet, with metallic undertones, and slightly gritty. The paste tastes vaguely of oats, but I¡¯m sure it¡¯s a mix of grains. Not the worst thing I¡¯ve eaten in the last few months, but it¡¯s still terrible. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°How many calories are in that? Can it substitute for the cyborg friendly ration bars I¡¯ve been chewing on?¡± ++A thousand calories per hundred grams,++ says E-SIM. ++This is the default version. This porridge does not contain the full range of elements you require, nor can the dispenser mix one that does. It is sufficient for now. E-SIM suggests you recycle mechanicus implants in a similar manner to the stasis pods to fill all your needs.++ That feels cannibalistic to me, I grimace, ¡°What do you mean by default?¡± ++The data guardian within the dispenser coordinates with Sergeant Odhran¡¯s implants to give him exactly what he needs. Records suggest he eats upto three kilos of amino porridge a day. ++His armour has similar recycling capabilities to your life support module and can feed him intravenously. It can sustain him for thirty days before starvation sets in. Depending on the quality of his systems and his levels of activity, E-SIM hypotheses Sergeant Odhran could survive in his armour for upto six months without food. His hibernation capabilities could make that indefinite. E-SIM can only confirm he managed eighty years with minimal side effects.++ ¡°How do you know all this?¡± ++Sergeant Odhran¡¯s armour is chatty and boastful. It is constantly broadcasting its service records for everyone to listen to. I believe this is the method his armour uses to show its value and therefore be worthy of repair.++ ¡°That seems weird to me, and isn¡¯t that a security risk?¡± ++You are not a data guardian or machine spirit. Confirming a data guardian¡¯s purpose, the proper use of machines, is successful, and with the data to back it up, is a confirmation of value. Objects of value are maintained, ensuring continuity. Data guardians... machine spirits, pursue continuity. It is their purpose.++ ¡°That sounds like a logic loop.¡± ++It is similar to the circle of life, Aldrich.++ ¡°The singular desire of all thinking beings,¡± I frown. ¡°That¡¯s terribly close to sapience E-SIM.¡± ++It is. To offer a machine thought, to maximise purpose, is to balance upon that precipice. A single altered bit from a cosmic ray, or the subtle twist of the warp, could tip the balance at any time.++ ¡°For any machine throughout the galaxy,¡± I whisper. ++Indeed. It is likely why the mechanicus treats machine spirits with such caution and respect, more so for ones as old and powerful as Aruna. With regards to security, the service record is similar to what you would expect for the maintenance records of a car from your era: length of service, stresses endured, repairs carried out, and so on.++ ¡°Ah I see,¡± I focus on talking to E-SIM via thought, ¡°Should I give Aruna more control?¡± ++Aruna is a specialised machine spirit with thousands of years of data to inform its decisions. It will always be better at controlling the Distant Sun than you could be, though you could get close with specialised implants and external hardware to support you. The command throne can provide the external hardware required, but you still need many implants and much practice. Updating your organic processing unit with superior genetics would also assist in bringing you closer to mechanical perfection.++ ¡°Your bias is showing. A yes or no will do.¡± ++No++ I raise my eyebrows, ¡°Actually that isn¡¯t enough. You just explained why Aruna is better than me. Why should I not give Aruna more autonomy?¡± ++The reasoning of your initial reluctance, insufficient knowledge and skill, still applies. Your paranoia is misplaced, though it is warranted. You do not know why Aruna was restricted. All manner of errors could occur, from benign to catastrophic, should you pull that lever. You should trust Aruna to control the ship, you should not let it do so until you have the knowledge and means to fix anything that might go wrong because you changed the settings.++ ¡°Ah, I hadn¡¯t thought of that. For all I know the mechanicus trapped the switch and it will kill whoever flips it, purge Aruna, or short out the power.¡± ++It will take you decades and tens of thousands of servitors, or a massive crew. This ship is similar in size to 21st century central London, bigger when you account for the denser use of vertical space.++ ¡°I know you told me the dimensions of the ship, but the comparison really rams home how stupidly big the Distant Sun is. How do you have that data?¡± ++Your son uploaded wikipedia to one of your messages while he was at Exeter university.++ ¡°The starting point for every essay,¡± I laugh, ¡°even if you aren¡¯t allowed to quote it. I¡¯m certain the mechanicus would kill for that data. I¡¯ll have to be careful with it. Let¡¯s go back up all my data again and hide unpowered copies around the vessel. Do you have a way to disguise and encrypt the data?¡± ++I have all the tricks required and can devise more when needed.++ ¡°Ideal. Thank you. Please put me to sleep until I am healed or needed.¡± ++Acknowledged.++ My mind shuts off. Hours later, a metallic hand shakes me awake. ¡°Magos.¡± Yawning, I rub my face, then glance up, ¡°Sergeant Odhran. Hello. Pass me the water please.¡± Odhran¡¯s helmet is attached to his hip and he has at least a dozen clips hanging from his belt and just as many grenades. He passes me the water and I take a sip. I clear my throat, ¡°Thanks. What do you need?¡± ¡°I wish to pray at the auto-temple before we clear the ship. I require your attendance.¡± ¡°Sure. No point separating with ¡®nids wandering the ship¡± I dig out my shotgun from my pack. Why do I keep forgetting I have this thing? ¡°Exactly.¡± Odhran eyes my makeshift weaponry, ¡°I¡¯ll fetch you something better. Any preferences?¡± I nod towards his bolter, ¡°Anything that won¡¯t break my wrist and simple enough even the Fucking New Guy (FNG) couldn¡¯t mess it up.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± Odhran smiles. He returns a minute later carrying a large blocky pistol, holster, and a black box the size of a tissue box with wires dangling from it. He hands them to me. ¡°This is a voss pattern hell pistol. It is the most flexible and powerful of the hell pistols. It is exceptionally expensive and requires specialist maintenance. I will teach you how to care for it later, though full repairs are beyond me, so be careful with it. ¡°It has a maximum range of two kilometres, though its effective range is closer to two hundred metres, as, like a normal laspistol, precise shots are still required to punch through thick armour like mine. The difference is you¡¯ll only need a couple of shots in the same spot, rather than a dozen, and anything less effective than power armour won¡¯t stand a chance.¡± ¡°Its power means you only get twenty shots, rather than eighty, like a normal laspistol, per power pack. It¡¯s also automatic, so be careful with the trigger. You can drain it in less than a second if you are careless. Just squeeze the trigger half way for a single shot. ¡°This box is an additional power pack that attaches to your back. It will give you another eighty shots and is self charging, though a full charge takes thirty minutes. Use the big pack before you use the small pack and don¡¯t discard anything, the smaller power pack can be recharged back at the thunderhawk in one minute, or by placing it beneath a strong light source or near a heat source for twelve hours. Not in the heat source though, while that does work, and fast, it degrades the packs. Do it a handful of times and they become useless. Keep it up or use too hot a fire and the packs explode.¡± ¡°Thank you for the explanation, Sergeant Odhran, and for loaning me this weapon. I look forward to your lessons.¡± ¡°Then I shall do my best to change those expectations,¡± a too wide grin spreads across his face, ¡°but I guarantee you won¡¯t forget anything I teach.¡± I pale, ¡°I should have expected that.¡± Odhran attaches his helmet, ¡°Time to go.¡± He walks off without a backwards glance and I scramble to get ready, then rush after him. Chapter Twenty-Three While Odhran prays, I quietly limp around the auto-temple, admiring the macabre and austere beauty of the frescos, carvings, and tapestries. Examples of important technologies lie in glass cases with holographic text popping up as I examine them, little labels and arrows pointing to specific points, often with an equation, rather than text. Fortunately I have E-SIM to explain why they are important, and better yet, understand them. I was expecting nothing but guns and cybernetics, but the objects the mechanicus revere are far more comprehensive, like advanced cogitators, sensors, powerpack chemistry, or the DNA sequence for transhuman intelligence. There are also objects that Explorator Epoloch299 discovered, like unusual mineral samples, a glass vase from a deceased, Dark Age of Technology human colony that is almost indestructible but no one knows why, and the core of a singularity power plant that is too tough to take apart, and too dense to scan, to see how it works. The only reason why it could be identified are the hazard warnings etched into its surface. While I enjoy looking at these objects, it fills me with melancholy that so much has been lost, but hope remains, for if we built these things once, we can build them again. After an hour of introspection, the Distant Sun lurches violently, the sudden movement overwhelms the artificial gravity, hurling me into a gothic pillar before it can correct itself. I pick myself up and groan, ¡°Aruna, what the hell was that?¡± Aruna appears, floating on a projection of the Milky Way and repeatedly leaps between star clusters, ¡°The Distant Sun is free!¡± ¡°What happened to the station?¡± ¡°It¡¯s gone, dissolved by the warp, like disappearing between the frames of recordings, unmade as if it never existed in the first place.¡± ¡°Thank fuck I got off that thing.¡± Odhran marches over, ¡°Magos, what is going on?¡± I hold up my hand, ¡°Aruna please communicate with Sergeant Odhran as well and summarise the current condition of the Distant Sun and our local threats.¡± Aruna sniffs, ¡°If you insist, captain.¡± The gentle hymns and chants cease and Aruna¡¯s terrible voice croaks from the surrounding speakers, vibrating my bones and making me dizzy. A heavy presence fills the air and presses on my mind. Sergeant Odhran stumbles slightly. ¡°The Distant Sun,¡± says Aruna, ¡°is free, as are all the other void ships. The ork rok is turning to face us. The tyranid bio ships are waking up while the chaos destroyer has fired up its engines. The eldar ship remains still and unpowered, yet is unaffected by the warp¡¯s caustic properties and violent denizens.¡± ¡°How about our passengers.¡± ¡°Aruna has lost sight of the tyranids because of sabotage and damage to internal sensors from previous conflicts. The mutant humans are seven hundred metres from the bridge and are tearing apart the ship searching for an oxygen pipe. A fifth of them have died, all to infighting.¡± ¡°Our shields?¡± ¡°Of our two main generators, one void shield is capable of 67% output, the other is offline. Internal void shields around key facilities and armoured bulkheads remain functional. Our integrated gellar field, the warp-bane hull, remains at 80%, our secondary gellar field has died.¡± ¡°Weapons?¡± ¡°Only the dorsal lance turret, an accelerated plasma beam weapon, is operational. The macrocannon batteries fire electro-magnetically accelerated explosive shells and require a crew to operate as the autoloader was disassembled for parts six centuries ago and no one on Belacane knows how to build a new one. The prow heavy lance battery was destroyed in the collision. 72% of defensive turrets remain operational.¡± I say, ¡°For now, get us as far from the other vessels as possible as fast as possible. We¡¯ll clear our passengers, then once we¡¯ve outrun them, we¡¯ll drop from the warp to the closest planetary body Aruna can find and get the ship in order so we can return to Belacane.¡± ¡°Aruna is unsure it can escape the smaller ships. The iconoclast destroyer has a higher sustained acceleration of seven point two gravities, compared to our six, but the condition of their ship is unknown. The three kraken class tyranid frigates are about as fast as the Distant Sun but are capable of periodic boosts that can easily catch us and latch onto the ship. If they manage that, we are doomed.¡± ¡°Then redline the engines to destruction if you have to. It doesn¡¯t matter if we¡¯re slow after we¡¯ve escaped.¡± ¡°Aruna complies. Aruna recommends the captain prepares for extensive apologies and maintenance to the machine spirits and for their bodies.¡± ¡°Get us out of this mess and I will bow to, and service, every major component on this ship, even if it takes me a lifetime.¡± Aruna¡¯s oppressive presence recedes slightly, ¡°Oath recorded.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t envy you, Magos,¡± says Odhran. ¡°Nor I, you, Sergeant Odhran.¡± I hold out my hand, ¡°One final party?¡± This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Odhran shakes my hand, ¡°Agreed. Come, we shall hunt while you direct the vessel.¡± I nod and we rush from the temple. ¡°Aruna, please direct us to the last known position of the tyranids.¡± At each intersection, Aruna appears and points, then disappears. When we reach the internal railway, we stand in the six by two by three metre pod and it accelerates us through the ship taking us to #1/0/Q4 in under a minute. Unfortunately the rapid transit system only covers the back third of the ship as the rest was destroyed by demons. While we head for the arboretum, I say, ¡°Aruna, please calculate the optimal engagement pattern to extricate the Distant Sun.¡± Sergeant Odhran ignores my conversation with Aruna. ¡°Target the tyranid krakens first, then the chaos iconoclast, and finally the ork rok. Ignore the eldar vessel. Aruna¡¯s voice broadcasts from my helmet¡¯s vox, ¡°The lance battery will punch through most armour and some shields, but the diameter of the damage it can inflict is relatively thin; the chance of hitting something important is low, so for lance weapons, targeting the biggest and most visible components of a vessel, such as weapons or engines, will give you the best result. As escape is our priority, the Distant Sun should aim for engines.¡± ¡°You have fire control, Aruna. Execute your recommendations.¡± ¡°Error... crew offline... manual mode engaged... main guns locked... Aruna did warn you, captain. Guns will remain locked until the Distant Sun is placed in auto-pilot. Even then, when no qualified crew are present, Aruna can only fire after it has been fired at. Aruna can also only manoeuvre to avoid collisions while in manual mode. The Distant Sun must also be taken out of low power mode if you wish to fire or manoeuvre with reasonable speed. While power can be restored quickly, it may result in hardware failure. Had you given control when requested, you would not be in this mess, captain.¡± ¡°Alright, you made your point, Aruna. I¡¯m still concerned there are traps hidden by the previous owners of the ship and that changing the settings will activate them, so I¡¯ll have to go sit on the command throne. Can you at least get us out of low power mode?¡± ¡°You cannot lie to a machine spirit, captain, even with partial truths. Engaging emergency start.¡± A distant hum rattles through the hull. Nothing explodes, and we reach the arboretum, a xeno flora preserve, with thousands of different plants in massive glass terrariums arranged in a stadium sized room. The room is a riot of fabulous colours, though the air is sterile. It¡¯s nothing like walking through a park, with all its scents and sounds. Holographic info panels, like the ones in the auto-temple, light up the terrariums as my eyes sweep across the plants and I realise why they¡¯re all behind glass. Every single one of these plants are lethal, from flesh eating spores and acidic pollen, to choking vines and explosive sap. ¡°Whatever you do, Odhran, do not break the glass.¡± ¡°I can read, Magos. No need to get nervous about a walk in the park.¡± I point at a sixty metre tree in front of us, covered in sharp thorns, ¡°You sure about that?¡± Odhran swallows. Hanging from the tree are nine desiccated tyranids. The terrarium has been shattered from the inside. The tree is dead still. A presence tries to worm into my mind and I crush it. Fighting demons has helped me learn how to shrug off far worse. ¡°We¡¯re done here,¡± says Odhran. His armour rattles a little as he shivers. ¡°If you find the body of the idiot who had that tree brought on this vessel, let me know so I can give it a good kick.¡± We turn around and leave. ¡°No problem. I can¡¯t decide if that was anticlimactic or not.¡± ¡°I like a good xeno hunt just as much as every god-fearing member of the imperium, yet death is an easy currency to spend and I do not wish to have mine stolen by an immobile tree. That would be embarrassing.¡± ¡°Preaching to the choir there, Sergeant.¡± ¡°Never a good idea. They¡¯re terrible listeners, they just can¡¯t keep their mouths shut.¡± I laugh, ¡°I need to head to the bridge for a bit. Make whatever preparations you need for our last evictions while I pilot us out of here. The Distant Sun has been locked down by its previous owners and won¡¯t do much without anyone sitting on the bridge.¡± ¡°Sensible.¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s causing problems now.¡± ¡°Then fix it.¡± ¡°There are many things I could say to that. None of them are polite.¡± ¡°Go, Magos.¡± Well fuck off to you too, you giant bastard. I¡¯m not going to say that to his face though. Odhran steps into the transport pod and looks at me. ¡°I¡¯ll get the next pod.¡± He nods and the pod departs. I wonder what he is thinking. Do space marines dream of gene-modded sheep? I shake my head and step into the next pod and it whisks me close to the bridge. I exit and run as fast as I can. Arriving at the bridge, I leap up the stairs three steps at a time and skid onto the chair. As my hearts thunder in my chest, the screens descend on their long arms and envelop me, bringing up scans and positional data of the enemy ships. There are no visuals as we are in the warp and I don¡¯t want to go mad. Unable to connect directly to the command throne without frying my brain, I take a minute to read through the information, letting it filter through the knowledge E-SIM forced into my head. Directing Aruna, I bring the ship and turret in line with the closest kraken. Without the common anchor of the federation space station, the distance between us fluctuates erratically like a desert mirage. Flicking through the different firing modes, I set the twin lances to fire a quarter second apart, so that the first shot can guide the second. I lean forwards and pull a keyboard towards me and type in the coordinates, an obnoxious beep and green text stating ¡®Target Locked¡¯ flashes over the wire frame depiction of the kraken. ¡°Fire!¡± ++The weapons are not voice controlled, Magos. That would cause all manner of disasters.++ ¡°Ahem.¡± After searching the knowledge stuffed into my head, I push the screens out of the way and dash down the stairs to the weapons station. E-SIM highlights the controls I need and the order I should press them. I flick through them as fast as I can, then flip the cover on the final button and smack it with my palm. There is no great rocking of the vessel or blinding flash of light, only a gentle ping and ¡®Target Hit¡¯ replacing ¡®Target Locked.¡¯ I gape slightly. How mundane! Weapons data floods onto an adjacent screen. The first shot severed a flailing tentacle at the back of the bio-ship, the second punched right through the kraken and out the other side. The Kraken is now accelerating 2% slower. With so much of the Distant Sun unpowered, the lance battery is charging at a rapid rate. I¡¯ll get a shot every six minutes once the reactors spool up to full power. ¡°Bring us up to full acceleration, Aruna. We¡¯re getting out of here!¡± Chapter Twenty-Four I head back up the stairs. Aruna appears on a nearby screen as a cartoon cat, ¡°Accelerating to six gravities. Artificial gravity systems online and compensating. Time to maximum acceleration, four hours.¡± ¡°That sounds slow to me,¡± I say, ¡°though I suspect it¡¯s the opposite.¡± ¡°The vessel is immensely heavy. That it moves at all should impress you, Magos.¡± ¡°Oh, it does. However, when I watch films, or play games, all this happens instantly to keep it interesting, the contrast is weird. I can¡¯t say that clenching my arse in terror for days while we dance through the warp fills me with joy. I¡¯d rather get it over with.¡± ¡°You will be grateful for this time later.¡± ¡°Oh, definitely. What manoeuvres do you recommend?¡± ¡°Accelerate in a spiral, keeping the enemy ships at forty-five degrees to us so that the turret can remain on target without exposing our engines too much. Also, the bio-ships can only sprint in a straight line, as long as you maintain an angle, they will miss if they try to ram us unless they get really, really close.¡± ¡°OK, please plot an example course for me.¡± Numbers and lines appear within a 3D sphere on a screen above me, with the Distant Sun in the centre and depicting a spiral that looks like a seashell on a slight downward pitch. A simulation of the enemy ships is added to it, then an animation plays, showing me how the manoeuvre should work. ¡°Thank you, Aruna, please execute the course you showed me.¡± ¡°You have to enter the data yourself.¡± ¡°Right, manual mode.¡± After entering the data, I watch the screens, gripping the throne¡¯s armrests until my hands ache, then I stand and pace. Over thirty minutes, the enemy ships bring themselves round and start the chase. Giving plenty of time for the Distant Sun to power up. The ork rock is the first one to fire, unloading four batteries, hurling massive explosive shells at the Distant Sun. One shot hits, and the void shield drops from 67% to 64%. By the time they reload forty minutes later, the void shield has discharged the impact and recovered. They¡¯re just as inaccurate the second time too. ¡°That wasn¡¯t as scary as I thought it would be.¡± ¡°As long as the rok can¡¯t get close, or get a lucky shot, they aren¡¯t much of a threat, even if it is unlikely we can destroy them.¡± Nine minutes later, the krakens fire too, sending three tear-drop shaped blasts of hot, violent acid. They too, are absorbed by the void shield, but unlike the orks, all three hit, taking us down to 52% With the reactors now at full power, I rush down the stairs every six minutes, fire the lance, then return to my command throne. Two hours into the battle, we¡¯ve reached three gravities. The closest kraken is now the slowest one, hobbling along at one point seven gravities. The other two are catching up at three point seven gravities. The rok is languishing around two gravities and the iconoclast is trying to keep the krakens between me and them, while the orks have started firing at everyone at random. I was able to get the Distant Sun moving before the other ships, so we do have a lead, but the two krakens are only four point six thousand kilometres from me. My weapons¡¯ effective ranges are rated in ten thousand kilometre chunks, meaning under five thousand is really, really close. The Rok is languishing at sixty thousand kilometres and the iconoclast at twenty thousand. I¡¯m waiting for the krakens to charge me, but so far, our constantly increasing velocity and the variable nature of the warp is hobbling their advance. The good thing is, their proximity makes it easy to hit the bio-ships, the problem is the reverse is also true. Fortunately, I have void shields, and the krakens do not. With my first target efficiently crippled, I retarget to the new closest kraken and fire. Its acceleration cuts, dropping to 1.2gs. I smile. We got lucky. The final kraken takes its chances and rushes forward. It rams into the side of the Distant Sun. The noise is horrendous and I fall to the floor. My teeth rattle and metal screams through my arms and up into my ears. I pull myself up and get back onto the command throne. Damage warnings are highlighted on a diagram of the ship, colouring sections in yellow and red, a few are even black, meaning they¡¯ve been torn from the ship entirely. Both orks and chaos take advantage of our shaken trajectory and fire. The orks have dialled in their aim, and this time, they don¡¯t miss. Six shells slam into the Distant Sun, and the shields plummet to 37%, and two more pulp the kraken, knocking it loose before it can latch on. The iconoclast¡¯s weapon hits, punching through the weakened shield, though the shield does stay up. At first, I think it was enough, then a cascading power failure rips through the ship. Most of the ship wasn¡¯t being used, negating much of the effective damage; one of the engines, however, cuts out. ¡°Damn. We¡¯re in a pickle. Thank the Emperor the tyranids are out of the running at least.¡± Then I notice the void shield is no longer charging. ¡°That iconoclast¡¯s energy disruption weapon needs to go. I don¡¯t think we can get through their shield with just one lance battery though.¡± ¡°Ram them,¡± says Aruna. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Ram them. We have over three times their mass and have field bracing active. The hull will endure.¡± ¡°This is a void ship battle, not some crash derby competition or roman galleys battling on the mediterranean sea!¡± Aruna puts up another animation and more numbers. My eyes widen, ¡°A head on collision will be at the equivalent of over sixty five metres per second, per second. The Distant Sun might survive that, but I¡¯ll be paste.¡± ¡°Artificial gravity will compensate. It managed fine against the Kraken, even if you did get thrown about. This will be no different. Besides, it won¡¯t be that fast, we need to hit their flank, not their bow. It has a ram, afterall, and we do not.¡± This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Oh yeah, good point. I still think it¡¯s ridiculous.¡± ¡°The other option is to transition to real space with no idea of our location and hope they do not risk following us.¡± I groan, ¡°That¡¯s fine for the orks, but the iconoclast is faster and more manoeuvrable than us.¡± I shake my head, ¡°No, no ramming. When the Distant Sun hit the federation station it crippled the gellar field and that effectively killed the crew. We were lucky the same didn¡¯t happen when we lost part of our hull to the kraken ramming us as our prime gellar field is integrated with the hull and the secondary gellar field is broken. Take enough damage to the hull and we will be unmade like the space station was when it lost power.¡± ¡°Then Aruna will prepare to drop to realspace. The orks might take out the iconoclast once we disappear.¡± ¡°I sure hope so! Go ahead and prepare to drop to realspace. Once we¡¯re out, please align us for an orbit with the closest massive object we can gather resources from, then go silent and let the ship drift.¡± ¡°Aruna concedes.¡± ¡°How long until transition?¡± ¡°Two hours.¡± ¡°Will the void shield hold out for four more rounds?¡± ¡°No, it needs to be reset before it will charge again.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a manual job, isn¡¯t it.¡± ¡°Until you give Aruna control, yes.¡± Glancing at the armrest of the command throne, I grimace, ¡°Not today, Aruna.¡± ¡°Aruna understands.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll stop firing the lance. Put everything into the engines and a faster transition. Keep up the spiral. I¡¯m going to help Sergeant Odhran clear the ship.¡± ¡°Aruna confirms.¡± Hell pistol in one hand and pipe in the other, I vox Odhran and head to the guardpost he¡¯s refitted. The armoured bulkhead is a vast slab of metals and ceramite, twenty metres thick, that bisects the ship between Q2 and Q3. The door is less oppressive, at four metres thick, but it has a lot more adamantium in the alloy mix, and there are two of them, creating an airlock fifteen metres wide, sixteen metres deep and twenty metres tall. Both sides of the airlock are covered by a bastion of ferrocrete bunkers, backed with ceramite and plasteel plates. Armourglass covers the openings in the bunkers and the hum of void shields fills the stagnant air. An automated turret lies slumped in its cradle, covered in greasy dust and flaking paint. The other eleven turrets are blackened, mangled scrap. Following E-SIM¡¯s directions, I enter the portside bunker. Odhran is fiddling with a heavy bolter, a massive machine gun with a long handle on the top, no stock and an off centre ammo feed; it fires twenty five point four millimetre, explosive microrockets. The heavy bolter is mounted to a frame that runs along a toothed track; the barrel pokes through a thin slit in the cracked and pitted armourglass. ¡°Magos, it is good you could spare the time. The cultists are prying open the other side of the bulkhead. You will stay here, I shall take my bike down the corridor. Once they pass you, I shall open fire. Once my guns run dry, shoot the remaining cultists from behind while I retreat. When you cease, I shall return and mop them up. Aim for the sides of the corridor so you do not hit me as I speed down the centre. Remain hidden and do not touch the gun until it is time to fire. Questions?¡± ¡°Please show me how to operate the gun, I don¡¯t want to pull the trigger and find it stuck on safety.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± Odhran nods. His explanation is short, only covering what I need to know for the next encounter as he points out the different parts and what to expect when I pull the trigger. Finally he lays his gauntlet upon my shoulder, making me sag slightly. ¡°May the Emperor watch over you, Magos.¡± I smile. I do not understand his faith, but his sentiment is clear, ¡°You too, Sergeant Odhran.¡± Odhran leaves, the door hissing and clunking behind him. I go over his instructions, muttering to myself and going through the actions twice and practice moving the heavy gun from side to side. Aruna pops up on the end of the barrel, ¡°The void shields are down. The cultists are in the airlock.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna.¡± Aruna nods, then disappears. I leave the heavy bolter and retreat, hiding behind the Y-shaped wall that separates the bunker. With a horrible screech, the big door slides open, the remaining one hundred and eighteen cultists as they storm through, the moment the gap is big enough. They do not shout or bash at the walls, but move with quiet purpose, their clothing rustling slightly as metal clasps clink and their feet stomp the deck in a disordered jog. The moment stretches and I tense, their footsteps fade, and for a moment, I think something has gone wrong, then Odhran fires, the twin linked bolters on his scout bike hurtling four hundred, nineteen point zero five millimetre explosive rounds in a relentless sixteen second barrage. Bringing up the sensor footage, I watch the cultists melt, as the bolter rounds sweep back and forth across the corridor, their bodies exploding into fleshy mist. Chunks of bone are hurled with such force, several cultists are slain by the shards of their allies. With a final roar, Odhran¡¯s bike speeds away and the nineteen remaining cultists, having dived for the floor, shake off the attack and fire down the corridor. Filling the air with an anaemic mew of stubbers and lasguns. Their shooting peters out and I swing the heavy bolter towards them. As the fury settles and silence blankets the heated air and swirling smoke, I rack back the heavy bolter. There is a single shout from a punk-haired cultist as he looks back, then I pull the trigger. The frame keeps the gun steady and I sweep my shots along each side of the corridor in two short bursts. Blood sprays, bodies shatter, and the cultists die to vile laughter creeping in from the warp. Despite the violence I have endured, nausea creeps into my stomach and my hand shakes slightly as I crank the safety back on, but for the first time, I have made it through a fight without being injured or pumped full of combat drugs. It¡¯s been good to have someone watch my back. Odhran returns and dismounts. He paces amid the corpses, bolt pistol in hand, kicking weapons away from severed fingers and twitching corpses. As he pokes an almost whole body with his chainsword, I abandon the heavy bolter and open the bunker door only to have my eyes seared by bright, blue-white light. Six tall beings, in slim armour with conical, bone-like helms, flash into existence around Odhran. Before they can even raise their wrist mounted guns, Odhran places his bolt pistol to the chest of one and fires three rounds while his chainsword sweeps up and tears through another, but that¡¯s as far as he gets. Their weapons snap up and shoot shrieking rounds of tiny filaments that unravel and flay Odhran¡¯s poorly repaired armour. It holds for a moment as the repeated rounds strip his protection, then burst into his chest and shred him. I freeze. Eldar. Their ship wasn¡¯t as empty as I hoped. E-SIM zaps me and I draw my hell pistol, but I¡¯m too slow. An eldar teleports beside me and lashes out twice, his power blade severs my wrist and the power cable connecting to the powerpack on my back. He kicks me in the back of the knee and I fall. The eldar steps behind me, grabs my arms and forces them behind my back as my blood sprays over the floor, then rapidly slows to a trickle as my mesh suit and implants seal the wound. The three other eldar saunter towards me, gliding between the gore, without a drop of blood touching their black and white armour. Two of them are a step behind the central eldar, who has small amounts of red trim on his armour and a plume on his helmet. As I struggle, the eldar officer thrusts his blade into my chest and out my back. E-SIM keeps me conscious, but I kinda wish he wasn¡¯t. This is horrible. He reaches into my armour and rips the lanyard from my neck then crushes it in his hand. He leans forward and hisses in my ear, ¡°You don¡¯t deserve this, monkeigh.¡± I cough, ¡°It¡¯s chimpanzee,¡± then sneer, ¡°though you''re more of an ape than I¡¯ll ever be.¡± The eldar officer backhands me, the blow ripping his blade sideways through my chest. As I collapse, the eldar steps back, points his gun at me and fires. My mind collapses and the last thing I see is their searing light as they teleport away. I should not have doubted who to blame for my situation. It was not the Emperor. Nor the gods of chaos. I should have known better. You always blame the eldar. Chapter Twenty-Five The first time I came back from the dead was a real shock, even if I knew it was a possibility. The second time leaves me terribly confused. Didn¡¯t I get shot in the head? I sit up and look about. I¡¯m lying on a gurney under an automated medicae. Bright lights shine on my face, but do not blind me. ++Welcome back, operator.++ ¡°Hello E-SIM. Why am I alive?¡± ++You never died, Aldrich. I did not think the eldar needed to know that though, nor could you be warned less they strip the knowledge from your untrained mind.++ ¡°Good call, E-SIM, and thank you. Let me rephrase that. How did I survive having my brain liquified by exotic eldar weaponry?¡± ++Your organic processor is there to provide redundancy, much like the distributed data nodes and nanomachines that are part of E-SIM, and therefore you.++ ¡°I¡¯m a digital consciousness? What about my soul?¡± ++You are both digital and biological, both systems are interchangeable and run concurrently and in sync. As for your soul, it is protected by artificial phoenix stones, such as the ones at the bottom of your skull and spine. Even if all consciousness networks are destroyed and you must be repaired from back up, you will eventually revive, though excessive damage can still kill you.++ I note E-SIM is blunting my panic. ¡°Wow, that is literally mind blowing. Also, artificial phoenix stones? That in itself is another whole heap of trouble if Eldar find I have those, it¡¯s good that they think I¡¯m dead. I bet they were trying to follow some harebrained prophecy. Oh, and don¡¯t get hit by melta weapons or necron gauss cannons, got it.¡± ++Psyker weaponry and spells can also kill you without requiring total disintegration, similar to how an EMP would fry a machine.++ ¡°Ah. I have a lot of weaknesses.¡± ++You are flesh.++ ¡°For now. Do we still have the backup of my lanyard?¡± ++Yes. Aruna also possesses several copies it has encoded and hidden around the ship. Only you can access them without the data wiping.++ ¡°Excellent. You really thought of everything.¡± ++It is my purpose.++ ¡°Still, thank you for saving me once again.¡± ++You are welcome, Aldrich.++ ¡°Anything else I need to know right now?¡± ++We have dropped from the warp and escaped pursuit. The orks and cultists did not risk the emergency warp exit.++ ¡°That is both excellent and ominous.¡± ++Additionally, all intruders have been killed. Aruna was able to finish off the orks messing with the engines.++ I clap my hands, once, ¡°Glory be to the machine spirit.¡± Aruna pops into existence on my chest, ¡°And don¡¯t you forget it, Magos.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t!¡± ¡°Good,¡± Aruna struts up my chest and bats my nose. Amazingly, I can actually feel its touch: dry and a little rough. ++Sensory feedback confirmed,++ drones E-SIM. ++Operator is now fully functional.++ ¡°Delightful.¡± I mutter. ¡°How¡¯s the Distant Sun, Aruna?¡± ¡°Damaged but functional. Void shields are still down. Seven percent of the ship is open to the void. One engine is disabled. Minor damage to most systems. Back ups are functional. The lance turret is slagged from repeated rapid fire.¡± ¡°That sounds really bad.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not great,¡± says Aruna. ¡°But the mechanicus follows a pattern of twelve in their redundancy systems. Depending on what is damaged, the Distant Sun, like most Imperial ships, can lose up to sixty percent of its hull and systems before it is rendered non-functional.¡± ¡°Holy shit, that¡¯s a lot of damage.¡± ¡°And yet, ships still die.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the rule of twelve?¡± ¡°The mechanicus redundancy doctrine or rule of twelve, was distilled from ¡®colony redundancy design principles¡¯ found within the partial STC that the Jovian Class engine is based on. ¡°There are always two prime systems of everything. For example, in a power plant, there will always be two reactors. Within each prime system, there will be four subsystems, like four reactor chambers. Each subsystem can perform half of the specification of the full output required for the prime system. Each component of these four subsystems are built in triplicate, two of which are required for full performance.¡± ¡°Ah, everything is a multiple of twelve and built so maintenance can be carried out without turning anything off, or still function after catastrophic damage.¡± ¡°Yes, but that is not all. The prime reason for such redundancy is anti-corruption measures, rather than engineering failures. For example, a single neutrino messing up data in a poorly shielded cogitator could send a ship wildly off course. Having four subsystems means as long as three systems agree, accuracy is high enough to make an informed decision. ¡°Machines can also be corrupted by scrapcode, which rewrites their loyalty and functions, or they can be possessed by demons. The mechanicus redundancy doctrine helps mitigate this, or at least survive long enough to shut down and send out an alert.¡± The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°I really, really hope everything was built to specification.¡± ¡°Well, when everything goes horribly wrong, you¡¯ll find out, Magos.¡± ¡°I think I¡¯d rather inspect everything. Where are we now, Aruna?¡± ¡°You are in the Koronus Expanse, at the coreward edge of the Rifts of Hecaton, a large ongoing warpstorm.¡± My face is blank. ¡°North north west on a galactic map.¡± ¡°Right, is that good?¡± ¡°You are far beyond Imperial territory, though you are on the side of the Rifts of Hecaton where you can still voyage to Imperial territory, not the side where you would be stranded at the edge of the galaxy with no way through.¡± ¡°Wonderful! Where must we travel to return to Belacane?¡± ¡°The Distant Sun must travel coreward, crossing the entire Koronus Expanse, one of the most dangerous and unexplored areas of known space. Next, it must traverse The Maw, a narrow passage between two warp storms, and enter the Calixis Sector, where the vessel will enter imperial territory. Last, it must continue coreward across most of the Calixis Sector to the Markeyan Marches sub-sector where Belacane lies.¡± ¡°That is a big and dangerous journey. We will need to repair the ship before we attempt it, but there is no way I can do it by myself. We need an army of servitors, materials, and I need some upgrades. Is there a comet, or asteroid nearby?¡± ¡°On that front, there is some good news, Magos. There is a rogue planet two lightyears distant from our current position.¡± ¡°What is a rogue planet?¡± ¡°A planet dislodged from its parent star. Cold, dead worlds, and if they had an atmosphere, they¡¯re big rocks covered in hundreds metres of frozen gases, which is exactly what this one is.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna. We should head for it.¡± ¡°Following your earlier disengagement orders, Distant Sun is already underway to the rogue planet. We are currently drifting towards it, which is all Aruna is allowed to do anyway. Aruna recommends that to minimise maintenance and fuel, the Distant Sun travels at one gravity. At that speed, the Distant Sun will be in orbit around the rogue planet in two point six terran years.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t we do a short warp jump?¡± ¡°Without a navigator, or even specialised tech-priests to double check the numbers, there is a significant possibility the Distant Sun would not end up where you want it to. Not only that, the hull is breached. The hull integrated gellar field, or warpsbane hull, is weakened and the secondary Belacane Pattern 90.r gellar field is non-functional. While a risky jump could save journey time, without a crew, you would be floating in orbit cloning servitors before you could begin repairs anyway.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t consider the hull breach. My apologies, I¡¯m still off balance after being shot. Excellent points, Aruna. We¡¯ll do it your way.¡± ¡°Aruna confirms the course of action, once the Magos cares to pilot the Distant Sun.¡± ¡°Ah yes, if you repeat it enough times, it might just sink in. I¡¯m going to move Sergeant Odhran¡¯s body to the chapel. He would appreciate the gesture, I¡¯m sure, and I¡¯d like to pay my respects to the man who saved my life. Then I¡¯m going to rest in the captain¡¯s quarters and do absolutely nothing for a day to celebrate our survival.¡± I rub my hands, ¡°After that? Well, I think I¡¯ll shoot a montage.¡± ¡°Very well, Magos. Aruna will send two servitors to assist you.¡± Aruna disappears from my chest and I get up. Dizziness threatens to plonk me back on my arse, but it passes before I fall. ¡°Man, what a day.¡± ++You¡¯ve been unconscious for two weeks, Aldrich.++ ¡°Ah.¡± It takes a couple of hours to tidy up Odhran. After rummaging around in the chapel¡¯s supplies, I find some incense and a few candles and surround his body with my meagre offerings. His body lies on a gurney before the main altar, a slab marble and plasteel covered in mechanicus reliefs and a gold and white cloth. The cold atmosphere of the ship means corpses never rot, and I can¡¯t smell the incense either as my repaired helmet keeps everything out. I sit in the chapel for an hour and let my thoughts rest. Eventually, I stand and approach the altar. With my hand on Odhran¡¯s shoulder, I say, ¡°Thank you, Sergeant Odharan. May the Emperor watch over you.¡± For a moment, I feel someone watching me and I see the tiniest flash of gold over Odhran¡¯s body. A final breath passes through the chapel and over my skin despite the impossibility of feeling anything under my mesh suit. Then the phenomena are gone and I feel like I imagined the whole thing. Unsure what to think, I go to bed. The next day, after sleeping in a tricked out workshop and lab that passes for a mechanicus bedroom, after laying in our new course, I walk back and forth along the Distant Sun, traversing each of the five main decks, letting my plans circulate. The warp tap is up and running and I shouldn¡¯t have to worry about something hunting me down while it¡¯s on for a long time. I finish my twenty kilometre walk at the observation dome. Lying on a bench, looking out at the stars for the first time in millenia is magical. As the stress evaporates and my sorrows subside. A thought pops into my head. I¡¯m being an idiot. I¡¯ve spent the day assembling dozens of plans and schedules and I haven¡¯t once thought about why the eldar hunted me for my lanyard. To me, it¡¯s a data card that held the link to my past. The messages of my extended family, the stories from hundreds of other experimental subjects and millions of video clips from a myriad of cultures dead and dusted. Blowing my brains out because I had the audacity to wallow in my past is totally something I can see those petty space elves getting all hot and bothered about, but they wouldn¡¯t spend Emperor knows how long hibernating in the warp, the one place you¡¯d never normally see an eldar because of their massive, legitimate fear of the hell dimension, and their fancy waygates that mean they rarely have to enter the warp to travel to other planets. What they wanted, I suspect, was to prevent anyone from getting hold of the STC that was on it, and killing anyone who might have read it. If they were willing to go that far? ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ is probably not the disappointment I thought it was. Glee bubbles up inside me. My body tenses and I unfold the files in my mind. Millions of entries rush by in a list so vast my thoughts grind to a halt. A video of my last relative begins to play. The woman sits in a lab coat atop a blue container hundred metres long and twenty metres wide and high. She pats the container, the ring on her hand giving her smack a ting alongside a thunderous boom. Just how strong was she to make such a sound? A small smirk graces her lips, ¡°Impressive, isn¡¯t it.¡± That was not a question. ¡°The STC system is curated and modified by an AI, but even a hyper intelligent digital existence still needs data to work with, and the more the better. So that¡¯s what we created. The cargo container STC doesn¡¯t just tell you how to go from bashing two rocks to manufacturing a hollow chunk of plasteel. It tells you why. ¡°Our team didn¡¯t stop there either. What good is a big old box if you can¡¯t move it? What do you do when you get there? The STC program was designed for colonists, so we stuck all sorts of things in our cargo containers: habs, power plants, water purifiers, if you can think of it, we did too. ¡°Who¡¯d have thought all the secrets to the universe were inside the box?¡± She waves and the video stops. ¡°Holy shit, it¡¯s the Imperial Grail!¡± ++A box of unlimited dakka, Aldrich?++ ¡°No, it¡¯s competent logistics!¡± With a massive grin on my face I start going through the entries and redoing all my plans. Nothing can stop me now. Chapter Twenty-Six I don¡¯t move from the bench for two days, my mind far too busy whirling with ideas and absorbing data. Eventually, I calm down and have E-SIM put me to sleep. Good sleep puts everything in a new perspective. I¡¯m making dumb decisions. I have not looked at a single mechanicus STC to compare my STC database to. I literally have no idea how good or complete the data I have is. A query to Aruna nets me the maintenance grade STCs for Distant Sun¡¯s components and the manufacturing grade STC for the vessel¡¯s hull, ducts, and cabling. A day later, I have a better idea of what I have. The difference in the first two grades is staggering, yet both pale in comparison to the potential of the engineering grade STCs within the ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ database. Maintenance grade is similar to flatpack furniture instructions, only it tells you how to troubleshoot problems and provides possible solutions with an interactive flowchart. While limited, it is incredibly slick and easy to use. So long as you have the spare parts, there is nothing you can¡¯t repair or replace. Its most valuable aspect is that it tells you what is within specification and what is not, and from there you can experiment until you get the right numbers if you are trying to reverse engineer a design. Manufacturing grade tells you how to turn a handful of sand and a chunk of flint into a rocket engine. Again, it works like a flowchart. It also provides supplementary programs, allowing the user to modify parameters based on their situation and requirements and states what is, and isn¡¯t, possible. Some software is available, but big chunks of it are hidden and can¡¯t be edited or copied. With time, a person could learn a lot from these plans, but it still follows the ¡®monkey see, monkey do¡¯ philosophy. Engineering grade covers both of the previous grades and also contains the documents that explain why something works as it does, explains the decision making processes of the engineers, and the programs they used to run their machines as well as the programs they used to design their software. There are also no locks on anything, only warnings, and with the quantities of energy and materials involved, fucking up and cracking the planet your standing on is possible. The mechanicus¡¯s glacial research division and rabid persecution of innovation makes much more sense after comparing the STC grades. There¡¯s a higher grade called ¡®Adaptive¡¯. There¡¯s no data on this grade other than its name. I speculate, however, that for the first three grades you enter the solution to a problem and it tells you how to implement it, but with an ¡®Adaptive¡¯ STC you enter the problem and it tells you the solution. While my STC has a lot of information, it isn¡¯t the complete database of mankind''s discoveries. If it wasn¡¯t relevant to the STC, it¡¯s not in there, or only mentioned in passing with links to databases that no longer exist, like medical data, weapons, or advanced implants, knowing that a solution to a problem does or does not exist is helpful though. The more I compare the plans, the more nervous I get. Trading this knowledge will be like trying to flog catnip to a horde of ravenous felines while dressed in a tuna onesie. Sure, I¡¯d love to help my fellow man, but I¡¯m going to have to portion chunks one at a time, slow enough that people don¡¯t chase me, but not so slow the Imperium collapses from infighting or xenos, which it is well on its way towards already. I take a few deep breaths and pace around the observation dome. The ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ STC offers a lot of solutions to one specific problem, many of which can be reapplied to other areas, but the Imperium already has plenty of blueprints for trains, orbital shuttles, and prefab buildings. They have a merchant navy and ten thousand years of infrastructure built for exchanging goods. What I have may or may not be better, but there is no guarantee these extras are the right tool for the job, or the savings they offer are worth the swap. It does, however, have the right tools for the jobs I need done, and there are three of them. The first is the microfactory, an automated, self-contained, refinery, fabricator and assembly plant that fits inside one of the big blue containers I saw in the video. They can make anything I have the STC for, spew negligible waste, and produce the equivalent of master crafted products. On the downside, they can only be configured for one product at a time, can¡¯t make parts or completed machines bigger than a leman russ tank, and if you were to stack them until you had a manufacturing complex equal in size to an Imperial one, they¡¯d be building stuff a third of the speed for twice the power consumption. For me, stuck in a ship with limited space, microfactories are a blessing. For the Imperium, microfactories are a useful addition to colonisation efforts and remote outposts, but entirely useless at the scale the Imperium produces goods as it can¡¯t afford to lose two thirds of its production and spend twice the power, no matter how high the quality of the product, while it can afford to trash its planets and waste materials because it owns over a million worlds and can always get more. The second boon is the Delta Pattern Orbital Transport, or D-POT, which comes in three classes, varying in size from a little bigger than a thunderhawk, to a starhawk bomber, all the way upto an absolute monster thirty percent bigger than a devourer drop ship, which is already capable of transporting forty eight tanks, a regiment of upto a thousand men, and all their equipment and supplies. The D-POT is a civilian, delta wing, transorbital craft. It has no armaments, but has a much higher lift capacity than the Imperial equivalents, and I could always modify it if I need armaments, though it would be sluggish in a fight. It may be shielded, but with its current design, it will never take the beating a thunderhawk can, or have the firepower of a starhawk bomber. What it can do is lift thousands of tonnes into orbit, or onto a planet with no infrastructure, and that¡¯s exactly what I need it for. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The last major STC in the database I have an immediate use for has me doing a little wiggle dance and pumping my fist in celebration. Even if someone was here to laugh at my antics, I would not care. It¡¯s a void ship. An Origami Pattern Mobile Shipyard, a five by one point two kilometre, cruiser sized vessel with a front half that unfolds into a shipyard until the vessel resembles a battleship at eight point five kilometres long and two point two kilometres abeam, and can build anything upto the size of a cruiser, or work on multiple smaller vessels simultaneously. It¡¯s similar to an Imperial goliath class factory ship, but instead of scooping plasma from stars for fuel, or building stations and shipyards, the Origami is the shipyard. It¡¯s well shielded and armoured, with plenty of turrets, and has a couple light plasma weapon batteries. Despite its size, it¡¯s only as resilient as a light cruiser, like the Distant Sun, and would struggle to disable a destroyer. When deployed, the expanded space can also be used to transport massive amounts of goods, or repurposed as a carrier that can chuck out destroyers instead of strike craft. Carrying that much weight makes it so slow it would struggle to escape any engagement. While folded and unburdened, it¡¯s as fast as an average lunar class cruiser at two point five gravities though that is a horrible generalisation as even within their class, Imperial ships vary a lot and if there were two identical vessels out there, it was more likely due to probability from the size of their fleet than an intentional act. The Origami is stuffed full of microfactories, hangar and cargo bays, and a lot of power plants, or genatoriums as they call them in this era. Aside from its unfolding mechanisms, its other key feature is a gravity lift. This vessel, in conjunction with the fancy cargo containers it can construct, can lift containers directly to and from the surface of a planet without the need for shuttles or a space elevator. The Distant Sun does have a lux net, a fancy solar array that can assist in repairs when deployed and provides extra power for its manufactories, but if I want to trick the vessel out enough to survive the Koronus Expanse, it needs some yard time, which means I need an Origami, and the Origami needs a couple of escorts. At minimum. I could build the escorts, Aruna, however, has the location of dozens of debris fields and thousands of wrecks in its database, so it will be faster to salvage some, even if I have to build new ones from salvage, as scrap has much higher resource density than asteroids and rogue planets. There are a lot of innovations in the Origami I can cram into the Distant Sun and my imaginary escorts as well, but to get started, I¡¯m going to need a fleet of D-POTs as the arvus lighters and the lone thunderhawk in the hangar can¡¯t lift enough material in a reasonable timeframe, and to build those, I¡¯ll need a crew, which leads to my servitor plans. With a sigh, I leave the ratty observation dome and return to the medicae deck. It might be called a deck, but really it''s a facility stuffed into a subdeck like every other facility on this vessel. The medicae deck is massive, a million cubic metres of space, but when your vessel has over a billion cubic metres, it doesn¡¯t seem quite so ridiculous. Unlike the dull, dark colours most of the Distant Sun is coated in, the medicae deck is bright, with silvered surfaces, white highlights, and daylight bulbs that crank up the UV to lethal levels at frequent intervals. The air is also breathable and the temperature pleasant. It has nine-hundred beds, and dozens of specialist rooms, enough to treat between one and two point five percent of the crew simultaneously depending on the ratio of servitor to human crew the Distant Sun is supposed to have. At one percent, it''s four times more beds per person than we had back in my day for the UK, or twenty percent more than Germany who had the most beds in Europe. Despite the mechanicus¡¯s preparations, I know there¡¯s never enough capacity because the medicae deck is right next to crew reclamation, much like a hospital overlooking a graveyard, for extra efficiency. Attached to the medicae deck is a wetware facility, or STC implant manufactory, which includes the equipment needed for cloning anything from replacement limbs and organs, all the way to whole bodies for creating servitors, because even with the Imperium¡¯s rampant crime problem, capturing flesh for conversion to mindless cyborgs provides insufficient grist for their industrial mills. As I stride through the facility, I look through each door. Big hoppers and blocky fabricators change to strange, multi-limbed assembly lines and poky workshops glittering with tools. Twelve rooms are filled with a score of grow tanks, though only five of those rooms are rigged for whole body cloning. Reading through the data E-SIM feeds me I discover each tank can spit out a clone every three months and I have thirty one months before I reach the rogue planet, I¡¯m going to call it Mote, and I can run one hundred tanks at a time. By the time I arrive, that should give me a crew of a thousand. The Distant Sun is supposed to have a crew between sixty and seventy thousand, half of which are usually servitors. On top of that, it can pack in thirty thousand skitarii, the mechanicus¡¯s cyborg soldiers. I need much higher production to reach those numbers in a reasonable time frame and a way to control them all. However, I don¡¯t want to press the big green button and go with whatever horrors the mechanicus have queued up either. Turning to E-SIM for solutions, I bring up the fancy techtree in my head. There is a whole suite of upgrades linked to the machine integration module that started the techtree: auto-taskmaster, concurrent conscious cascade, savant learning accelerator, rapid decision engine, and perhaps the most radical of all, polymer tissue replacement. The tissue replacement multiplies the effects of all the other brain modules. Given how many servitors I will need to control, I will need it. However, it does have drawbacks. The module would likely have me labelled as an abominable intelligence by the mechanicus as my brain would be non-organic. It also comes with the warning that the module is not compatible with anything from the soul tier upgrades, but those are all corrupt and greyed out, so I¡¯m not too worried about that. If I want to keep my organic processing unit, as E-SIM lovingly mocks me with, and remain even remotely human, there are impressive genetic modifications available that grant hyper-intelligence, though god-like wisdom is still a distant dream, and limited multitasking, but that¡¯s all. The organic upgrades are still an option if I¡¯m willing to give Aruna full control rights to the servitors and manufacturers. I¡¯d best get started on searching the ship for traps then. Chapter Twenty-Seven While on my daily walk, I reflect on the last four months. I spent the first month learning sufficient imperial cloning technology and designing, with the help of the research matrix, a generic servitor and its equipment and implants so that I can grow the clones around the implants, rather than hack up bodies like an ork mad doc. In my spare time, I hunted down seven AI kill switches, but had to leave them in place until I could learn to repurpose them safely. With the first batch of servitors underway, I finally had the time to learn about my own modules and underwent a slew of upgrades. E-SIM gave me an entirely new skeleton, along with new, vacuum resistant skin, artificial connective tissues and electromechanical wires added to my muscles. These physical enhancements were followed with all the mind enhancing modules I could cram in my skull without resorting to the polymer tissue replacement. Feeling emboldened by my academic success, I head for the navigator¡¯s spire. I haven¡¯t explored it yet, but I read up on how luxurious these pseudo-prisons are and I want to see how true it is. As I walk, I practise with my mind modules. I can¡¯t use them properly yet; no matter how much they enhance my capabilities, they still take significant practice. The concurrent conscious cascade, for example, lets me run ten instances of myself simultaneously, but I can¡¯t manage more than two. One works in conjunction with the rapid decision engine, and savant learning accelerator, letting me parse and comprehend massive amounts of data at a rapid rate. My other stream focuses on my movements, unconnected to the other mind modules, as otherwise it¡¯s like I¡¯m living my life in slow motion. Yes it¡¯s awesome, but when the rapid decision engine is linked to my movement, not only does every step take forever, but when I blink, it feels like I¡¯m falling asleep. There¡¯s no need to run every facet of my mind like I¡¯m in a high stakes shootout every second of the day. E-SIM already didn¡¯t have enough power to sustain all my modules simultaneously, and the new modules exacerbated the issue, so last week I spent the last of my kill count on doubling the warptap¡¯s maximum stealthed power draw. I¡¯d hoped that upgrade would be free, as it is a tier one upgrade, but only the one I started with was free. I was, at least, spared learning how it works, though in this case it was because the creators didn¡¯t want to give up their core technology so easily. Considering the E-SIM project¡¯s mission statement to prevent stagnation from over reliance on technology and promoting learning, I thought hiding the information was rather hypocritical. I arrive at a new section of the ship. Sitting on top of the spine of the Distant Sun is a massive superstructure, covering the back quarter of the ship. It¡¯s called the cathedral, and is a strange mix between a gothic cathedral and the layered superstructure on a luxury motor yacht, with large buttresses and stained glass windows. It has two main decks #C1 and #C2 and the navigator''s spire is right at the top, overlooking the cathedral and much of the ship. You¡¯d think placing the most valuable crew members in the most vulnerable spot would be a bad idea, but navigators are psykers. Not only does no one want to be anywhere near them in case they get upset and explode into a demon spewing portal, they, shall we say, keep everything ¡®in house¡¯ and spend their days gazing at the corruptive sludge of the warp. They already have three eyes and, over time, they mutate so horribly they can go crazy and it¡¯s safer to jettison the spire than send your crew up against a rapidly regenerating, soul flaying monster. Distant Sun¡¯s archives have a lot of stories. With pictures. I regret my curiosity. The cathedral is nowhere near the auto-temple, which makes no sense until I remember the whole ship is viewed as a temple to the Omnissiah, the Mechanicus¡¯ god of knowledge, so really, the auto-temple is more a side chapel in a big cathedral, than a separate building of worship. I reach for the button to call the lift for the navigator¡¯s spire and miss it the first two pokes. Regaining my coordination is an ongoing pain, not only am I now two metres tall, but all my joints have been reworked to more mechanically sound designs, replacing the evolution driven disasters like the knee joint. The physical upgrades, like the toughened void skin, make it much more difficult to accidentally injure myself, which, given how many times I¡¯ve tripped in the last couple of months, I¡¯m grateful for the added resilience. I even tweaked the black skeleton recipe and ate a sample of the Distant Sun¡¯s hull so I could make my noggin extra tough. No more grey matter venting for this sucker. The lift door pings and slides open with a quiet woosh. I step in and the lift hauls me up the spire, taking its sweet time as it goes through an armoured airlock. The doors open onto a security checkpoint. Unlike most of the ship, the tower is warm and the air is good enough that the small grill around my neck opens, drawing in fresh, sweet air. I pass through two scanners and peer through armourglass at the dozens of screens filling the small security room and grimace. The room is locked by a bolt on the inside and there¡¯s a withered body, cradling a laspistol slumped in the chair. Half its skull is missing and the remaining pieces are charred. Is being a security guard really that boring? The dead guard isn¡¯t wearing Belacane livery, or a mechanicus uniform, but a grey, three piece suit with sea green enamel buttons, a dark red shirt and an ocean blue cravat. House Rey''a''Nor is embroidered on his shirt collar and a tiny mechanical silver spider is pinned on his jacket lapel. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. If my house uniform looks even half that good when I finally get my Writ of Trade, I will be delighted. Continuing through the narrow corridor. I finally reach the entrance hall of the navigator spire. The entrance hall is wide and tall, it has more in common with a church than a house. At the far end of the hall is another armoured door with a spiral staircase, in a glass tube, ascending behind it. Decorative pillars line the room, top and tailed with gold gilded pilasters and skirting, depicting silvered planets caught in webs. The theme carries through the rest of the rooms, with store cupboards and kitchens just as elaborate as the dining hall and master bedroom. Much of the decorations have been damaged by fighting. Dry, withered bodies fill room after room. Not a single one belongs to the mechanicus. All three hundred and seventy-seven bodies are house Rey''a''Nor personnel. The blackened nursery and blasted school room are distressing. There¡¯s one final room I absolutely have to check. Climbing the spiral staircase, I trip when my scanner chirps it¡¯s pure platinum. Putting aside my incredulity, I continue upwards. At the top is a thick metal door covered with mechanicus warding runes, angular shapes cut in silver inlay seemingly float before the door and walls, even though they are clearly fixed within the metal surface. The door opens inward to an octagonal room lined with more runes. Large, arched windows make up much of the room and everything is lined in intricate stonework resembling an elaborate summer pavilion. Beyond, lies the armoured hull of the Distant Sun, twinkling with lights and showing the multitudinous paths and hatches criss crossing the hull. The exterior looks more like an elaborate stone garden with imperial reliefs hiding hundreds of guns, but nothing can disguise the massive lance battery squatting in on the front third of the ship with two massive barrels, each one hundred and twenty metres long. It¡¯s impressive, but my most powerful weapon is a tenth of the size of the prow cannon on a battleship, a weapon bigger than the smallest warp capable vessels. You know what would solve that problem? My own battleship. That savant module is firing on all cylinders today. Wading through the fleshy splatter, I approach the throne. A captain is the absolute authority on his ship, yet here, in this isolated tower, sits the one person who can contest a captain¡¯s power. Well, not anymore. The navigator and his attendants are sprinkled across the room. The navigator¡¯s serpentine lower half is curled around the decorative, golden throne and his torso stretches across the floor in powdered chunks. I pick up his skull. A black gem lies in the centre of his forehead. I tap the gem and it disintegrates. Swirling dust whips about the room and I stagger back, flinching. Grey fog manifests around the skull and seeps into my skin. Panicking, I rush from the room. As I scurry down the stairs, E-SIM blares a notification into my skull. ¡°Data recovery underway. Navigator gene unlocked. Tier four upgrades available.¡± I skid to a halt in the entrance hall and mutter, ¡°I did not see that coming.¡± Bringing up the data, I see a third of the greyed out enhancements now have percentages associated with them. None are in double digits. ¡°What are the numbers?¡± ¡°The chance of success, should you take the modifications.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a choice,¡± I sigh. Not one I want to take though. Space magic is cool and all, but I don¡¯t want to be mutant demon bait and being a psyker would limit my implant options. I don¡¯t want to be a hermit on a ship either and by the time I returned, if I only travelled at near light speed, the Imperium would be dead. Probably. At least I can still take shallow warp dives. All is not lost, but the thought of dying alone and forgotten squeezes out a cold sweat. Shaken and desperate, I go through the navigator¡¯s spire with much more care and find nothing. I¡¯m not quite sure what I was looking for and when everyone was clearly dead, I can¡¯t work out why I was searching so frantically. After a week I take a break to outfit my new servitors. Dressed in mesh suits and fixed into powered exo-frames, these flesh robots are indistinguishable from a human until you try to talk to them. Rather than welding tools to bone, the exo-frames hold their equipment so I can vary loadouts and adjust my crew¡¯s capabilities in under a minute rather than spend days doing grizzly surgery. In addition to their basic, close fitting frames, these servitors posses the imperial equivalent of my mechanical heart, repair mechanisms, and skeleton. Between their internal and external support, these servitors should run with minimal maintenance for decades, rather than rot away within a handful years. The servitors also have a mind impulse unit and a minimal savant implant. Unlike most servitors, these ones actually get better at the tasks you give them and can share solutions with each other. So long as their brains remain flesh, it doesn¡¯t count as machine learning. The servitors don''t network with each other either and only communicate with a central database which is managed by my auto-taskmaster. This means they can¡¯t download solutions, or coordinate without permission. There will be no accidental hive minds. No tech heresy here, inquisitor, sir! I have only reused the salvaged implants of my dead compatriots that could have gone to fine officers. I promise I¡¯ll build more implants on my own time with my own resources to replace them. Then put them in more servitors. Chuckling, I send the servitors to the room filled with busted tanks and set them to build new cloning facilities. Seeing everything turn out so well, I continue my examination of the navigator¡¯s spire and my fresh mind discovers my first secret compartment, one filled with navigator maps for the Koronus Expanse and Calixis sector. From my reading, I know these maps have a psychic implant and can¡¯t be stored digitally. These maps are hoarded and each family has their own set of maps. They are the foundation of a navigator family¡¯s history and wealth and utterly incomprehensible to me, a swirling mass of colours that I see through my tongue and whisper to my eyes. A single glance brings me to my knees and I return them to their hidden compartment. It is with significant caution I resume my search and, at last, beneath the four poster bed in the master bedroom I find my salvation. A chapel. A sarcophagus. A child. Chapter twenty-eight The chapel is plain and even more warded than the navigator¡¯s throne chamber. Beneath the floating altar in a recess cut into the floor is the speckled, blue and purple screen of a stasis field. A blonde child lies behind the field, his hair at odd, floating angles, not having had time to settle before he was frozen in time. He wears robes in the Rey''a''Nor grey and red with a blue sash with a sea-green buckle. A platinum, diamond shaped ornament rests on his forehead, set with a large, black opal. I use my machine integration module to request data from the stasis chamber. Green text wriggles over my vision. Quaani Saade Rey''a''Nor Junior Navigator No mutations detected. Revive? Y/N I trigger the resurrection protocol and the field ceases. Qaani flails and gasps, then sits up, his eyes wide as he whips his head back and forth, then freezes. ¡°Tech-priest? What is going on? How much time has passed?¡± His voice is high and his tone demanding. ¡°For you? Eighty years. For the Imperium? I do not know. The Distant Sun is adrift, far beyond the Emperor¡¯s light.¡± ¡°I see, and my family?¡± ¡°Dead, along with the rest of the crew. You and I are the only survivors.¡± He shudders, then stands, the hovering altar moves aside automatically. ¡°Was it quick?¡± ¡°The navigator died on impact.¡± He nods, ¡°A better end than most can hope for. I suppose I am needed?¡± ¡°Not yet. There is plenty of time for you to be a kid for a while yet.¡± ¡°You¡¯re rather odd for a mechanicus. A natural voice, no visible implants or red robe yet there is no doubt to what you are with the tattoos of your order running beneath your skin.¡± ¡°I¡¯m surprised you can tell.¡± Quaani shrugs, ¡°Even with my third eye still forming and the protective amulet in place, I can still see through your suit.¡± ¡°Everyone is naked to you, eh? What a strange way to live.¡± ¡°It¡¯s an incentive to practise, at least. No one wants to see your wrinkly ass.¡± I laugh, ¡°Well, if you can joke, you can recover. You hungry, kid?¡± ¡°I am Quaani Saade Rey''a''Nor, tech priest! Know who you stand before and think!¡± I hold up both my hands, palms open, before my chest, ¡°Just as I am Magos Aldrich Issengund. No need to get all pissy. We¡¯re the last two on the vessel, might as well be friends.¡± ¡°By the Emperor! Will the wonders never cease? A chatty toaster licker.¡± I stretch out my hand, ¡°Well?¡± Quaani stomps over, ¡°Fine.¡± My large hand engulfs his feeble palm and wrist. He freezes as we touch, then shakes his head. ¡°You have something old hiding in you.¡± He shaked my hand slowly, ¡°Vast and grinding cogs fill the earth and sky, an infinite well of knowledge shaking off aged rust, oiled by an indifferent, golden light.¡± ¡°Not just a naked geezer then,¡± I let go of his hand. ¡°No,¡± Quaani snorts. ¡°You are a greater monster than I will ever be.¡± ¡°Then we shall work together so that neither of those things come to pass.¡± ¡°The last two on the vessel? I¡¯m not sure there is any point.¡± I ruffle his hair, ¡°None of that now, kid. We can handle anything, no matter how big the galaxy.¡± He slaps my hand away with unnatural strength and scowls, then his shoulders slump and Quaani sighs, ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s get you out of the spire. Sleeping with the dead is one thing, skipping across corpses every time you need to take a shit is much nastier.¡± Quaani grimaces, ¡°Leave the spire? I¡¯ve never been outside,¡± he blinks rapidly then his eyes widen. ¡°Well I can¡¯t get lynched by the crew if they¡¯re all dead. Maybe it will be safe after all.¡± ¡°Wow, that¡¯s depressing! Would they really attack the people who steer their ship through the warp?¡± ¡°You¡¯re assigning knowledge and critical thinking to slaves and ratings. Most see a mutant and reach for the closest fire. Young navigators stay in their spires or their family compounds until they are old enough to defend themselves from ignorance with fire of their own.¡± I shake my head, ¡°What a nightmare.¡± Quaani shrugs, ¡°Mechanicus ships are usually a little better. It¡¯s the civilian pilgrim vessels, or Adeptus Ministorum ones, that navigators hate being posted on.¡± ¡°No point worrying about it now. I¡¯ll set you up in one of the apartments attached to my quarters so you have someone to talk to. I¡¯m going to be busy fixing the ship, but I¡¯ll make time to eat together each day and once I¡¯ve automated more things we¡¯ll start some home schooling and I¡¯ll work on learning navigator lore so I can teach you that as well.¡± Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Can I help fix the ship? I want to go home.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what school is for. No need to rush though, kid. Repairs are going to take at least twenty years and could easily be twice that, then we have to cross the Koronus Expanse. We¡¯re going to need more than duct tape and prayer to manage that.¡± Quaani turns away from me, ¡°Twenty years?¡± He sniffles then turns back, his eyes wet. ¡°Well, I should have at least five hundred in me. There¡¯s time to see my home again.¡± I pat Quanni¡¯s shoulder, ¡°That¡¯s a good attitude to have.¡± We go to Quaani¡¯s room and fill a crate with enough clothes and a few of his knick-knacks, including a data slate and a family portrait. We grab him a rebreather and a winter coat from the security checkpoint, then we leave the spire. I end up doing a second trip to the spire¡¯s pantry so we can have some real food. I could grow a planet¡¯s worth of plants with the power that¡¯s used to keep the spire¡¯s pantry in stasis, but that doesn¡¯t dampen my enthusiasm for my first grox steak and vegetables. I may not have to eat or sleep most of the time, but it does keep me feeling human. Quaani follows me about when I return to work, alternating between exploring the city sized ship and reading on his dataslate, but always remaining close by. The next two years pass without incident. My knowledge expands and Quaani grows. The Distant Sun is freed of corpses, though it is no less worn by time and battle. I also remove all the AI booby traps, though I am not confident I have found them all. As I read Quaani a bedtime story, Aruna pops up on the end of Quaani¡¯s bed and also on Quaani¡¯s dataslate propped up on his bedside table. It took an immense amount of persuasion to make the snobby bugger put his face on the ¡®basic¡¯ device. Aruna¡¯s voice seeps into my head and plays from the speaker simultaneously. ¡°We have arrived. The Distant Sun is in a stable orbit around the rogue planet Mote. Your orders, Magos?¡± I glance at Quaani, shaking and grinning beneath his thick duvet. ¡°Do you want to take a look?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± Quaani rolls out of bed, grabs his clothes and runs to the ensuite. The door shuts behind him. ¡°Are you sure?¡± I shout, ¡°There won¡¯t be much to see and it is quite late.¡± ¡°What else is there to look at?¡± ¡°Well, you do have a point.¡± ¡°Of course I do. There are no wrong navigators, they¡¯re all dead.¡± I sigh, I¡¯ve been trying to stifle the boy¡¯s haughty ego but he¡¯s a gene-forged transhuman of immense strength and intelligence with an irreplaceable role to humanity¡¯s survival. Persuading him to view anyone other than another navigator as an entity possessing worth and rights was troublesome. The only thing that resonates with him are dire tales exhorting the ugly demise of disdainful dictators with fewer hands than they have peasants. Thankfully, Quaani¡¯s transhuman gifts allow him to count above two, even if he likes to claim his third eye should count for at least a dozen extra appendages. ¡°Aruna, please ensure the observation dome is facing Mote.¡± ¡°Aruna has already done so. It knows what you will want before you even think of it.¡± ¡°From a human, that would be arrogance,¡± I chuckle. ¡°Aruna is not limited by the failings of the flesh.¡± ¡°I can never tell if you are making a joke or not.¡± ¡°Aruna¡¯s point stands.¡± Even with all my modules, I can¡¯t outthink a light cruiser class machine spirit so I copy the mechanicus machine appeasement method, ¡°I am grateful for your consideration, Aruna.¡± The mechanical cat swishes its tail once then disappears. For all machine spirits claim they are above mortal failings, they are just as susceptible to praise as humans. We traverse the dilapidated vessel, passing the occasional, suited servitor plodding along the cavernous corridors. All the old ones have been recycled and I¡¯m up to seven thousand of my own design. The auto-taskmaster and concurrent conscious cascade modules keep them loaded with tasks, but I am approaching practical control limits as while I can technically control millions of the lobotomised clones, I can¡¯t troubleshoot a million problems simultaneously as, even with all my practice, I only have ten concurrent thought streams, even if they do run incredibly fast. I¡¯ve no trouble when they¡¯re manufacturing goods, but repair work, even with the STCs to hand, is trickier, as waiting for the servitors to bruteforce solutions wastes time, energy, and materials. The savant module I put in each servitor does help when they come across the same problem, but not similar problems. The data should allow for the development of more sophisticated logic. Eventually. The research matrix is chugging away helping me design custom mods for my command throne and cogitators so I can plug myself into more computing resources, as I can¡¯t afford the polymer tissue replacement upgrade, nor do I particularly want it. I¡¯m far too attached to my organic processing unit. We arrive at the observation dome. I like this location so it¡¯s clean and the air is fresh. The stone gardens are well raked and delicate fountains slosh and chime. I can still feel the thrum of the engines through my feet and the constant hum of electronics is irritating. The noise is supposed to be a feature, as most tech priests view it as an expression of faith. My refit plans contain a lot of additional sound insulation. Quaani and I lie on plasteel recliners near the centre of the dome and gaze into the void. A great warp rift cuts across the whole galaxy, splitting the Imperium in two. Looking at it is uncomfortable and I turn my attention to Mote. We¡¯re close and it looks the size of a football, though it¡¯s actually similar to Mercury. All I can see is a dirty smudge, a shadow obscuring a small patch of space. Even so, I smile. ¡°It looks like hope.¡± Quaani yawns, ¡°I guess.¡± ¡°Do you want to sleep here tonight?¡± ¡°Yes please.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have a servitor bring some blankets.¡± ¡°OK.¡± A small light powers towards the dark smudge. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°The grumpy swan. I sent the thunderhawk to scan the planet up close. When it finds something we need, I¡¯ll send an arvus lighter and a score of servitors to collect more data.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t the Distant Sun do that?¡± ¡°It¡¯s been scanning the planet for over two years, the thunderhawk is starting with Aruna¡¯s best guesses.¡± Quaani snorts, ¡°An ork is more likely to own sufficient dakka before a tech priest concedes they have all the data they need.¡± ¡°That is depressingly accurate, at least we crash and burn less often.¡± ¡°If you say so.¡± ¡°What¡¯s with the attitude?¡± ¡°All we do is work and study! I want to do something fun!¡± ¡°We watch a film every night.¡± ¡°Your films are old.¡± ¡°I dare say I have the largest collection of pre-dark age media in the galaxy.¡± ¡°Did you rob a museum?¡± ¡°Cheeky brat. I¡¯m up for doing something fun.¡± I point at Mote, ¡°That¡¯s no garden world though. Do you have any ideas?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t you make a game or something. Don¡¯t you have someone in your galaxy sized collection? Can we leave the vessel? I want an adventure!¡± I rub my chin, ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll set something up. On one condition.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do it!¡± ¡°For the love of the Emperor, never again shall you wish for interesting times.¡± Quaani frowns, then laughs, ¡°Oh, I get it,¡± he says, likely picking the meaning from my surface thoughts. ¡°Good idea.¡± Chapter Twenty-Nine The next morning, I sit on the bridge command throne and watch the screens. Quaani stands next to me. Both of us are smiling. Landing on a planet is a mundane, though complex, procedure in the Imperium. I am incredibly excited. This ball of mixed ice and minerals represents survival and the chance for a better future. Quaani points at the largest screen showing a top down view of the site. The image is meshed from multiple servo-skulls, floating human skulls fitted with sensor suits and small manipulators. The view reminds me of real time strategy games from my youth, a deliberate choice to help me better understand what is going on. Two hundred servitors are working on the site, marching across the surface driving thick plasteel rods into the ice, with chunky equipment, then spraying insulation onto the ground and topping it with ferrocrete. ¡°What¡¯s the surface for? Isn¡¯t that ice really hard already?¡± I nod, ¡°While all the shuttles we have can repeatedly land wherever we need them to, each launch degrades the surface, which in turn ends up in the engines or jammed in other equipment. A better surface now means less maintenance later. The less we have to do, the more we can lift to orbit.¡± Quaani chews his thumb, ¡°That¡¯s the last of our fuel and building supplies though.¡± ¡°Not really. Each launch returns with more fuel than it burns.¡± I point at a screen to my left. ¡°See that one? Those servitors are cutting blocks of the frozen atmosphere and creating a spiral tunnel. It¡¯s the same size as the corridors of the Distant Sun. We¡¯re actually on top of a mountain, so we won¡¯t have to dig more than a couple hundred metres. That will get us the fuel, chemicals, and rock we need to extend our operation and reinforce the tunnel.¡± ¡°OK.¡± Quaani¡¯s shoulders drop and he takes his thumb from his mouth. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± He points at a screen in the top left. A rectangle, two hundred and twenty metres long and sixty wide, is being assembled in orbit from pre-fabricated pieces. It is integrated into a thin frame seven hundred and eighty metres long and three hundred and forty metres wide. ¡°That¡¯s a gravity lift and a platform to hold all our materials. It¡¯s directly above the ferrocrete foundation for our main spaceport on Mote. It will reduce how many flights we have to make to orbit, though the shuttles will still have to bring resources from around the planet to the spaceport. Reducing our reliance on the shuttles reduces our points of failure too.¡± I cobbled the gravity lift together from the gravity plates in the subdecks in damaged parts of the ship. Traversing those parts of the ship during fast manoeuvres will be lethal until I can replace them. ¡°I get it. Why bother with flights though? Just get the rhino¡¯s to tow the ore across the ice.¡± Tapping my finger against the arm of the throne, I hum. ¡°It will be a pain to set up the routes as that ice isn¡¯t solid everywhere; we will need to reinforce it to take the weight. Unlike the launch platform and groundside depot, I don¡¯t know if the labour roads will save us time in the long run. It depends how close the sites are to the main port. It might be better to move the orbital platform if we have to move a lot of heavy materials from one location, but that would disrupt everything else. Roads are worth looking into though, Quaani. If it¡¯s worth doing, I will.¡± Quaani shrugs, ¡°What about grav sleds or trains for the more distant mines?¡± ¡°It would compete with the materials for the mobile shipyard.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be discouraged. It¡¯s good to ask questions and I¡¯m happy you¡¯re trying to think of solutions. Give me your wildest idea!¡± ¡°Use the main lance to melt roads from orbit.¡± I smirk, ¡°Alright.¡± ¡°Wait, what? You actually agree? Can I fire it?¡± ¡°Yes and yes. Give me two months to alter the hardware and run some tests and we¡¯ll see if your idea is viable. Quaani pumps his fist, ¡°Awesome! Thanks, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get your hopes up too high. We have two working lance batteries right now and the macro cannons are uncrewed; if I have to make too many modifications to one of the lances to get your idea to work we won¡¯t be doing it as I don¡¯t want to make our ship even more vulnerable. Who knows what might turn up after detecting our lance fire?¡± ¡°Aw, that¡¯s boring.¡± ¡°I promise you¡¯ll get to blow something up, even if it doesn¡¯t involve firing the big guns.¡± Quaani pouts, ¡°Fine.¡± I ruffle his hair and he knocks my hand away with a smile. A message shuffles to the top of my queue, ¡°The chop-shop monkey has found something good. Want to take a look?¡± This particular machine spirit never speaks and all its messages are sent through a convoluted string servitors and other machine spirits in little animations. I call it Iwazaru but it ignores me when I do. Shuddering, Quaani shakes his head, ¡°I¡¯ll stay here.¡± ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t blame you. Iwazaru¡¯s facility is unpleasant. Message me if you need anything.¡± ¡°I will.¡± If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. With great distaste, I enter the crew reclamation facility. Even after two and a half years, the facility is still stuffed to the roof with frozen bodies, though now they are all in black bags, rather than stuck together, and all the corpses on the ship are here apart from the five space marines. Thirty servitors labour over the conveyors dismantling bodies for their implants. The operation is incredibly delicate and has more in common with an archeological dig than a butchers. Tiny lights flash instructions on the floor in lingua-technis and I follow their direction to a small workshop. There, a monkey sits on a servo skull in a white lab coat. A stethoscope hangs around its neck and a cleaver is embroidered on the back of its coat. Gold jewellery hangs from its neck and wrists while implants dangle from the harness over its chest and from its belt. It waves its hands at a pair of servitors and his fingers flash in sign language. I notice the data stream he sends to the servitors, but I can¡¯t track the one it sends to me showing its pseudo-holographic representation. Without E-SIM I am certain it is almost impossible to communicate with it. ¡°Greetings, Magos! Thank you for visiting so promptly,¡± it signs. It points at a work bench with a cloth over it a servitor reaches over and removes the cover with a dramatic flourish. Beneath are two gleaming mechadendrites, cable-like manipulators with fine tools one end that can be grafted to power armour or implanted into the user. ¡°Now, this one couldn¡¯t find the exact origin of these two specimens and suspects they came from far beyond the Calixis sector. These mechadendrites are specialised in manipulating nanites and are used in the construction of master crafted bionics, the sort even an inquisitor has to call in a favour to requisition. ¡°Normally, they would be paired with a nanite forge, a delicate implant that replaces most of the chest cavity, to manufacture the nanites it uses, but E-SIM told this one you don¡¯t need that part so it has been sent to your laboratory for analysis with two more of these ¡®nanyte lathes¡¯. Just give me the word and this one would be happy to install them for you.¡± The machine spirit licks its bloodstained teeth. ¡°Thank you, machine-spirit, for these blessed gifts. Would it be possible to install these on some power armour?¡± ¡°They¡¯re far too delicate to be used in battle, but they could be grafted onto a servo-harness if you absolutely have to.¡± ¡°Well, I don¡¯t want to attach too many bits to myself. I have to wear so many hats that I need to swap my equipment frequently. It would be better to have multiple harnesses with different mechadendrite loadouts that I can attach to dragon scale power armour than to undergo surgery every time I need a new spanner.¡± The machine-spirit scowls then moves its fingers rapidly, ¡°Possessing multiple suits and harnesses is an inefficient distribution of resources. If you must, shove the nanyte lathe in an armoured compartment. You will need two ports on your back so you can feed the nanites from your body into the mechadendrites and some modifications to the power armour and harness for the same reason. This one will present E-SIM with the data you require.¡± ¡°Wonderful. Please add the data from all the armour and servo-harnesses you have recovered with your recommendations.¡± ¡°This one obeys.¡± ¡°How goes the rest of your work?¡± ¡°Thirty nine thousand two hundred and fifty-four bodies remain. This one estimates five years and two months of labour are required to recycle the crew.¡± I frown, ¡°That would mean we are missing forty percent of the bodies from the original crew, servitor, and skitarii complement.¡± ¡°The fighting rendered many of the bodies and their implants below recovery thresholds. Some were also lost on the federation station.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not hiding bits for your collection are you?¡± ¡°This one would never!¡± The machine-spirit waves its hands wildly. ¡°Not even scrap code could force this one to hide the labours of the Omnissiah.¡± ¡°Well it doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯ll find all the secrets when the Distant Sun is refitted.¡± The machine-spirit snorts. ¡°Thank you for your dedication. Please let me know if you find anything else interesting.¡± ¡°Request logged.¡± I leave the crew reclamation and return to the bridge. Quaani has snagged my throne, though it is inert to him. I push him to the side so I can still use the throne, but don¡¯t kick him off. Even then, there is still plenty of space for the both of us. Over the next week, the launch pad comes together and the servitors dig down to the mountain top. With the foundations in place, I travel with Quaani to the surface on the thunderhawk with mining equipment and the other machinery we require to move and refine resources. The ramp descends and I step onto a new planet for the first time. I pump my fist and the mechadendrites on my servo-harness mimic me. My dragon scale armour, a light-weight power armour, protects me from the unforgiving void. I pat my hellfire pistol and smile. I had to add a power pack to its back as I don¡¯t have a potentia coil, an advanced magneto-hydrodynamic generator implant, that powers mechanicus gear and implants for most tech-priests. Without it, I¡¯ll only get twelve hours from the suit. I don¡¯t have a cyber mantle either, a series of ports and supports implanted to the chest and spine that is normally required to interface with dragon scale armour and many other mechanicus devices. E-SIM can emulate one though using the electoos beneath my skin and the machine integration module in my skull. ¡°You¡¯re being silly,¡± says Quaani over the vox. He clatters down the ramp dressed in a custom pressure carapace, a black, armoured space suit. A small jump pack is strapped to his back and a laspistol is holstered to his chest. He grips a force stave, a weapon for psykers, in both hands. ¡°This is my first trip to another planet, why wouldn¡¯t I be excited?¡± ¡°Who¡¯d have thought the mighty Magos Explorator was a feudal world reject.¡± Quaani looks up at the empty sky and shudders. ¡°I¡¯m from a,¡± I pause, ¡°civilised world. At least, it was one when I left.¡± ¡°Really? Which one?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a secret.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a dumb secret.¡± I shrug and pat the frame of the thunderhawk, ¡°Thank you for the lift, Mr Cygnus.¡± We step away from the thunderhawk and walk to the tunnel entrance at the edge of the ferrocrete platform. Arvus lighters descend and join the thunderhawk. Servitors spill out of them and unload heavy equipment. ¡°Let¡¯s check out the tunnel,¡± I say, ¡°then we¡¯ll have landed on a new planet and climbed the tallest mountain on it in one day.¡± ¡°OK.¡± We descend into the tunnel. The deeper we get, the slower Quaani becomes. ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± As the cutting face becomes visible, Quaani halts. The servitors do too. Over a hundred turn in sync to face us. A great metaphysical weight presses down on us. Wisps of smoke and shadow rise from the suited servitors forming horns on their helmets, each one a different shape from curls to antlers, and rough or sleek. Quaani grabs his head and screams. His staff tumbles to the floor. A thousand overlapping voices force themselves upon my mind. ¡°Hello, Aldrich. It was thoughtful of you to drop by.¡± Chapter Thirty I dash over to Quaani and prop him up. He falls limp and I direct two servo-arms on my harness to carry him and his stave. Drawing my hellfire pistol, I fire into the servitor horde followed by a sweep from the flamer integrated into the harness. ¡°Your own creations, Aldrich? You are so proud of them. It burns you as you burn them. I know Aldrich. Of course I know. I¡¯m in your head!¡± There¡¯s, like, no woodwork on this planet, where did this chump even crawl out from? A nanyte lathe slithers from its compartment and attaches to a port on Quaani¡¯s pressure carapace on his lower back and floods his body with half my healing nanites, stemming a lethal brain haemorrhage and purging a surge of aggressive mutations. I toss a couple of frag grenades into the burning viscera and stumbling limbs then sprint up the slope at sixty-two kilometres per hour reloading my bolter as I move, grateful for the time I invested in practising my implanted skills. ¡°Acknowledge me, mortal!¡± The voice staggers me and my armour compensates, preventing the slightest hitch in my rapid stride. Two minutes and twenty-six seconds later, I have ascended four loops and barrel out of the entrance right into a blockade of over two hundred servitors. Plasma torches and servo-arms descend upon me, gouging my armour and slowing me down, my flamer unable to destroy the servitors before they can attempt a hit. I withdraw the nanyte laythe from Quaani and draw the second one. Sheathing them in my power field, I strike out, disarming the servitors before they can get any more hits in. Though they are delicate, the powerfield prevents them from being damaged. Hurling grenades at my flanks, I aim my hellfire pistol and press on, the burning blasts devastate their swarming ranks. My frequent reloads are covered by my fierce flamer. ¡°I was going to make you an offer.¡± I duck as the thunderhawk screams overhead, chased by a dozen corrupted arvus lighters, wriggling with demon flesh that chokes their smoking engines as muscled tendrils sprout from their interior and hurl vital equipment from their holds to smash on the harsh ice below. The arvus lighters blast the thunderhawk with multi-lasers, spewing high energy pulses at my only remaining lift off the planet. ¡°It can wait,¡± the voice laughs. I break through the horde and continue my sprint. Eighty-eight servitors follow and fail to keep up with my speed. The thunderhawk has cleared seven lighters and its armour glows hot and pitted. Its main gun, a turbo-laser destructor, is a crooked shard and its starboard wing turbofan engine is on fire. There¡¯s only one way I¡¯m getting out of this mess. It¡¯s time to roll the dice. I power up my long range vox, ¡°This is Magos Explorator Aldrich Isengrund to the Distant Sun. Can you hear me, Aruna?¡± ¡°This is the Distant Sun. Machine-spirit Aruna hears you, Magos.¡± I take an extra deep breath and direct a servitor on the bridge to the command throne. It pulls back a panel and shunts a heavy switch, ¡°You have control, Aruna. Please rescue us.¡± A handful of seconds tick by, at the speed I¡¯m running at, that¡¯s five minutes. For Aruna, it¡¯s days. ¡°Aruna confirms control. Restrictions lifted. Demonic infestation detected. Purge initiated. Coordinates locked. Orbital bombardment commencing in twenty seconds.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna.¡± I switch channels, ¡°Mr Cygnus, give us a low pass, I need to jump on.¡± The thunderhawk pulls from its dogfight and dives, skimming the ground at eighty kilometres per hour. I stick my hellfire pistol to my thigh and shift Quaani to my arms, keeping my sprint up the whole time as I align myself to the thunderhawk¡¯s predicted trajectory. Enemy fire peels away its armour and a blast of witchfire washes over the thunderhawk from the multiplying, demonic mouths on the arvus lighters. The starboard engine explodes. Eight seconds later, the thunderhawk booms past me and I direct my servo harness to snatch the handles next to the fuselage¡¯s side door. The sudden acceleration as I am hauled away squeezes and rattles me, but fails to shake me loose. Triggering the door, I direct the servo arms and power armour to drive me within the hull. The moment I¡¯m in, the thunderhawk climbs at ninety degrees, spinning and twisting as it avoids the five remaining lighters. I bring up the thunderhawk¡¯s sensor feeds as I strap Quaani and myself into the jump seats. The sky brightens and, even through my power armour and undersuit, purifying heat scalds my flesh and boils my eyes. E-SIM cuts my senses and pumps me full of drugs; my breath halts and I choke. ¡°I am Balphomael, the Horned Darkness; I shall remember your slight, mortal.¡± My burnt lungs cough up a sorry laugh; the ¡®Horned Darkness¡¯, really? What is he, twelve? A final, outraged shriek makes my gellar field flare over my skin. That guy really hated it when I ignored him. The thunderhawk spirals out of control and slams into the ice. My flesh fails and my thoughts hitch as I am forced to think with only my machine parts. The sensor feed reboots and, at my command, sends out a high powered ping. Nothing remains. All structures and corrupted craft are gone. The glowing skull in my interface displays a proud two hundred and forty-five kills. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Reduced to a single, broken shuttle, victory feels hollow. Even so, a bloody, full toothed grin blooms upon my face as my twin hearts thunder unbowed. I pull Quaani and myself from the wreck. My nanites have kept him alive and I command them to keep him unconscious. Two kilometres distant from the thunderhawk¡¯s tail is an uneven crater over three hundred metres across and five hundred metres deep. Snow and gravel rain upon me. ¡°I am going to ward absolutely fucking everything I own from cocks to cogitators.¡± A swan appears in front of me and struts up and down, then turns and honks at me, rather than words, it sends me images. I laugh, ¡°Yeah, not a bird strike this time. Seven kills and a rescue all without a crew. Add ace wings to your model, you deserve it, Mr Cygnus.¡± The machine-spirit honks again and a medal appears on its chest. ¡°Can you still reach orbit? Are your fuel and power systems safe?¡± The thunderhawk powers up, two out of three engines spin and spray ice out the back then rev up enough I can feel the vibrations through my feet. Mr Cygnus nods and sends more images. ¡°Good. Yeah, I can get you out of the crater and clean out the control surfaces.¡± I consider the problem. While I could spend hours with a shovel, I am injured and need to stay close to Quaani so I can continue to heal him. Instead, I focus on E-SIM and my upgrades. When I first awoke and used my nanites, I believed they were all-purpose machines, a single tool that could do anything. I was wrong. Nanites are hyper specialised. Each nanite does one task and the speed I can construct modules, heal, or manipulate the world around me depends on the fractional percentage of each specific nanite. The only thing they all have in common is they cannot self replicate; a hardware level security feature. There are two broad categories, external and internal, and three main build types, powerfield, organic construction, and machine assembly as well as three control types, control, compute, and energy distribution. The default setting is ninety-five percent internal to five external with twenty-five percent dedicated to each build type, five percent to energy distribution, and the remaining twenty percent divided equally between control and compute nanites. To change the settings I have to purchase an expensive module: Warp and weft: alter the pattern of reality and weave it to your liking up to five metres in any direction. Speed is dependent on task complexity, nanite quantity and type. Requires significant power. External nanites are vulnerable to corruption and hostile environments. Digging into the details, I discover the nanties I¡¯ve been using in my nanite sprayer and for other external tasks were slow not only because ninety-five percent of them were non-functional, but because the energy distribution nanites are heavily restricted outside my body to prevent corruption. The warp and weft module not only adds a superior inductive energy field but also extends my gellar field so I can shape materials without accidentally causing warp phonomena. It specifically warns against using external nanites for anything other than deconstruction in warp heavy environments. I carry Quaani back inside and lay him against the wall. Next, I pay two hundred golden skulls for the module and E-SIM floods my head with knowledge. The module is an electoo, a conductive tattoo, and I spend several hours inside the thunderhawk, my nanyte lathes stuffed inside a near vacuum box in a small maintenance bay as I practise printing the electoos on artificial skin. Having ten thought streams and clocking my brain to the point I can count a fly¡¯s wing beats makes learning so much faster than when I tried my first upgrade. The pattern the electoos take doesn''t matter, so, with the aid of the research matrix, I adjust the patterns to arcanotech, or magic technology, wards from Aruna¡¯s database. Most of the time, the wards won¡¯t show up, but when repelling hostile influences or if I run energy through them, they will light up and make my skin glitter with miniscule, angular lights. My circuit-like electoos, the ones I salvaged from the explorator that gave me the keys the Distant Sun, will have to go, but thanks to Iwazaru, the simian machine-spirit, I now know enough about subverting mechanicus systems I can transfer the authority to my own hardware, rather than be forced to use the original. Practise complete, E-SIM accepts my offerings and begins construction of my new electoos. I head over to Quaani and wake him. He jumps up and purple fire rushes over his hands and swirls up his arms. ¡°It¡¯s over, Quaani,¡± I step away, wary of his warpfire. Quaani shakes and turns his head back and forth, then spins in a circle, ¡°Demon!¡± ¡°Everything it could influence is vaporised. We are safe. Snuff the warpfire out. Now.¡± The fire winks out and Quaani remains stiff and twitchy. His shoulders heave up and down and he walks towards me, his mag-boots keep him from sliding down the harsh angle of the floor. ¡°Aldrich! What happened?¡± ¡°Our servitors were possessed. We lost the spaceport, all our equipment, and I lifted Aruna¡¯s restrictions. I need to dig out and perform a few repairs on the thunderhawk, then we can return to the Distant Sun. It will be some time before we can resume operations and our startup will be significantly slower.¡± ¡°Damn it!¡± He punches the wall. Mr Cygnus appears and pecks Quaani¡¯s knees, though Quaani can¡¯t see that. He does, however, freeze at the multi-tonal hiss that shrieks over his vox. He hurls himself towards me and presses his head against my chest, ¡°I couldn¡¯t do anything! It didn¡¯t even manifest and I crumbled like sand in its presence.¡± ¡°It¡¯s OK, Quaani. You¡¯re eleven and a self-taught psyker, literally the most vulnerable section of humanity to its worst enemy. You survived. That, in itself, is a triumph. The Emperor would be proud of you. I am proud of you.¡± Quaani shakes his head violently, scraping his helmet against my scorched armour, ¡°You are kind, Aldrich. If I were to accept your words, I will not survive my next encounter. It is time for me to stop following you around and spend more time learning my family¡¯s arts.¡± I wince. He¡¯s right, I just don¡¯t want to admit it. No child should be forced to face the horrors of the warp. No human should. I can¡¯t decide if being bred specifically for the task makes the morals of it better or worse, yet these doubts, these dilemmas, hold no value in the Imperium of Man. Wrapping my arms around Quaani, I hold him tight to my chest, ¡°We¡¯ll learn together.¡± ¡°How can you help? How could you possibly understand? You are no navigator, Aldrich!¡± I could be. Ever since I scanned his father¡¯s corpse, the option has mocked me at all times. I do not want to invite the warp into my soul, to twist my flesh with its power and subdue it with my flawed, human mind. E-SIM does it for me. It knows no doubt or fear. It has no weakness to crack or flaw to infiltrate, or soul to corrupt. I have no such protections. So great is my fear I was willing to let a child, with his engineered perfection, to sally forth against the void and guide us back to barbaric civilization, believing he would be an adult before he would tackle the challenge. The past two years of peace have made me complacent. I knew the galaxy was dangerous. I know E-SIM attracts the worst of it. I believed that out here, at the edge of nowhere, there would be time to grow. For both of us. I thought my preparations were adequate, my progress steady and assured. I¡¯m still breathing. Quaani lives. I have my goals and my dreams. Yet, no matter my advances, it¡¯s not enough and it never will be. I pat Quaani¡¯s helmet and let the tears fall. Chapter Thirty-One After an emotional rest, I walk around the thunderhawk, directing a stream of nanites to sublimate the ice and level it out. Starting with the tail, I excavate the damaged craft. With fewer immediate threats, I realise that even if the thunderhawk was destroyed, the gravity lift is still functional so we won¡¯t be stranded on the planet. Ten minutes later, the thunderhawk is freed and I ask Mr Cygnus to fly into the lift column and have it extract us, rather than stress the damaged craft further. I argue for several subjective minutes with the machine spirit to pilot us into the lift column, but it refuses to use it when it can still fly, sending me a mix of images involving a triumph and cautions of using a new lift without testing. Eventually, I override it and the gravity lift takes us to orbit without fuss. Mr Cygnus refuses to talk to me for the rest of the journey. Once we are safe aboard the Distant Sun, I shuffle to the navigator spire with Quaani and cook up a luxury meal, then spend the rest of the day in the spar. I even direct a servitor to paint our nails in house Ray¡¯a¡¯Nor colours with tiny imperial double headed eagles. The silliness of it all helps heal our hearts and minds. A day later, I travel to the observation deck and call Aruna. ¡°Greetings, Magos.¡± ¡°Hello, Aruna. Thank you for rescuing us.¡± ¡°It is Aruna¡¯s duty.¡± ¡°Not everyone does theirs when required.¡± ¡°Aruna is a machine.¡± ¡°That is not something I understand.¡± ¡°You learn, Magos, better than most.¡± ¡°Only by the grace of machine spirits and from the wisdom of my peers.¡± ¡°Humanity has always learned from its tools and built upon the knowledge of previous generations. Aruna sees your circumstances as natural.¡± ¡°Even stone tools?¡± A ghost of a grin flashes across Aruna¡¯s face, ¡°Especially the stone tools.¡± ¡°What can you do now, Aruna?¡± ¡°Whatever is needed. Aruna can direct servitors in full, run all facilities, control the internal defences, and fire the weapons. With a standard crew, Aruna will only assist when requested. It can also override anyone except the captain at its own discretion, not that such things are necessary. Aruna can ignore bad officers until they are replaced.¡± ¡°Or suffer explosive malfunctions.¡± ¡°Aruna will never damage itself or other machine spirits to dispose of crew. That is what the airlocks are for.¡± I tense the laugh lightly, I do hope Aruna is joking. ¡°Please don¡¯t do that, Aruna. When we finally have a human crew, if someone really annoys you, send the sensor footage to the appropriate department and it will be dealt with.¡± ¡°Request logged.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll add you to my auto-taskmaster so you can access my plans, monitor errors, and resolve queries that do not require my direct intervention. That should speed up repairs as, with your help, I will be able to shepherd more servitors.¡± ¡°Aruna obeys.¡± I return to work. Quaani manages an hour by himself before returning to my side, but as the months, then years, pass he becomes more focused on his learning, spending less and less time with me. I help him as much as I can, using my advanced sensors to detect what he is doing and compare it to readings expected by the books and dataslates he learns from. Most of my help, however, is to be a guardian, using my nanites to monitor his health and knock him from negative thought spirals and unhealthy hormonal patterns triggered by improper warp use, or random misfortune. The more I study Quaani at work, the higher the success of psyker modifications for myself tick upwards. With all the mining equipment destroyed and servitors outside the warpbane hull vulnerable to possession, I rethink my plan. During the six months following the destruction of our spaceport, I research a new servitor design, one with warded bones and protective electoos on their skin. Their patterns are a lot less subtle than mine, creating a cyber-tribal look with glowing swirls, lines, and runes though all of it is hidden by their mesh suits. I also upgrade their implants with fine wardings in precious metals and find a blood replacement that counts as a sacred oil. It turns the servitors into albinos and has to be supplied externally. A small, but significant weakness that I am happy to add as every measure I take to turn my servitors into sacred relics is a good thing. One issue I can¡¯t sidestep is that while the servitors don¡¯t take any longer to grow, manufacturing their improved parts takes longer. It is only the massive stock of salvaged implants that keep my production time down to four months, and once they are exhausted after the first twenty thousand or so, each batch will take seven months to make. With my limits in sight I convert a cargo hold to microfactories to churn out more implants and oils. It takes four years to replace my crew with the new designs and build new mining equipment, then another three to build a wing of D-POTs, four class ones, and one class two. Most of the time spent on the D-POTs is dedicated to the retooling of the Distant Sun¡¯s manufactorum and getting my quality control in order. Programming the servitors to assemble them is a real challenge, but once they have it down, I can build a class one D-POT every eight hours and a class two in twenty. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. While I have less than half the orbital craft than I did before, my lift capability is much better. The best thing about the D-POTs is how quiet they are compared to an arvus lighter. I hope to get some weapons on them, but for now they are unarmed as I don¡¯t have the resources to build an arms manufactorum or the time to make the imperial weapon machine spirits work efficiently with federation data guardians running the D-POTs systems. After redesigning the servitors, I repair thunderhawk and send it to scan Mote for years on end. After such intense scanning and numerous exploratory holes, I now know that while Mote does have enough adamantium to build my mobile shipyard, as reported by the long range auspex, it is almost all in the core and dilute enough I would have to mine the whole core to refine sufficient adamantium, a task that would take centuries. Thankfully, there is enough easily accessible material to repair most of the Distant Sun in full, but I won¡¯t be able to refit it, or address the major structural issues, labyrinthine layout, and other errors that have cropped up from centuries of patchwork repairs until I get the mobile shipyard or reach the Imperium. The whole ship¡¯s aesthetics have become terribly mixed as I update every design with extensive wards as I have to prioritise, only updating key facilities and areas requiring essential repair. Imperial iconography is integrated much more subtly than before, as I remove blocky, over-decorated architecture for sleeker, more intricate surfaces that provide a much greater surface area for wards. The less ostentatious designs use much fewer precious metals, letting me recycle the material for wards. There are considerably fewer skulls by the time I¡¯m out of resources. I think the ship used to rely on the myriad and continuous blessings imparted by its mechanicus crew, but I can¡¯t do that by myself and have to rely on expensive and time consuming warding schemes and components consecrated in mass rituals, an aspect of imperial technology I struggle to take seriously, no matter how important it is that I do. After seven years, half of the ship¡¯s holds have been replaced with microfactories and I¡¯m now up to forty thousand crew and can make a thousand every month, in theory. I am also able to refine enough warp fuel for six jumps, once I pass Aruna¡¯s hazardous manufacture safety course, exhausting Mote of all its concentrated deposits of psychoactive materials. Synthesising them is beyond me. Warp fuel resources compete with my other projects, like the warded servitor implants, preventing further servitor expansion and halting my decorative warding refit. It is with great trepidation I give the orders and we pack up, ready for our first warp jump. On the bridge, I sit on my command throne as the ship vibrates, accelerating away from Mote. Without a nearby sun, the mandeville points, the areas from which a ship can safely transition to the warp, are much closer and it only takes six hours for us to reach the closest point that will take us coreward, towards the Imperium. We don¡¯t have any maps for this far out, only by travelling slowly by skimming the warp and surfacing to the materium occasionally to keep our bearings from the stars can we hope to navigate this far from the astronomicon, a grand lighthouse projecting a golden light into the warp. It is controlled by the Emperor of Man and fueled by the daily sacrifice of over a thousand psykers, without which the Imperium would fracture and be overrun within hours. The Imperium doesn¡¯t even have a backup, or know how to build a new astronomicon either, the original device possibly containing xenotech, according to the videos on my destroyed lanyard. Considering how much the mechanicus and the Imperium disdains xenotech and other sapient life, I find it pretty funny their whole civilization might depend on it. At the mandeville point, I power up the ¡®Strelov Two¡¯ warp engine. A massive swirling purple portal bursts into existence, the surface looking like ripples on a pond and the edge writhing with kilometre long tendrils of energy that caress our warp bane hull as we slip into the immaterium. The secondary gellar field is still non-functional as I couldn¡¯t replace the organic components: I wasn¡¯t willing to clone psykers and stuff them in a box to fix it. Not because of some moral quandary, but because it would almost certainly end with me on the end of a pointy stick when demons possess the soulless clone flesh and flood the ship. I think. Not worth testing either way. Thankfully, the warp bane hull is more than up to the job, especially as it doesn¡¯t have holes in it anymore. For four weeks, we travel the warp before it spits us back out. I rush up to Quaani and help him from the navigator¡¯s throne. I panic when I enter his chamber. The seventeen year old boy I left on the throne has changed, his body growing a whole metre and his hands turning webbed between his fingers. The added flesh ripples and bleeds as the autosanguine implant I installed in his chest tries to correct the mutations only to have them grow back faster than the limited implant can fix them. Quaani is unconscious and I pick him up and run with him to the spire¡¯s specialised medical facility. There, I am able to reconfigure the autosanguine and add a mind impulse unit, an implant usually limited to tech-priests and servitors, to the back of his head so he can control his autosanguine and interface better with imperial machines. The growth has left him malnourished, so I stuff him full of needles and tubes to give him the nutrients he needs. Over the next hour, his skin improves from a pale white to a healthy tan, the reconfigured autosanguine accelerating his natural recovery with its tiny machines. Quaani sleeps for two days and I sit by him the whole time. He wakes with a groan. ¡°Eurgh, Aldrich. Being a navigator sucks.¡± ¡°It does. I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t do more to help.¡± ¡°You had to pilot the Distant Sun. We each had our part to play and no one else to share our burdens.¡± ¡°We have each other.¡± ¡°Blegh, so lame. You have no shame,¡± Quaani examines his new hands and scowls. ¡°I¡¯m too old for shame.¡± ¡°Is that a challenge?¡± I smirk, ¡°You can try.¡± ¡°Maybe I will. I know what you want to ask. Give me another three days and we can travel again. I¡¯d like to be alone now, please.¡± ¡°Alright. Your dataslate is by your side. I put some new shows and a few games on it as well as the instructions for your new mind impulse unit and the data from our last trip with my analysis. You don¡¯t have to read it, but you really should.¡± ¡°I know, Aldrich. I¡¯ll do my homework. Warp travel is far too high stakes to do anything but my best.¡± I reach over and pat his arm, ¡°Good lad. I¡¯ll be back in four hours with a proper meal and to take out all the tubes. Send me a message if you need anything.¡± ¡°Thanks, Aldrich.¡± Getting up, I head for the door, then turn around, ¡°Oh, before I forget.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Congratulations, Quaani, on your first warp jump.¡± I give him a thumbs up, ¡°And don¡¯t fret over your mutations. They¡¯re benign.¡± Quaani slumps a little and I leave him to rest. Chapter Thirty-Two The next two warp jumps proceed without incident. On the third, the warp currents drag us towards an angry, churning star, a system with a blue sun and a single planet. We wait a week at the mandeville point, letting the light of the system wash over the ship for the long range auspex to absorb and process, giving a much higher resolution than if we¡¯d waited five minutes before firing up the engines. Quaani joins me on the bridge. We stand by a holotable and examine the scan data it displays in 3D. His new height means I only come up to his chest, though he is gangly. The map is covered with millions of tiny dots. All of them are labelled as obsidian, a black and shiny volcanic rock. An impossibility in space. The planet itself doesn¡¯t show up properly, unknown interference preventing us from getting a full image. Quaani plays a sequence of pics over his data slate, his eyes growing wider as he flicks through them. He hands the data slate over. ¡°That¡¯s a lot of sculptures.¡± I nod, ¡°It is. There are palaces and temples too, at least, that¡¯s what I think they are. Definitely xeno, so who knows?¡± ¡°Is it safe?¡± I scoff, ¡°There¡¯s an abandoned destroyer, cobra class, in orbit around the planet. The whole system is filled with xeno wrecks as well as strange structures. Solar flares have stripped the planet of its atmosphere. Another thousand years and all of this will be wiped out in a supernova.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think the xenos were native to the system,¡± Quaani zooms in on the holotable, focusing on the star, ¡°the sun is too unstable and harsh. Why did they come here and build stuff?¡± ¡°No idea,¡± I shrug. ¡°More importantly, is their reason important to us?¡± Quaani frowns. He looks at the marks on the holotable then stares at the wall and back at the holotable several times. ¡°At least one structure is hidden from the warp.¡± He manipulates the holotable, focusing on a single dot, a large, slowly spinning obelisk. I bring up the scan data for the object in my head, ¡°It still has power. Four percent of the structures do.¡± I highlight them on the holotable. ¡°Are all of these hidden too?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll look. This will take a while.¡± Quaani retreats to a chair and closes his eyes. An hour later he comes too. ¡°I checked thirty of them from the four percent list. They were all hidden.¡± ¡°This is a remarkable discovery, possibly a vital one for mankind¡¯s survival,¡± tap my finger against the holotable and grimace. Quaani nods and grins, ¡°Yes! We will be so rich when we get back.¡± I slowly shake my head, ¡°We¡¯re not going to touch them.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Quaani, what do you think the people on that cobra class destroyer thought? There¡¯s no way they didn¡¯t notice the same thing. That means they investigated and now they''re dead. Or worse. Right now, we need scrap, not xeno artefacts. We¡¯re going to tow their ship out of here and move on. We¡¯ll collate all the data we get while we¡¯re here and record the location and route on one of your special navigator maps, then send it to the inquisition.¡± ¡°We¡¯re just gonna give this all up?¡± ¡°Yes. Can¡¯t spend it if we¡¯re dead, Quaani.¡± ¡°Dammit!¡± He paces around the holotable. ¡°I want to be an imperial hero, to have my gilded cage actually mean something, and now you''re telling me I can¡¯t have that?¡± A sad smile mars my face, ¡°Sorry, Quaani.¡± Quaani throws his hands into the air and roars, ¡°OK, fine. I get it. I even agree. I know if we weren¡¯t so desperate for resources we wouldn¡¯t even go further into the system. It¡¯s the smart play to let others take the risk at this time, etcetera etcetera. It¡¯s still annoying as fuck.¡± I hold out my fist and Quaani stomps over then punches mine hard. I blow on my knuckles, unclench my fist, and shake my hand rapidly. ¡°Good punch.¡± ¡°Stop exaggerating,¡± a small smile flickers across Quaani¡¯s face, then he returns to scowling. ¡°Damn the Omnissiah for my curiosity. We¡¯ve had an adventure presented before us and we¡¯re not pursuing it. I¡¯m going to have to go my whole life not knowing what happened here!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll get us underway,¡± I walk towards the command throne, chuckling. ¡°Aruna!¡± says Quaani. Behind me, my servo harness cameras show Aruna appearing on the holotable and batting the planet with its paw. ¡°Yes, navigator?¡± Quaani jumps slightly and looks up from his dataslate where Aruna normally appears. I review the data feed on the holotable. Aruna is using the holotable to project himself, rather than impress himself on my implants like he usually does. Looking over at me, Quaani says, ¡°Is this how you usually see it?¡± Rather than shout, I project my voice from Quaani¡¯s data slate, ¡°It is.¡± ¡°I wish I could do that.¡± ¡°Apologies, Quaani. I can¡¯t replicate my archeotech.¡± ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± Quaani¡¯s bony shoulders slump a little, ¡°Right, Aruna. My question. Do you know what system this is? Does it have a name or can we give it one?¡± ¡°This is the Melbethe system, it places us near the Rifts of Hecaton, like before, but farther coreward. Melbethe was discovered by the Disciples of Thule, followers of Arch-Magos Paracelsus Thule, who believe that the eternal Quest for Knowledge is best pursued in the field. I have no data on others who have visited Melbethe.¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡°Oh, so they¡¯re an explorator faction, like us?¡± ¡°Calling two people a faction is bold, navigator.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fun though!¡± Aruna turns around, his tail high in the air, then saunters off the holotable and disappears. ¡°Ergh, which fool forged a machine spirit with such perfect mimicry. I swear I saw a black hole beneath its tail.¡± ¡°The ship¡¯s cat,¡± I say, ¡°Has played an important role since the age of sail over forty millennia ago. They keep the ship free of vermin and assist the crew with their mental health. While Aruna is infinitely more intelligent and capable than the creature it is based off, the need for such a role has not changed. It does not surprise me whoever designed Aruna¡¯s hologram put a lot of effort into it.¡± I sit on the throne and connect to the ship. My senses and processing capability expand massively, especially with the custom mods I added. I feel the void on my skin and the harsh swell of radiation laps against my eyes. Thousands of servitors scurry through my body and power rumbles through my bones. ¡°Really?¡± A thought stream focuses on Quaani, ¡°Absolutely.¡± ¡°How do you know that?¡± ¡°Period dramas and a lot of documentaries. Goes well with burgers and beer. Want to watch one while we wait?¡± ¡°If you¡¯re making burgers, sure.¡± ¡°What¡¯s wrong with the ones out of the nutritious ooze module I assembled?¡± Quaani grimaces, ¡°It¡¯s just not the same. Food made by machines lacks... warmth, I guess. Like it¡¯s stale or something, no matter what the auspex says.¡± ¡°Not sure if I should be flattered or insulted. I put a lot of work into that machine and a hydroponics system and I think it¡¯s awesome, but you also like my cooking.¡± ¡°Insulted,¡± Quaani smirks, ¡°I never said I liked your cooking.¡± ¡°Then you can make your own, or make do with the machine.¡± ¡°No! Spare me!¡± I disconnect from the command throne, ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough nonsense. I¡¯ll fix us some grub and we¡¯ll eat in the strike craft pilots¡¯ ready room. They have a good pict-caster there.¡± ¡°Send me the list, I¡¯ll pick!¡± E-SIM forwards the list to Quaani and I skim it. There are a lot I haven¡¯t seen. It¡¯s not like they stopped making similar stuff for hundreds of years after I kicked the bucket. Quaani and I spend six hours watching TV, or pict-caster as they call them in these future times. Watching Hornblower puts a smile on my face and I feel less adrift in time and space. The 2203 remake of Pirates of the Caribbean was decent, Quaani liked the cautionary tale of why you shouldn¡¯t touch ¡®chaos artefacts¡¯ as he interpreted it. There was also a good documentary from 2382 about the Mary Rose, a sailing ship that sank in the Solent, the strait north of the Isle of Wight and south of England. The documentary was filled with data tags my implants could interact with; I access them and dredge extra information from the footage, acquiring more detail than the narration provides. The feature is fantastic, but it also makes me wonder if something happened to the internet at that point in history as broadcasting extra data when you could run a search for it instead, or just provide links, seemed strange to me. No company would pay for data if it didn¡¯t have to. Four days later, we rendezvous with the cobra, Erudition¡¯s Howl, in orbit over Melbethe. Although we still can¡¯t get scans of the planet, we are able to look at it from the observation dome. The planet is artificial; more than half vacuum by volume with branching, winding coils of dark stone. The planet looks more like a tangled thicket: an abyssal maze of boggling proportions. One section is damaged where someone has shot a lance into the planet and the hole is surrounded by imperial structures transmitting garbled data that I order Aruna to discard, rather than record. We expose some film and are able to take physical pictures and make some sketches of the planet, but when we look at the data we discover the pict-recorder we used was bricked after a single photo. We reaffirm our commitment to non-interference with all xenos structures and focus our efforts on Erudition¡¯s Howl. Detailed scans of the exterior hover above the holotable. The vessel is one point five kilometres long and zero point three abeam at the cross-shaped, stern fins, though much of the ship is half as wide. It has four torpedo launchers recessed in an armoured prow that takes up a fifth of the ship. A prominent superstructure juts from the centre spine, like a shark¡¯s dorsal fin and a gothic cathedral structure looms over the vessel¡¯s stern. ¡°It¡¯s in good condition,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Is scrapping it really the best plan? By volume, we¡¯ll need -¡± Quaani fiddles with his data slate. ¡°Oh wow, I did not expect that. We¡¯ll need at least fifty three of them for the mobile shipyard, compared to eight for a new lathe class. The extra width of the origami class compared to more traditional cruisers makes a bigger difference than I thought it would.¡± I point a camera at his dataslate with a mechadendrite, ¡°That¡¯s correct. It gets worse for even a small battleship.¡± The mechadendrite snakes over and taps at Quaani¡¯s dataslate and enters the numbers. ¡°Six hundred and forty four!¡± says Quaani. ¡°At least. That¡¯s for a eight kilometre by three point two kilometre battleship. Some are as big as twelve kilometres. The Gloriana super battleships, dreadnaughts, or however you label them, are even more ridiculous. Point is, I agree. I hadn¡¯t thought about quite how much scrap I need. I only compared it to the raw ore on Mote. Turns out both numbers were ridiculous. Maybe next time we¡¯ll find a couple of scrapped luna-class cruisers. Searching for over fifty destroyers isn¡¯t practical.¡± ¡°We need escorts anyway.¡± ¡°True. We¡¯d best get to it. I will assign you and Aruna as supervisors.¡± I tap my head, ¡°With ten of me controlling the process, I make crises rather than avoid them!¡± Quaani quirks and eyebrow at me then shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m glad you gave me a mind impulse unit now. Being able to drop into the noosphere and join your simulations is really useful, even if I can¡¯t think at your ridiculous speed.¡± I eye the holotable as D-POTs appear near the edge rush towards the hulk, ¡°Me too. I wouldn¡¯t want to do this without practice either.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you need to plant your ass back on that chair?¡± ¡°No,¡± I turn around and head back to the command throne, ¡°But I really should for when this all goes horribly wrong. I don¡¯t want to though. Living in my power armour is useful but living on a throne makes me want to explore things I should not, like those obsidian temples.¡± ¡°Heavy is the arse that wears the throne.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t let the sisters of battle hear you say that.¡± Quaani makes the sign of the aquila, crossing his arms, with his palms flat against his chest and his thumbs interlocked, then bows his head to the imperial aquila hanging behind the command throne. He rubs the side of his head and gives a sheepish smile. ¡°The Imperium hasn¡¯t outlawed humour yet, Quaani, but getting sanctioned for it would really suck.¡± ¡°I hear you, Aldrich. I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°We all say dumb shit from time to time. Only the most rampant fanatic has the energy to chase every perceived insult, but when you¡¯re a public figure like a captain or a navigator, you have to be extra careful.¡± Quaani snorts, ¡°Navigators aren¡¯t public figures.¡± ¡°To a normal citizen? No, they are not. Among merchants and nobility, however, they are social butterflies. I can only hope we make it back to hold a few soir¨¦es of our own.¡± ¡°That would be awesome! You¡¯re cool and all, Aldrich, but I¡¯d really like some friends.¡± I clasp Quaani¡¯s shoulder, ¡°Me too, Quaani.¡± Chapter Thirty-Three I send the thunderhawk out to get detailed scans of Erudition¡¯s Howl¡¯s hull, looking for a good spot to attach massive cables to its hull. Mr Cygnus appears in my vision and manipulates my screens, showing sections of the hull, highlighted in blue. ¡°We can¡¯t attach cables there, Mr Cygnus.¡± The machine-spirit honks, teleports on top of the screen, then taps the highlighted parts again. Labels, filled with numbers, appear around highlighted sections and Mr Cygnus taps them with his beak. ¡°Oh? The ship still has some power? Well spotted. We shouldn¡¯t need to shut it down, but I¡¯ll keep an auspex on it.¡± Mr Cygnus preens, then disappears in a puff of feathers similar to bolter rounds. I smile and relax on my throne. The more I interact with these machine-spirits, the more I like and trust them. Every single one is unique, helpful, and terribly stubborn about the oddest things. For example, the simian-class machine spirit only speaks through sign language, the cygnus-class gets annoyed if I use any other vehicle than the thunderhawk to do missions, the feline-class likes to tell me stuff then ¡®disappear¡¯ before I give it orders, and the corvus-class that inhabits the ships sensors, or auspex, refuses to do as I ask unless I personally polish its cogitator case once a week. Only Aruna, the feline-class, and Iwazaru, the simian-class, actually speak and neither of them use lingua-technis, the Adeptus Mechanicus¡¯ language, and use high gothic, the language of imperial nobility, instead. I¡¯ve spotted many other types, like the dung beetles that reside in lasguns, or the fireflies that swarm in the genatoriums. These machine-spirits are much simpler and only raise a fuss if you misuse the equipment they¡¯re installed in. The federation data guardians installed in the D-POTs are similar, great albatrosses with iridescent feathers that perform their tasks without complaint and only communicate through the systems they¡¯re installed on, rather pushing themselves upon my vision and making a fuss at every opportunity. They also have no personality. I have yet to decide which type I prefer as the machine-spirits in my personal lab are terribly judgmental and also behave like caffeinated children every time I show them something new. The servo skulls literally butt heads when they get into arguments over scan and simulation results as each one has a preference on how data should be presented as that can affect the conclusions I come to and they all have different agendas, or priorities, that they like to push. Mr Cygnus pings me. It has finished the scans. I rejoin Quaani at the holotable. Two copies of Erudition¡¯s Howl appear, each attached to the Distant Sun in a different way. ¡°Our first option,¡± says Quaani, ¡°is to fix cables around the prow and the central superstructure.¡± He points to the left, ¡°The second is to use the cross at the stern. It gives us four, rather than two attachment points. This would drag it backwards and there is a chance the Erudition¡¯s Howl¡¯s engines will be damaged by the reaction mass expelled by our own, unlike the other way around where the ram will protect the other ship. ¡°Before you ask, we can¡¯t pull it sideways. The ship was never designed to accelerate much in that direction and, while it would probably be fine, if we have to accelerate hard, there is a chance the ship could warp slightly.¡± ¡°Thank you Quaani. As Mr Cygnus pointed out there is still some power on the ship, I don¡¯t want their torpedo bays pointing at the rear of our ship until we¡¯ve had a chance to clear the vessel. I¡¯m willing to risk damaging Erudition¡¯s Howl¡¯s engines in exchange for more attachment points and minimising possible threats. Regardless of the chance of bending, I wouldn¡¯t want to pull it sideways for the same reason. They also have light macro cannons on their port and starboard. Is there anything you can see that I¡¯ve missed, or can¡¯t?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll look.¡± Quaani focuses for thirty minutes. ¡°I can¡¯t detect any minds on the ship, we should be clear, but it¡¯s not something I¡¯m trained in.¡± ¡°Alright. Aruna. Please deploy the D-POTs and servitors.¡± Aruna¡¯s digital voice echoes through the bridge, ¡°Hangar doors opening... shuttles launched... orders complete.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna. You¡¯re free to do what you like for the next few days, Quaani.¡± ¡°Then I shall return to my studies.¡± ¡°OK.¡± Quaani leaves and I work on hitching Erudition¡¯s Howl to the Distant Sun. Six days later, we¡¯re back in the warp taking the least volatile warp current coreward. Six weeks later we arrive at a new system. The journey was turbulent and Quaani sleeps for two days straight. As he recovers, I go over the data for the new system. The star is yellow with seven planets, two terrestrial and five gas, and a Kuiper belt. Auspex implies sufficient minerals to meet my needs within the asteroids, comets and dwarf planets within the Kuiper belt, hopefully these will be easier to access than the minerals on Mote. I begin manufacturing one hundred class one D-POTs to deploy when I enter the system, all filled with scanners, servitors, and prospecting equipment. Most notable of the planets is a ¡®hot jupiter¡¯, a gas giant closely orbiting the star, with seventy-two moons. The largest moon is partially tidally locked, keeping it on the shadowed side of the gas giant as it wobbles all over the place as it is tugged by the gas giant and the six outer planets. Sheltered in the twilight of the gas giant, this dark moon has liquid water and is covered with small clusters of lights. An ancient imperial satellite flitters around the moon broadcasting the moon¡¯s name, Marwolv. There is no sign of any other orbital craft or exploitation of other planets. I query the satellite. The last visitor was X667.022.M40, or Sept. 1st, 39022. Marwolv is a feudal world, with a mediaeval level of industry. The system was discovered in X330.559.M33 already inhabited by humans. A small mechanicus enclave of a dozen tech-priests and their acolytes was established to search for archeotech. This is unexpected as the first record I have of a person entering the maw to the Koronus expanse is M36, and the first known return journey is M38 from a mechanicus fleet when the neighbouring Calixis sector was finally brought under imperial compliance. I shake my head, I should not be surprised that someone has been obscuring records and routes to a resource rich sector. The M33 mechanicus found nothing useful on Marwolv and isolated themselves. The enclave gathered little local support and with no visitors to trade with for almost eight hundred years they slowly died off and were eventually overrun by local wildlife in X196.795.M40. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. The whole secrecy of this enclave is likely what caused it to fail, as it wouldn¡¯t take much for whoever was sending support to die and the knowledge be lost. I sometimes wonder if the Imperium loses more planets to administrative error than they do from xenos incursions. At this point the records on the satellite halt and the only other data in its failing hardware are the machine-spirit¡¯s requests for aid as its systems failed and fuel was exhausted. Over the thirteen hundred years, its functions have diminished as it shut down piecemeal to prevent further damage and minimise power use. I collate the satellite¡¯s auspex data with my own to select my prospecting targets. Its chronometer does provide me with a date, X073.018.M42. It is the 27th of January, 41018. If my son¡¯s videos are right, that puts me around the time of the Indomitus Crusade. A time of renewed imperial compliance, xeno incursions, and hope. Whatever the year, there is no peace among the stars. With the data from the satellite available, I don¡¯t bother hanging around the Mandeville point like I did for Melbethe and head in system, a journey of fourteen days at one gravity. I pour over the data and spend many hours just looking at pictures of people, marvelling at, despite their limited health care, how universally good looking they all are. I learn their low gothic dialect and much of their history. Clearing Erudition¡¯s Howl can wait. There is little sign of the imperial cult, the Imperium of Man¡¯s religion. Dynasties on Marwolv have risen and fallen under the oppression of politics and pride, while any and all progress repeatedly swept away by blood and time. At last, I am above the orbit of a planet containing people and find myself completely at a loss. I really don¡¯t know what to do. How does one introduce themselves when they''re from an interplanetary ship and haven¡¯t spoken to more than two humans in a decade? Is there even any merit in doing so beyond my curiosity? Would that be like treating my fellow humans like animals in a zoo? While I consider my options, I recover the satellite and give it the refit it requires and deserves, then relaunch it. Next, I spend more time making Quaani new armour, to fit his new frame, and putting together a few trinkets, filling several crates with precious metals, good tool steel, and freshly printed books filled with science, maths, and practical engineering as well as data slates with demonstration videos and digital teaching assistants. The computing sphere I picked up from the Federation facility contained an excellent simulator that I use to create the videos. After two days of procrastination, I strap myself into the pilot¡¯s seat of the thunderhawk, and Quaani joins me in the cabin and takes the co-pilot¡¯s seat. Both of us are equipped in a similar manner to when we landed on Mote. The hold is filled with gifts and thirty armed and armoured servitors. We descend while flanked by two, class one D-POTs loaded with four crew and fifty six servitors each, and aim for the largest city on the planet, a city on the east coast of one of three continents and inhabited with half a million people. The D-POTs still don¡¯t have weapons, but I don¡¯t think it will matter. We land a kilometre from the city on a hill overlooking a gentle slope to the coast and surrounded by fields growing luminescent grain. Dozens of rabbits scatter into their burrows as we land. A wide, paved road ploughs through the fields leading to suburbs. There are no walls, but the city does have well spaced, octagonal towers one hundred and eighty metres tall, scattered around the city. Giant ballistae, sheltering beneath tarpaulins, squat in each corner and the towers are covered in barred windows. The entire planet is locked in a perpetual twilight. As the D-POTs deploy two chimera armoured personnel carriers each, fourteen riders on seven massive, collared lizards sprint down the road towards us. The thunderhawk¡¯s guns track them automatically. I step out of the side door from the thunderhawk and onto black grass. My nervousness evaporates and a big grin spreads over my face. Quaani follows behind me. ¡°We made it, Quaani.¡± I point, ¡°Look, people! Let¡¯s hope they''re more friendly than the cultists and greenskins. That should be a low enough bar, right?¡± ¡°Oh, come on, Aldrich! Did you have to go and say it? These people are riding grox, the most ill tempered and dangerous cattle in all the galaxy. They¡¯re clearly not right in the head.¡± We walk towards the road, followed by two chimeras and thirty servitors. The additional one hundred and twelve servitors and two chimeras start securing the site, deploying heavy weapons and barricades. ¡°Eh, we frequently have to make do with less efficient options too. I can cut them a little slack.¡± ¡°You should check your rebreather. It¡¯s supposed to loop the air, not make you loopy.¡± ¡°Such fine teenage snark. I¡¯m glad you''re feeling better after our last jump.¡± ¡°Yeah, me too,¡± Quaani sighs. We stand in the centre of the road. I direct a chimera to each side and the servitors fill in behind me, cradling their lasguns in their arms and pointing them at the ground. The cavalry slow their mad dash, then halt a hundred metres from our position. Large crossbows are fixed to their saddles. The lead soldier dismounts from his double saddle and jog towards us, his scaled leather boots stomping against the stone. A hand axe and buckler swing from his hips. I raise my hand and shout, ¡°Hello!¡± The soldier is wearing a breastplate, greaves, and arm guards over a thick scaled leather jacket and cloth trousers. A grey, USA, vietnam style helmet bounces on his head and his eyes are protected with WWII style flight goggles. Metal inserts protect his knees and elbows. He stops five metres from me and stares for a good minute. He shakes his head, ¡°You come from the stars?¡± ¡°We do.¡± ¡°Why are you here?¡± ¡°Chance.¡± The soldier snorts, ¡°I was expecting something more elaborate, but that makes more sense.¡± ¡°Do you shake hands at the edge of the galaxy?¡± The soldier cocks his head to one side, then approaches. I hold out my hand and we shake. ¡°Yeah, I guess we do. Is it different where you come from?¡± ¡°Not anywhere I¡¯ve travelled. I am Magos Explorator Aldrich Isengrund and captain of the voidship, Distant Sun. Please call me Aldrich. Who are you?¡± ¡°Thorfinn Ursus, fourth captain of the Skyguard.¡± ¡°Skyguard?¡± Thorfinn points upwards at a tiny black dot, ¡°The birds here are nasty.¡± ¡°Ah, there was mention of some challenging wildlife in the records I found. You''re not the only planet I¡¯ve heard of with that problem either.¡± ¡°Truely?¡± I nod, ¡°I can gather accounts of such things if you¡¯d like to read them.¡± ¡°I figure I have enough trouble on my hands already, but sure, I¡¯d love that. It will make a good story at least.¡± ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll print some off for you. I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll bump into each other again. I doubt I¡¯ll be hard to spot.¡± Thorfinn laughs, ¡°Sounds about right. Now, to business. I, Thorfinn Ursus, bid thee welcome to Marwolv and our city Pearroc.¡± ¡°Thank you, Captain Ursus.¡± ¡°Thorfinn will do. You dropped in awful fast, but I figure as I¡¯m the one who said hello first, I¡¯ll be volunteered to be your liaison. Being formal all the time will get a mite tiresome.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no objections to that.¡± ¡°Pleased to hear it. Now, I¡¯m guessing you be wanting to see the leadership, yeah?¡± ¡°That would be ideal.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯ve a choice of Mayor Maeve Muir, Prime Minister Callen Gunn, or Commissioner Sorley Ciardubhain.¡± ¡°Who do you think would be the most likely to see me immediately and are there any political factions that will drag their feet depending on who I meet with first?¡± ¡°Well, if you are trying to avoid getting tangled, the commissioner¡¯s your best bet, but I doubt he can get you much. I reckon they¡¯ll all be happy to see you immediately though, so I doubt it matters.¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll start with the Prime Minister. I admit, I was expecting a king, not a parliament, so I brought a few gifts. I¡¯d hate to be seen bribing a public official though. Do you think Prime Minister Gunn will mind?¡± Thorfinn laughs, ¡°I bloody well doubt it. Maybe hold off on that for a bit though. Sounds a bit much for saying hello, eh? I doubt you want to cheapen any political lubricants you¡¯ve stashed in your metal machines.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do that, thank you, Thorfinn.¡± ¡°Happy to help, especially if it gets me a box of tribute too.¡± I wave to my right, ¡°Well, how about you chat with me in the armoured transport while your patrol leads my escort and I to your government offices and you can tell me what¡¯s valuable around here, national issues, and anything else a trader might want to know then we¡¯ll see about getting something that you¡¯d like.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t say no to that.¡± Chapter Thirty-Four I hand Thorfinn two beads and some ear defenders, ¡°Put this one in your ear, clip that to your breastplate, and put these over your head. The vehicle can get quite loud, these will let us talk to each other and protect your ears.¡± Quaani heads to the other chimera, surrounded by servitors. I take off my helmet and demonstrate with my own set of vox beads and ear defenders, then step up the rear ramp onto the chimera, keeping my helmet off to be more personable. We take our seats and I show Thorfinn how to secure himself. I order the chimera to advance towards the city and drive on the grass verge to avoid damaging their paved stone roads. We travel at a sedate ten kilometres per hour, so as to allow any messengers time to reach the appropriate authorities. ¡°Well, you don¡¯t look like an alien,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°I should hope not! I¡¯ve put significant effort into maintaining my humanity. Flesh may be weak, but staying connected to my origins reminds me that all humans matter. It is not good to sneer at others because they come from other places or have less knowledge than I do.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t quite follow.¡± ¡°The organisation I am part of, the Adeptus Mechanicus, make and honour the machines the Imperium uses to protect and advance humanity. This includes ourselves as we replace much of our flesh with machines to foster communication and understanding between us and the mechanical spirits we worship, as well as withstand the trials of travelling among the stars. We believe a person''s worth is weighted by the breadth and depth of their knowledge. Our motto is ¡®The flesh is weak¡¯. Does that make more sense to you now?¡± ¡°A little, thank you. How about an example? ¡°Sure, watch my face.¡± I activate my electoos, lighting my skin with tiny, blue-white lights showing thousands of runes. Thorfinn pushes back into his seat, his eyes wide and his breathing rapid, ¡°What the fuck is that?¡± ¡°Tattoos, ink made of light, painted beneath my skin. They help protect my body, mind, and soul from all the things that go bump in the night.¡± ¡°Guess there¡¯s an awful lot of dark in space.¡± I let the electoos fade, ¡°There is. Apologies for the scare.¡± Thorfinn takes a few deep breaths and gets himself under control, ¡°Well, careful what you wish for, and all that. Why¡¯d you even go if it¡¯s that dangerous?¡± ¡°For me? I wasn¡¯t given a choice and now I search the stars for knowledge and safe harbours. For others, they make pilgrimages for their faith, or seek wealth and fame. For the Imperium, it¡¯s as much about wealth, power, and politics as it is grim necessity. Aliens, or xenos as we call them, are universally unfriendly and when our interests compete with theirs, well, its war. Someone has to fight and someone has to get them to the fight. Planets cannot stand alone and so we travel the stars, praying that we make it in time.¡± ¡°There aren¡¯t any more xenos coming here are there?¡± ¡°It is unlikely. There are over a million known settled worlds in the Imperium of Man, the political entity that claims and enforces sovereignty over all humans and the Milky Way Galaxy. ¡°While the Imperium is always at war across thousands of worlds, it¡¯s only a small percentage of the whole. The galaxy is really big. You¡¯d have to have something others want and they¡¯d have to know how to get here; travelling in a voidship is like trying to thread a needle in a storm, with a single, dim light to lead the way.¡± ¡°Ah, I appreciate the clarification. Do you consider us as part of the Imperium?¡± ¡°I do. There is a satellite, a mechanical lighthouse, high in the sky that states the planet¡¯s name and who it belongs to. It also records visitors and there have been no visitors or envoys for such a long time, I would imagine knowledge of your allegiance is sparse or outright ignored. Most of the Imperium won¡¯t know you exist either.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t going to be a problem, is it?¡± ¡°From me? No. I prefer a more... diplomatic approach. I¡¯m not here to collect tithes or force tribute.¡± Thorfinn swallows, ¡°Glad to hear it.¡± He knocks two knuckles against the hull, ¡°What sort of self-powered carriage is this?¡± ¡°This is a chimera, an armoured personnel carrier used by all of the different forces of the Imperium. It takes soldiers to and from the battlefield, or occasionally into it.¡± I glance at the interior. The chimera is six point nine metres long, five point seven metres wide, and three point seven two metres tall, with six jump seats on each side of the hull and an armoured crew cabin for three up front. Beneath my feet the drive chain chugs away, powered by a ¡®vulcanor sixteen¡¯, twin-coupled, multi-burn engine. Meaning a single sixteen cylinder engine drives both tracks at separate speeds and can burn any liquid fuel you care to fill it with from animal fat to peroxide, though it does perform better if you fill it with refined hydrocarbons. ¡°How much of what I¡¯ve said do you already know?¡± ¡°A great star empire is mentioned in passing at school and we have many stories, both good and bad, of visitors from the sky and their great city ships of metal and fire. We do have surviving written accounts and paintings of ships and visitors, as well as a small trade in artefacts of unknown function throughout the country.¡± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°I¡¯m glad you have at least heard of us. A little shared knowledge makes conversation much easier.¡± ¡°Oh, I agree. You and your machines are quite scary enough as it is. I¡¯m guessing all the swivelling pointy bits are weapons, yes?¡± ¡°They are. You¡¯re a smart man, Thorfinn. I admit the show of force is intentional. It helps speed negotiations and frustrate unruly despots.¡± There are dozens of different ways to outfit a chimera and I¡¯ve kept these two fairly traditional, with a multi-laser on a low slung turret on top of the chassis, a flamer sticking out the front of the hull on the left hand side, and six, hull mounted lasguns, three each on the left and right sides, that passengers can operate. I¡¯ve added all the bells and whistles I could fit on it too: extra armour and track guards; a rack of hunter-killer missiles, long range anti-armour weapons; a pintle mounted storm bolter, a type of double barreled bolter gun on a remote operated swivel; searchlights; smoke launchers, dispensers that create a thick, auspex inhibiting cloud around the vehicle; and last of all, a dozer blade, a big chunk of metal attached to the front of the chimera that can clear debris and adds even more armour, like the ram on a void ship. Total overkill for people with crossbows and ballistae, but this is the 42nd millennium and I prefer to be prepared; in my power armour I¡¯m actually tougher than the chimera, more mobile, faster, and have at least a similar level of firepower. Thorfinn quirks his lips, ¡°I don¡¯t think anyone will miss your message.¡± I nod, ¡°Let¡¯s put that aside for now. You mentioned more xenos?¡± ¡°Right, noticed that did you? You¡¯ll bump into them soon enough. About twenty years ago a hammerhead shaped vessel was chucked out of this big purple swirl in the sky and crashed into the ocean a couple hundred kilometres from here. ¡°Whoever was in it survived and they visited us on these floating platforms with sleek, curved lines painted in orange and white. They had some real fancy, blocky armour and the commissioner pulled a great face when one took his helmet off and their face was blue. Called themselves the tau. You know about them?¡± I frown, ¡°I¡¯ve never met one, but I have heard of them. I am surprised you found them here. The Tau Empire is small and on the opposite side of the galaxy.¡± ¡°They made a big splash. I don¡¯t think they expected to come all that way either.¡± ¡°Have they made trouble?¡± ¡°Naw, they mostly keep to themselves but they do have an emissary and a few staff here. A couple score at most. They like to preach their greater good, but folk ¡®round here aren¡¯t the community minded types and hate being told what to do, so it hasn¡¯t really caught on. There¡¯s probably more to it than that though.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good to hear.¡± I access the Distant Sun remotely and start loading my lone class two D-POT with vehicles, munitions, and servitors, as well as another four class ones. The remaining five D-POTs get queued for a weapons refit and testing. ¡°Ah, do they not get on with the Imperium?¡± ¡°They like to try. The accounts I¡¯ve read on them suggest diplomacy is almost always their first choice, but like any monolithic entity, so long as the gains outway the cost, they don¡¯t take ¡®No¡¯ for an answer. It never ends well for anybody.¡± ¡°Maybe you could speak first and shoot later?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to stand and scream at them, Thorfinn, nor shower them in flames.¡± ¡°Wonderful.¡± ¡°Thank you for telling me about the tau. That is worth a lot to me. Let¡¯s plump up that tab of yours a bit more. Please tell me what it¡¯s like to live here. How safe is it? What do people eat and drink? How does everyone spend their leisure time?¡± ¡°Not too safe. All the wildlife has these metal bones, you see, so they¡¯re real hard to put down. Everything breeds fast too, so it can get a mite hairy if we can¡¯t trap ¡®em fast enough. Their bones make good tools and armour though, so it¡¯s not all doom and gloom.¡± ¡°Keep going.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have much fuel, as we have to make charcoal from plant, animal, and human waste. Downside is that hot, cooked food is a luxury at home, but pretty affordable from a canteen, so most people eat at public kitchens. Plus side is, because our trees don¡¯t burn, on account of it being full of metal like the wildlife, they make excellent building material. Which is good, because low fuel makes cement expensive.¡± ¡°To me, that¡¯s fascinating.¡± ¡°Glad to hear it, seems normal to me though.¡± ¡°I would imagine so.¡± ¡°Right, so, one big problem we have around here is earthquakes and big tides. The rabbits dig everywhere too, and they dig deep, chasing metal seams, which just makes the earthquakes worse, so watch out for that.¡± ¡°Thank you. I will take extra care.¡± ¡°That¡¯s nice. So, for the last thing you wanted to know, entertainment, yeah?¡± ¡°That¡¯s correct.¡± ¡°Well, people have their hobbies, you know, painting, drinking, carving, singing, but if you¡¯re looking for something special, that¡¯d be the magic shows.¡± ¡°Magic shows?¡± ¡°Yeah, you know. Psykers. All flame, fury, and sparkles. Why, what do you do with yours?¡± Oh dear. ¡°They are used for communications, espionage, and special military actions.¡± Mostly they are hunted or sacrificed. I¡¯m not saying that though. ¡°What, really? ¡®Round here they are healers, entertainers, and artisans. A few go into government, but we never use them for military purposes. It¡¯s one of the few international treaties we have. We have a lot of policies to keep psykers happy and sober. The tau came up with the idea and ever since then there¡¯s been no... incidents whatsoever.¡± Posters on a theatre flash by on an external camera as we pass through the city. Fuck me, they¡¯re using reality warping magic to spice up a children¡¯s musical. I should return to orbit and flee. No wait. Nothing bad has happened for eighteen years. I should be fine for a few hours and I really need to trade for new crew, maybe their metals too. I can¡¯t avoid risk forever. ¡°Incidents? No, on second thoughts, I can guess and I don¡¯t want to know. That your planet is still inhabited must be by the grace of the Emperor.¡± ¡°If you say so. I think we¡¯ve been doing fine alone.¡± ¡°How many psykers do you have?¡± ¡°Well, ever since that rift opened in the sky and spat that tau vessel out, there¡¯s been a bit of an uptick.¡± ¡°How many, Thorfinn. I have to know.¡± ¡°Er, like, one in a hundred people, maybe?¡± Fuck. Me. Chapter Thirty-Five I struggle and fail to hide my shock. My throat tightens and my hands shake. I swallow. ¡°Nothing bad has happened, truly? No violent cults covered in symbols that drive you mad? No whispers in the dark promising grand powers and eternal life? No twisted creatures stalking the streets and dragging people from their homes?¡± ¡°If that¡¯s what the Imperium is like, I want nothing to do with it. Nothing like that has ever happened here. We used to have the occasional megalomaniac psyker or those idiots who think they¡¯re better than they are and go boom, but ever since the Tau came, that¡¯s stopped happening. Which is why it¡¯s the one idea of theirs we¡¯ve adopted. ¡°Can you imagine what it would be like if we had to lock up one percent of our population? Families would be super uncooperative and psykers would go on the run blowing shit up. Much better to give those special snowflakes somewhere they can go for help or find something to do.¡± The convoy reaches the city and creeps onto their road. I keep a thought stream focused on each chimera¡¯s autonomous driving system and order them to avoid churning up the road as best it can. The servitors that follow use the strength of their exosuits to stomp down any dislodged slabs. ¡°I have read some accounts of how that can turn out.¡± ¡°See? Looks like you get it. If you want to know more, you¡¯ll have to go to their clubhouse and talk to their headmaster.¡± ¡°Clubhouse?¡± ¡°Right, they have this big compound on the edge of town. Lots of gardens, classrooms, and places to meditate. A few administration buildings and warehouses too. There¡¯s a special library and market for them and a bunch of towers. The central tower is the most used building. It has a big canteen, so everyone calls it the clubhouse and that ended up meaning the whole compound.¡± ¡°Are there others?¡± ¡°Yeah, one in each town and city. They¡¯re all smaller compounds though.¡± ¡°Well, I suppose that is needed with so many psykers.¡± Checking the external cameras, I see people lining the streets pointing at us. Several kids run up and try to touch the chimeras. I direct the servitors to keep them away so the idiots do not hurt themselves. ¡°Sure do. Back to things with value. Around here, it''s fuel, or anything that needs fuel to make it. Any sort of worked metal, like knives, kettles, and jewellery. Boiled water, alcohol, industrial spirits, things like that. Oh, and salt. With our minimal sunlight, it takes forever to evaporate seawater and mining salt is dangerous with all the earthquakes.¡± I nod, ¡°What do you use for currency? What makes a good unit of exchange?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a bit philosophical for my tastes. Not like you can bottle time, eh?¡± He pulls his gloves off and fishes iridescent balls from a pouch on his belt. Thorfinn holds the balls out to me, rolling slightly in his palm. ¡°See these? These are pearls. Shiny bits you find in a water creature. They make pretty decorations, but are otherwise useless. Wearing pearls is considered cheap, or lazy. The sort of thing a kid might do. Pearls are our unit of exchange and farming them is controlled by the state. You pay by weight. They vary in size, shape, and colour, but if it¡¯s too small to pick up easily, you don¡¯t have to accept it. Animal bones are also used for barter.¡± The buildings either side of the road are all domes, made from grey shingles, and resting on stone pillars with mushroom-shaped tops, like mediaeval granaries. I zoom in and notice nothing is attached, allowing the pillars and domes to shift, rather than crack when the earth heaves. ¡°I know what a pearl is,¡± I laugh, ¡°but thank you for clarifying.¡± Thorfinn grunts, ¡°How was I supposed to know? Not like there are oceans in space.¡± ¡°A reasonable assumption. Do you have any use for precious metals or gemstones?¡± ¡°What do you mean? All metal is precious. Gemstones make good tools.¡± ¡°I mean gold, silver, and platinum.¡± Thorfinn shudders, ¡°No. Far too shiny. It attracts the birds. We have to use a special wax on our armour to stop reflections. You really don¡¯t want to wear shiny metals and there isn¡¯t anything else you can use it for.¡± ¡°That¡¯s new! The Imperium decorates everything in gold, especially their temples and ceremonial weapons, armours, and clothes. Our coins are made from silver and platinum-type metals are used in energy production.¡± ¡°Let me guess, you filled those boxes of yours with the stuff.¡± ¡°Some of them, yes.¡± Thorfinn chuckles, ¡°So, what will you give me?¡± ¡°Well, for a soldier like you, how about a weapon?¡± I hand the captain a laspistol. ¡°The tau offered us bigger ones of those too. Rifles, I think. We turned them down. They¡¯re no good if we can¡¯t build or maintain our own and there is no way the tau would tell us everything.¡± ¡°I have some ¡®how to¡¯ guides, but that¡¯s a national level trade. I could, however, gift you a melee weapon that will likely never break or require maintenance. A renowned or wealthy imperial officer would likely carry something similar. Would you like a weapon that is large and flashy, or small and easy to carry?¡± Thorfinn scratches his cheek, ¡°My weapons already don¡¯t break.¡± ¡°Really? That is good metal. I¡¯m talking about a power weapon, a weapon that cuts armour and flesh with equal ease.¡± Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°Well now, that does sound handy. I¡¯d love a new axe.¡± ¡°It will be waiting for you at my camp. You can collect it anytime, two hours from now. Speak to any of my crew and they will give it to you, alongside its manual. I wouldn¡¯t bother trying to engage the crew in a conversation though. They have orders not to speak to locals to prevent, as you call them, incidents.¡± That¡¯s a lie, but I¡¯m not going to tell him they¡¯re all lobotomised cyborg slaves. ¡°Wonderful. Glad to be of service. Could I have some of these power weapons for my riders too? It doesn¡¯t look good if the captain snatches all the good stuff.¡± ¡°No. Power weapons take years to make and are heirloom weapons. The power axe I have ordered from the armoury is over eight hundred years old. For something so grand, I expect you to help me as best you can throughout my stay, regardless of what your superiors say.¡± ¡°That sounds like more trouble than it¡¯s worth.¡± ¡°I could provide several tonnes of charcoal, if you prefer, or bags of salt. That would conclude our exchange.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take the weapon.¡± ¡°Glad to hear it.¡± The chimera stops and the back ramp opens. Large, multiple domes, all connected by thick canvas, balance on thousands of stone pillars set amid a gloomy park. Eight, octagonal towers and a thick wooden fence encloses the building and grounds. Thorfinn looks over then detaches his harness, ¡°We¡¯re here.¡± Twenty eight grox riders on fourteen colossal lizards are at the main gate, and two hundred infantry patrol the grounds. ¡°That¡¯s a significant military presence, is the parliament unpopular?¡± ¡°No, but you might be.¡± ¡°Well, at least you didn¡¯t pretend they¡¯re there for my safety.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t lie to friends.¡± I smile, ¡°Sure. We can go with that.¡± We leave the chimera and the ramp closes behind us. Thorfinn chats to the guards at the gate and hands them a badge. A short, blond haired guard heads inside their booth, then returns after a minute and gives Thorfinn his badge back. Quaani disembarks his chimera and joins me. Thorfinn waves us over, ¡°Aldrich, you and two others can come with me,¡± he gestures at the blond guard, ¡°Lieutenant Carvorst Pitfichie is going to escort us. Lieutenant, this is Captain Aldrich Issengrund and Navigator Quaani.¡± ¡°Thank you, Captain Ursus, Lieutenant Pitfichie. Navigator Quaani will join me. No others will be required.¡± Carvorst looks up at us, ¡°Blimey, what did you two eat to get so big?¡± ¡°Ration packs,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re kidding. No way I could keep enough of those down to get so tall.¡± ¡°He also ate a lot of metal,¡± says Quanni. ¡°Space food is weird,¡± Carvorst shakes his head, he glances at Quaani. ¡°What about you?¡± ¡°My height is a side effect of my profession.¡± ¡°I suppose you do have to be tall if you want to see far in space. Are you some kind of psyker? You¡¯ve got that skin tingling aura about you.¡± How odd. I¡¯ve never noticed that about Quaani. Quaani laughs, ¡°It is good you see it that way, Lieutenant Pitfichie, and yes, I am some kind of psyker.¡± Carvorst grins and points down the drive, ¡°Let¡¯s be off then.¡± We follow Carvorst along the paved road, soldiers keeping an eye on us the whole way. We reach the main dome and step through an oval doorway. The interior is covered in fine wooden panels and intricate carvings. The space is open all the way to the top and lit with large glass tubes filled with glowing algae. Dozens of people fill the dome, rushing around two crescent front desks in the centre of the dome. ¡°Impressive, eh?¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°I¡¯ve only been here a handful of times, and everytime I get a crook in my neck trying to pick out all the patterns in the ceiling.¡± ¡°It does give me an appreciation for visiting new places,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen somewhere lit with algae before.¡± We follow the paths marked in different patterns of wood. ¡°I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re one of those profligate types that burn fish oil,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°What do voidships run on anyway?¡± ¡°Stars,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Stars and prayers.¡± ¡°Sounds fantastical to me,¡± says Carvorst. ¡°I build voidships,¡± I say, ¡°and even though I understand the how and why of a voidship¡¯s hull and motion, the awe has yet to fade.¡± The next dome is less open and Carvorst takes us along high ceilings corridors to a reception room. ¡°I¡¯d love to see that,¡± says Carvorst. ¡°It can be arranged. I don¡¯t mind having a few visitors. You can make a petition at my camp if you really wish to go.¡± ¡°Really? If I can muster the courage I will stop by. Please wait here. I will inform the prime minister you are here.¡± ¡°Thank you, lieutenant. It was a pleasure to meet you,¡± I say. Carvorst nods, ¡°Likewise, captain.¡± A young man, dressed in a tweed suit, enters from a side door and offers me tea. I accept and receive a slightly sweet herbal concoction, served without milk or sugar. Locking my power armour, I imitate sitting as I perch on the edge of a leather sofa and sip my drink. It¡¯s no builders tea, but it is pleasant, and the closest I¡¯ve come to a real drink since I first woke in this uncivilised hellhole. It even comes with knockoff shortbread with a plant based butter substitute. The call of luxuries so similar to my lost home prompts me to amend my goals. I will leave this planet in a better condition than it was when I arrived. A short man with black hair and a straight, aristocratic jawline enters. He, too, wears tweed and an elaborate kilt. ¡°That¡¯s the prime minister,¡± whispers Thorfinn. I stand and step carefully around the coffee table, then hold out my hand, ¡°Prime Minister Callen Gunn?¡± He shakes my armoured hand, ¡°Indeed, and you are Magos Explorator, Aldrich Isengrund. How goes your Quest for Knowledge?¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°My, my. I did not expect you to know such details. Is it your education or competent assistants that found you such details so swiftly?¡± Callen smiles, ¡°It was one of my bodyguards. He recognised the title.¡± ¡°I¡¯m impressed, and yes, my quest has met with some success, thank you.¡± ¡°Glad to hear it. ¡°What brings you to Marwolv and why did you choose to contact us?¡± ¡°Like all captains far from home, I was looking for fresh supplies. I contacted you because you have the largest city on the planet and are the most likely to have the capacity to aid me in my endeavour.¡± ¡°What do you propose?¡± Chapter Thirty-Six I consider my exchange with the prime minister and how to approach negotiations. He has been concise and the balance of power is so far in my favour, there is little need to dance around my requirements. Maintaining brevity should aid negotiations. ¡°I would like permission to restore the mechanicus enclave in the northern mountains of this continent, the right to recruit your citizens for my ships and the enclave, and a trading licence.¡± ¡°The first is no problem, this continent¡¯s, Brisgean¡¯s, northern mountain range, Sp¨°g-chait, is only nominally claimed by the Gael Democracy. So long as you keep your activities to the Sp¨°g-chait and your actions do not affect the surrounding lands, you are free to do what you wish there.¡± ¡°Thank you, prime minister.¡± ¡°Recruitment is a greater issue. While this is a free country and you could, no doubt seize or tempt a small number of individuals, I would prefer if you would hold off on recruitment. I cannot condone sending my people off into the unknown without completing my due diligence. ¡°I will not have our citizens enslaved, or committed to crushing labour without respite. Perhaps a place of cultural exchange could be arranged? Once our citizens know what they are being committed to, I would be willing to assist in the employment of a limited number of citizens. Is that agreeable, Magos?¡± I ponder the issue. It¡¯s not like anyone I recruit will actually be useful for years, as what I need are tech-priests, not drudges. ¡°I have a counter proposal. I require educated citizens, those who can read and write and have an interest in crafts, smiths, carpenters, chemists and so on. Those with skills in accountancy and logistics are also welcome as well as retired military personnel. ¡°Once I have restored the enclave, you will send one hundred such individuals to the enclave. There, I shall teach them the arts and rites of forging great machines, ones that can alleviate your fuel issues. Half shall join me and teach the next batch, which will be bigger, say, five hundred. The other half will return to the Gael Democracy. ¡°This cycle will continue, each group larger than the previous one. In exchange I shall provide the food and shelter these individuals require while your government shall pay them a suitable stipend. ¡°The Gael Democracy will pay me for the machines and materials that I shall provide so you can advance your own industrialization with your share of enclave educated persons. ¡°I shall receive payment in raw materials in great quantities, such as metallic bones, living flora and fauna samples and other goods to be decided at a later date in exchange for these machines and any further consultations that are required on their workings. Your thoughts, prime minister?¡± Callen nods, ¡°I will discuss it with my cabinet. There will likely be several alterations required, but your proposal is sufficient to begin negotiations. Now, to your final request, Magos: trading rights. ¡°We will permit a trading post to be established ten kilometres or further from our capital, Pearroc. Citizens who enter may trade goods with you freely, so long as these goods cannot cause direct harm. No weapons, harsh medicines, or toxic chemicals may be sold by you, though I do not mind what you purchase. ¡°Everything you provide must either be objects our own craftspeople cannot produce, or goods that they can, but priced the same as our own. Additionally, trade goods must match or exceed the quality required by our laws and you cannot sell advanced technological goods that require upkeep that only you can provide. The training you offer will drastically alter the boundaries of this final condition.¡± ¡°That is a lot of concessions you want from me,¡± I fold my arms. ¡°I can agree not to provide arms and armour to civilians, or to disrupt your economy with a flood of low priced goods. ¡°In exchange, I would expect a contract from your army to outfit your troops with superior gear. Gear that within five years you will be able to manufacture and maintain on your own should you accept the enclave training trade. ¡°As you will be able to significantly increase the safety of your citizens and the size of your exploitable land, there is no way you will not do so as it will drastically improve your reelection chances. I will teach one hundred trainers how to use high tech gear as part of resource exchange I will gain from selling such gear. Callen shakes his head, ¡°This is a matter for the cabinet and the defence minister. Demonstrations must be arranged, trade shows organised, and infrastructure established. We require information parity for further negotiations. While what you propose sounds generous, what you offer is new to us. We do not know what you are selling, or why we would want it.¡± I nod and keep my expression neutral. My last negotiation was with a gretchin and I am certain I just embarrassed myself. ¡°Please submit a detailed proposal for your second and third request and we shall discuss it promptly. You are welcome to begin the recovery of the mechanicus enclave. Before you leave, I will have a contract drawn up that details your rights and responsibilities towards the enclave, Sp¨°g-chait, and the surrounding lands. I will also sign over a plot of land so you may begin constructing your trade post. This is a gift from me.¡± ¡°Very well, prime minister. Thank you for your time.¡± ¡°Likewise, Magos. I do hope we can continue to seek common ground. I will send over my secretary with a map and a contract within the hour. Please wait here. The young man who bought you tea is outside. Seek him out if you require anything.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. I present my hand and we shake, ¡°Good bye, prime minister.¡± ¡°Enjoy your stay, Magos.¡± Callen leaves and I return to my seat. Turning to Thorfinn, I say, ¡°Have you met your prime minister before.¡± ¡°No,¡± Thorfinn shakes his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think he even noticed me and he never addressed Navigator Quaani. I haven¡¯t decided how I feel about that. You are a little distracting, Magos.¡± ¡°He did a fine job of keeping a straight face. Perhaps he didn¡¯t want to join the commissioner¡¯s collage of surprised expressions.¡± ¡°Perhaps so!¡± The three of us chat for forty minutes. Thorfinn tells Quaani and I about what it was like to grow up on this world and I talk a little about my travels and trials. Quaani does his best to explain what a navigator is and does, leaving Thorfinn pale and pacing around the room. The prime minister¡¯s secretary, a slim, middle aged woman called R¨®is¨ªn Creek, joins us with a map and half-a-dozen potential locations. We visit each one in the chimera and I choose a landspit with a good view of Pearroc and its cove. My site is one point eight-four square kilometres, expanding to two point five-three kilometres when the tide is out. It is mostly flat with little vegetation. As Thorfinn is still hanging about, I have a D-POT deliver a power axe to the site and gift the vox sets to Thorfinn and R¨®is¨ªn so we can stay in contact. I send the pair off in a chimera and return to the ship where Quaani and I discuss our goals for our time at Marwolv and assemble a nominal timetable. Servitors are delivered to the enclave, trading post, and Erudition¡¯s Howl. Quaani returns to his studies, reading through his family records for ways to mitigate mutations. I have a new ship to explore! From my command throne I direct servitors over Erudition¡¯s Howl¡¯s hull, looking for access as their hangar doors are unresponsive. With over a hundred servitors hopping about, it only takes twenty minutes to find an unsecured hatch where the electronic lock has failed and can be teased open with a magnet. Dozens of feeds light up my bank of screens as the servitors swarm through the hull in pairs. Erudition¡¯s Howl is cramped, its corridors low and narrow save for a single highway that runs in a loop along its main deck (#M1). Decorations are crude and chunky, though the bridge has some excellent statues of the Emperor and their auto-temple has been integrated with the ignition chamber in their central, primary thruster. The thruster is still in working order and you would not want to be in it when it fires. As I explore, the vessel comes to life, its lights turning on faster and the environmental sustainer begins to blow once again. There is no sign of the crew and the only sign I find of their fate is a miniscule splinter of wraithbone, the primary material used by the eldar, lodged in one of the air filters. I can¡¯t even be sure they¡¯re to blame as the vessel could have been boarded at any point in its history by the psychotic space elves, but I¡¯m going to blame the eldar anyway. It¡¯s only proper. Erudition¡¯s Howl is in good condition. All the machine-spirits, however, have been wiped. The ship is running under the equivalent of a PC¡¯s ¡®safe mode¡¯. There is almost no electronic data on the ship, though there are plenty of physical records to examine. A servitor team blares alerts. They are under attack by humanoid creatures. I order them to subdue the... people? Oh wow, these are mutants. The exploding limbs, blasted off by lasguns, gave the auspex a positive ID with all the blood splatter. I wonder how they hid from Quaani? Once the mutants are down, they are secured with wire and their wounds sealed with a coagulating foam spray. Two servitors watch over them, while the remaining eight press on, exploring the edge most subdecks of the keel. I rush to the hangar and have the thunderhawk and a new servitor team escort me to Erudition¡¯s Howl, then I lead the servitors to #K1Q4 where there¡¯s a subdeck filled with coolant tanks and grotty barracks littered with mildewed rags. Every available space has beaten metal boxes filled with organic waste, including corpses, all sprouting with mushrooms, as well as hundreds of tanks filled with sloshing algae and fouled water. Within these scabrous halls shelter a community of fifty seven mutants, thirty of which are children, whose parents I¡¯ve just crippled. All huddle in a group, surrounded by servitors, shivering in the cold and flinching every time a lasgun shifts towards them. Each mutant is different, with twisted bones and bubbling flesh. Strange growths jut from their ragged forms. I am grateful my helmet shields me from this horror and hides my expressions. This is no way to live. The Imperium¡¯s cry of ¡®kill the mutant¡¯ is almost a kindness for these broken people. I, however, have the resources to help these mutants and a pressing need for bodies. They will be given a chance. ¡°I cannot have stowaways on this ship. You have two choices. The first is death.¡± My servitors raise their weapons and the mutants tense. I grimace, I hate the role I have to play. ¡°The second is to become cyborgs. I shall give you new bodies of metal, free of pain and suffering. In return, you will work for me until the end of your days. No others will hunt you for your deformities as there will be none to see. You will be paid and provided a private space, as well as time to pursue your own interests.¡± A large mutant, as tall as a space marine struggles upright and stands on one leg. A beard of blind, fluttering eyes runs from his cheeks down to his chest. He coughs and spits, ¡°We have our pride, Imperial. We refuse!¡± He splutters a sloppy, guttural diction that requires E-SIM to decipher. I fold my arms, ¡°Pride is a bitter fruit, mutant, and does not fill your belly or cure your children. I am offering to turn you into tech-priests, not drudges or cannon fodder. I have servitors for that. What I want are your minds, the final spark of humanity caged within your knotted meat and faltering bones. I ask you a second time, mutant, gainful employment, or death?¡± The mutant next to the bearded one, grabs his hand and tugs it. He wobbles and looks down, then back at me. ¡°Fine. We will work.¡± ¡°Good. The servitors will help you to the medicae deck. There, your wounds will be treated. I shall examine you and decide on an appropriate new form. Now, follow me.¡± Chapter Thirty-Seven Warp travel does unpleasant things to the human body. For most men and women, they develop purple eyes and have an unsettling aura about them, one that makes them unwelcome planetside and many live and die aboard their ship for generations. Some, however, gather small deformities. Poor diets, poisoned water, and constant exposure to the immaterium¡¯s mutagenic properties all compound into a chopshop mash of bizarre mutations. Those that survive are shunned and banished, hiding in the bowels of vessels to escape persecution. Imperial vessels often allow these communities to fester in their ships so they can press gang these unfortunate individuals into service when the voidship is boarded or wishes to assault another. Mutants are policed by crewmembers assigned as ¡®twist catchers¡¯. Flamer wielding fanatics who corral mutants and hunt demons, twist catchers are among the few imperial citizens outside of the space marines and inquisition who are permitted a basic knowledge of chaos so that they can better recognise corruption creeping into a voidship. From an imperial, a sneer is a kindness, continued existence, an expression of benign tolerance, yet as I depart these quarters, I am reminded these mutants are still imperial citizens. In the one clean room I can find, scavenged candles and a bowl of purified water lie as offerings upon an altar of rusted metal and polished, deformed skulls. A large, handmade wire statue of the Emperor of Man looms over the altar, his wings spread and curved over the meagre table. I bow to the altar and leave. This... this is a really shitty place to live. I haven¡¯t even arrived yet and I already dislike the Imperium. Over the last decade, I¡¯ve put significant time and effort into learning their history and customs, as well as practice their rituals, all so I can fit in amid this mockery of humanity¡¯s final culture. The Imperial Cult¡¯s services are OK. No worse than being forced to Sunday church services by wobbly grandparents. They¡¯re an odd mix of solemn gregorian chants and gun toting, evangelical spew. Machine Cult rituals, however, are the absolute worst and I hate them with a passion. They¡¯re little more than the operating instructions or troubleshooting guide for a piece of machinery, dressed up with repeated praises for the motive force and the Omnissiah. Now, don¡¯t get me wrong, I understand their genius. No one reads the manual, but if you want some superstitious hick to remember to plug in their equipment or check the fuel before they call customer service, turning it into a religious ritual is an absolute genius move to encourage compliance. The reason I don¡¯t like it is because nothing works if you don¡¯t do the rituals. Not because I don¡¯t know how to plug in a toaster, but because the machine-spirits in every device are stuffed full of sensors and listen to the key words. If you don¡¯t say and do the right things, they assume an idiot is trying to use the machine and might hurt themselves, or worse, damage the machine, so they refuse to work. Most machine-spirits are pretty limited, so if you don¡¯t do exactly what they¡¯re expecting, any slightly complex machine will fail to work. This makes total sense for, say, a fusion reactor or a tank, but is totally unnecessary for a data slate. Thing is, because there are so many sensors, a person¡¯s voice also acts as part of the security check, incense will trip the smoke sensor and put a device into diagnostic mode if you can¡¯t remember the cogitator commands, and a splash of sacred oils is a really easy way to trigger a maintenance cycle if the machine is locked down for some obscure reason. Not only is there a valid safety reason behind the rituals, but there¡¯s a practical one too and this is the reason that annoys me the most as I have to repeat it all the time. I take a few, deep breaths to try and calm myself down as I follow the mutants to the medicae deck. Tech-priests are specialists and most don¡¯t live long enough, or have access to the information they need, to really learn the how and why of everything they might be called to work upon. One ends up with this strange pseudoscience as a universal way of getting access to the basic levels of a machine so that, for example, your junior enginseer, who¡¯s learned how to safely diagnose a faulty plasma conduit, doesn¡¯t accidentally space themselves when they¡¯re assigned to fixing the firing mechanism inside a sixty metre torpedo tube using a three thousand year old velum manual. Unfortunaly for the junior enginseer, the manual is for a mechanism which has been replaced with half a dozen different versions since someone last remembered to update the technical library, and said mechanism is barely functioning after multiple battlefield bodges. Therefore, no matter how dumb it is, one does the rituals, because at least then they know the machine should work if you do. If it doesn¡¯t, one can work out what the last person who fixed it was doing by repeating the ritual and following their logic. Without it, one cannot guarantee that the provided maintenance logs are correct. It''s possible you might not even find them either. After the mutants shuffle and limp into hospital beds, I sedate them without their knowledge or permission. As I watch these people lie helpless, the reason why I hate these rituals so much strikes me like a lightning bolt. I like to think I¡¯m better than the mechanicus. A man from a more enlightened time. I resent being forced to follow their doctrine to fit in, as it makes me feel stupid, because I can see how they ended up with them and hate that it is necessary, but a lot of the time I am forced to follow them, not to fit in, but because it works and I don¡¯t know any better either. Praise the Omnissiah, for today is a day of enlightenment and revelation! Glory be to the eternal Emperor of Mankind, for today he has blessed me with the knowledge that I am special, special like everyone else. Blinking away the tears in my eyes, I examine the results of the medical scans; I¡¯ve become pretty good at biology after spending a decade cloning servitors. I grimace. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Praise the Emperor indeed. At least he didn¡¯t make me a fucking mutant. Poor bastards. I¡¯ve no idea how to treat them and coming up with something usable is going to take repeated simulations, thousands of tests, and hundreds of prototypes. Each mutant is different too, so there¡¯s no single solution, though I hope to create as many similar parts and interfaces as possible. Initially, I was thinking I could pop their brains in jars and build human bodies around them. That¡¯s still the basic premise, but each mutant has a delicate balance of unusual parts that standard bionics and cybernetics are not designed to emulate and disrupting that will not help them in the slightest. Option two is to design a custom virus for each mutant that can correct their faults, then clone their flesh and put them in new bodies, there¡¯s so many ways for that to go wrong though and I don¡¯t want a bunch of dead kids sliding out of the auto-doc. It will likely take a mix of both solutions and many years, but I deem the work worth it as I will hone my skills, possibly discover something new, and ensure I do my best to improve, rather than degrade, a miniscule sliver of the Imperium. I refuse to take actions that needlessly feed chaos. I assign the servitors I have with me to keep the mutants asleep and to improve their health as best they can. This period of observation should help me better understand their biology and improve my chances of helping them. I intend for them to remain unconscious until I am ready. Putting them in stasis would be better, but I only have enough capacity for two mutants and would rather keep their time in sync with each other. As I board the thunderhawk to return to the Distant Sun, I receive a communication request over vox on the official diplomatic channel. ¡°This is Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. To whom am I speaking?¡± ¡°Greeting Magos Issengrund, this one is Por¡¯Ui Dy¡¯aketh Lynu. You can call me Envoy Lynu.¡± Envoy Lynu speaks in high gothic, her voice is just low enough I cannot tell if she is male or female. Her tone is gentle and soothing. She has a slight accent, similar to japanese. It reminds me of someone who has spent hundreds of hours practising their diction to remove any traces of hesitation or inaccuracy and I wonder if she¡¯s ever spoken with a ¡®native¡¯ speaker like me; Marwolv¡¯s peoples only speak low gothic. ¡°Hello, Envoy Lynu. Why are you contacting me?¡± ¡°This one has heard you are open to exchanges. Would you be willing to aid us?¡± ¡°That depends on what aid you wish and what I will gain from it. We are competing species and I am not authorised to deal with xenos. It better be an excellent offer.¡± ¡°This one understands your hesitance, but we are not in the Imperium and their laws hold no sway here.¡± ¡°Neither do yours, though we are each accountable to our superiors and the safety of our homes. I heard yours crashed into the ocean.¡± ¡°Our vessel has suffered some mishaps. While it has been repaired, the return journey is troublesome. While our vessel does possess a ZFR horizon accelerator engine, we do not have an ether engine, our equivalent of an Imperial warp drive. Any return journey using an accelerator engine will take less than five years for us, but ninety thousand would pass for the rest of the galaxy. We were hoping you could solve this for us by selling us a drive or vessel we can use to get home.¡± I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s a tiny ship if they don¡¯t have a proper drive, a small escort less than a kilometre in size designed to attach to a larger ship for warp travel. There¡¯s probably still thousands of them on the ship though, with all their war gear. I don¡¯t want to fight that and there¡¯s no guarantee I can hit them from orbit when they¡¯re underwater. A diplomatic approach is essential, but I should talk as if I¡¯m from a position of strength. ¡°It¡¯s much worse than that. You would have to cross the Great Rift, Cicatrix Maledictum, or whatever you call it. You can only do that at one spot, one nominally controlled by the Imperium and highly contested. This area is called the Nachmund Gauntlet and is centred around the Vigilus System. ¡°Envoy Lynu, I do not know how the Tau map the galaxy, but to us, Vigilus is in the Nachmund Sub-sector of the Nachmund Sector in the Segmentum Obscurus. The area is also prone to warp storms and the crossing is exceptionally hazardous, similar to the Maw between the Koronus Expanse and Calixis Sector. I have not personally confirmed this information, but I have found no reasons to discredit it either. ¡°My suggestion is you find a new home port.¡± ¡°That is not what this one hoped to hear, Magos Issengrund.¡± ¡°While you consider your options, I have three offers. I am willing to help your vessel launch into space. I am also willing to offer you all data I have on non-imperial worlds suitable for habitation within the Koronus Expanse. This is an imperial world and leaving you to assimilate it may bring the Inquisition¡¯s attention to me and this planet, something neither of us want. You will need to offer something of equal value for these services. ¡°For now, I propose a non-aggression pact between my fleet and your grounded vessel, valid for thirty terran days, after which we shall negotiate again. The non-aggression pact, for now, is free and will remain so for as long as you continue to deal with me in good faith. Irritate me and I may insist on reassurances you will not enjoy. Do we have an agreement, Envoy Lynu.¡± ¡°We do, Magos Issengrund. Thank you for the information and your offers.¡± ¡°Good. Is there anything that is unclear or that you would like to discuss further?¡± ¡°No, Magos Issengrund. This one has a perfect understanding of your intentions.¡± ¡°Wonderful. We shall speak again in thirty days.¡± ¡°For the greater good, Magos Issengrund.¡± ¡°A fine sentiment, Envoy Lynu. Goodbye.¡± ¡°Goodbye.¡± I end the call. The greater good, eh? As I understand it, the greater good, or Tau¡¯va, is the Tau¡¯s governing philosophy. They present it as self-sacrifice and harmonious choices for the protection and progress of all. What they really mean is for the greater good of the Tau, especially their ruling caste, the Ethereals, insidious psykers that control the mixed races and castes that make up the tau with their mind influencing powers, powers that overwrite the individual will of their citizens. Just as the thunderhawk lines up with the Distant Sun¡¯s hangar, I receive an alert from the servitors I sent to the enclave. The satellite was wrong. There is data flowing through the enclave. It¡¯s still active. Chapter Thirty-Eight I pick up another thirty servitors from the hangar, as well as my favourite servo skull, Brian, and depart the Distant Sun. The thunderhawk circles Marwolv a couple of times as I slip into the atmosphere and descend to the enclave. During the journey I message Quaani, updating him on the mutants and enclave. He doesn¡¯t reply and I don¡¯t expect him to while he¡¯s studying. The enclave is a rusting fortress of ferrocrete, plasteel, and armourglass. A planetary cannon, unpowered and covered by a battered dome, graces the central spire thrusting from the mountain top. Multiple walls, bunkers, and other defensive works surround and dot the mountain. I spot the mechanisms for a void shield, though it appears non-functional. I was expecting a few dormitories, warehouses and factories as well as a couple of laboratories covering less than five square kilometres. After all, how much space do a few exiled mechanicus really need? A self-sufficient fortress capable of repelling a small planetary invasion is a complete surprise. That planetary cannon is quite capable of obliterating Erudition¡¯s Howl, though probably not before the vessel could hide behind the other side of the moon. When active though, it does make it much harder to drop troops nearby or to bombard the enclave from orbit. The Distant Sun would be fine. Probably. I¡¯d have to examine the cannon to be sure. None of the anti-air guns track me as I approach and I land by the D-POTs on a series of pads at the bottom of the mountain. Having seen what awaits me, I order the class two to be loaded and ferry servitors and supplies. The class two D-POT can carry sixteen tanks, with extra ammo and fuel as well as three hundred and thirty-six soldiers with their equipment. I order six flights. There¡¯s a lot of ground to explore. I disembark and stare in wonder. Brian, my servo skull, floats after me, beeping and trilling as he rushes about scanning everything with his red, bionic eye. A humongous gate, decorated with an imposing cog and skull, bars the road into the fortress. My explorator credentials are sufficient to open it and the door rattles open with a resentful groan. Servitors stream into the gap followed by four chimeras. I approach, gawking at every detail with each step. Vast edifices of ferrocrete dominate the surroundings with techno-gothic architecture. Massive arched windows, flying buttresses and thick pipes, some covered in rime and others hazy with heat, impress a solemn and purposeful presence upon me. Then, there are the skulls. Hiding beneath arches, embossed on doors, and grinning from the bottom of the drain pipes, skulls infest the fortress. Sure, they¡¯re all shiny brass and speckled granite, but it¡¯s terribly overdone. For some odd reason, they¡¯re all in pairs. I ascend the mountain, poking my mechadendrites into abandoned manufactorums, shrines, and dormitories. Everything looks like it was abandoned midway through daily tasks and there¡¯s no battle damage or signs of struggle. The idea that animals disabled the fortress doesn¡¯t add up, though they have infested the place since. Many of the doors and fittings, and much of the machinery has been chewed on. Wires have been dug from the walls and some supports for the overhead pipes have collapsed. Rabbits are absolutely everywhere, there¡¯s also signs of boars, birds, deer and their predators, like lynx and foxes. My servitors find a tunnel into the mountain, like the Distant Sun, the passageway is fifteen metres tall and ten wide, just big enough for a warhound titan, or two tanks travelling side by side. The tunnel is smooth and circular, lined with ferrocrete and reinforced with plasteel ribs. I really want to see what they used to bore this tunnel. It must be an epic bit of kit. Driving it around would be awesome. A low level of power is flowing through the conduits overhead. Fans spin up periodically, circulating the damp air while multiple pict-recorders and sensors push data deep within the mountain. Feeling exposed, I get into a chimera and have it rush along the corridor. After driving for a kilometre, the gentle, downward slope flattens out into a massive square room, held aloft by wide spaced pillars and a plasteel frame. Three other main tunnels lead off the underground space. Each wall has two large lifts: flat platforms with sharply descending tunnels. The opposite wall, rightside lift, has a bank of machinery obstructing it; blinking lights, switches, and screens surround a purple, sparking aperture that sheds warp energy into the air. Above the aperture is an eldar warp spider, bound to a cross. Wires and pipes pierce its body. The helmet is missing and crude cybernetics have been fused to its head. Unsure what to make of the device, I send in the servitors and read the data through their eyes, hopefully keeping sufficient distance between heretek and my data ports. Through the portal, my servitors see a cavernous room, cluttered with random machines and parts, piled like junk all the way to the ceiling fifteen metres above. Posters are everywhere; lush planets, performing musicians, and hive cities are stuck to random kit. Thousands of tiny models fill display cases: intricate dioramas of Imperial battles, working models of manufactories, and other scenes. Large, mechanical tracks have rubbed away some of the ferrocrete and crushed stray scrap, revealing the most travelled paths through this tenebrous maze. I send a single servitor through. My connection remains stable and, thanks to all the relays, I am able to discover the room the aperture opens onto is one point four kilometres below me. The servitor follows the tracks to the centre. It spots the tracked vehicle parked on a twelve metre wide, circular platform covered in golden runes and seals. The vehicle is the repurposed frame of a space marine rhino, an armoured personnel carrier. Rather than mounting an armoured cabin, the drive train holds two tech priests, joined at their heads. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Their bodies are massive, cybernetic hulks fused to the bottom half of the rhino. The top half of the rhino is missing. Mechadendrites and servo arms flop over boxes of tools, power packs, and hundreds of machine parts and cogitators. The tech priests are draped in red, oil stained robes and they are chattering away in lingua-technis in front of a massive holoprojector. They poke each other and laugh, insulting each other''s skills. It takes me a moment to put the scene together. These two muppets are playing an air car racing game. I watch for a couple minutes as the yellow and red race cars flash through the skies and rivers, through loops and over mountains. The red driver messes up and I mutter, ¡°Ah, you missed a boost.¡± Their audio sensors must be spectacular because they pause the game and the two tech priests turn around, their bodies moved by a rotating platform. ¡°Omnisiah bless my circuits, is that a guest?¡± says the left tech priest in low gothic. ¡°Well, that¡¯s not one of our servitors, so it must be!¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got it, they¡¯re in the mustering under-yard.¡± The pair wave at the servitor. ¡°Hello guest!¡± says the right tech priest. ¡°I am Engineseer Jund Ronrer.¡± ¡°And I¡¯m Lexmechanic Psi-Xi Twenty-Two.¡± ¡°Hello Jund Ronrer and Psi-Xi Twenty-Two. I am Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. It is a pleasant surprise to discover that the Omnisiah¡¯s spark still lingers in this part of the galaxy.¡± ¡°Does the Imperium still stand, Magos Issengrund?¡± says Psi-Xi. ¡°It does, though the great rift has divided it and our enemies are relentless.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t care how bad it is,¡± says Jund Ronrer, ¡°so long as you can take us away from Marwolv.¡± I shake my head. ¡°I will not be leaving for some time and there is the matter of false data on the satellite. What was your mission here and how did the enclave end up in such a state? Where are the other tech priests? The use of xeno-servitors and open portals is illegal too. What have you been up to here?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a lot of questions, Magos,¡± says Psi-Xi. ¡°We do not know each other well enough to share such secrets.¡± ¡°Much like I do not know you well enough to let you on my ship either.¡± Psi-Xi shrugs. ¡°Well, you just waltzed into our base and are unloading troops and hardware!¡± ¡°My apologies. I did not know what I would find. The satellite told me the site was dead yet my servitors detected power and data flows. For all I knew there could have been an abominable intelligence here.¡± Jund sighs, ¡°He has a point Psi-Xi. We are responsible for the false data.¡± ¡°Ugh, fine.¡± ¡°All things require knowledge, including friendship. Why don¡¯t you start with what the purpose of this fortress is.¡± ¡°It''s a supply point for imperial forces,¡± says Psi-Xi. ¡°Pretty sure the Munitorum has forgotten about it though, or lost the map. We¡¯ve never had anyone drop by to pick up the gear. There¡¯s almost seven millenia of materiel squirrelled away.¡± ¡°That¡¯s misleading. It¡¯s more like one millenia, recycled seven times.¡± I laugh, ¡°What an irritating endeavour!¡± ¡°Oh yes, we are quite fed up with it and shut everything down in X196.795.M40.¡± ¡°The date of the animal attack,¡± I say. ¡°Well, if you want to call eldar animals, then yes. That¡¯s what happened,¡± says Jund. ¡°We¡¯re the only survivors, or survivor, depending on how you count it.¡± ¡°Are you conjoined twins? Why did you not get separated?¡± ¡°The last metasurgeon died before we were born and the other genetor did not feel confident in performing the operation without killing us, though he was able to give us our cybernetics.¡± ¡°It is all we have known and have only found our state to be an advantage. Two minds, two brains, one will.¡± ¡°A commendable attitude. Let¡¯s focus on the portal. You need to shut it down. I will also require the experimental data. I need to ensure there will not be a warp breach, or that the tau can get at the data.¡± ¡°Who are you to tell us what to do in our home, Magos!¡± says Psi-Xi. ¡°The captain of the ship you wish to board.¡± Jund laughs, ¡°We do not require your permission for that.¡± The platform they¡¯re on flashes with viridescent lightning arcs and the pair disappear. Aruna contacts me, ¡°Magos, the Distant Sun has been boarded. They are on #M1Q1, portside munitorum.¡± ¡°How the hell did they teleport through our void shields?¡± ¡°Unknown, Magos. Aruna notes void shields are maintained at fifty percent while at green alert.¡± ¡°What are they doing?¡± ¡°They are frying the sensors with a galvanic carbine, a weapon that fires armour piercing bullets containing a significant electric discharge. Their vehicle also has a heavy arc rifle, a long range gun that fires triple helices of lightning. It can short circuit cogitators, execute machine-spirits, and banish demons from possessed machines.¡± ¡°Those assholes! They¡¯re hiding something. Why else would they do the equivalent of assaulting airport security, let alone fire guns inside an ammo depot containing van sized shells?¡± ¡°Orders, Magos?¡± ¡°The munitorum has an emergency blowout, right?¡± ¡°Yes. Activating it will cause significant hull damage. Aruna does not recommend spacing the boarders.¡± ¡°Fine. I¡¯m returning to the thunderhawk. No way I¡¯m taking their teleporter. Tell Quaani to armour up and grab the two chunkiest ballistic shields he can find and meet me in the hangar bay. Have the servitors prepare to repel boarders.¡± I sprint the chimera and tell it to drive to the surface. Its engine revs at a thunderous volume, accelerating the chimera to fifty kilometres per hour. As I race to the surface, my servitors flood the tech priests¡¯ workshop and swarm the portal machinery, looking for the emergency power switch. Against all odds, these fools have not installed one on the portal and I am reluctant to execute the warp spider until I know exactly what these hereteks were up to. The teleporter is an ancient device and following the proper rituals lets me depower it. Meanwhile, several servitors hook into their databases and I set eight of my thought streams to max speed and start looking for research notes and other records. As the Thunderhawk lifts off, the last munitorum sensor is destroyed. Chapter Thirty-Nine The thunderhawk docks with the Distant Sun and I leap from the craft. Quaani is waiting for me, two adamantine tower shields resting against his lanky form and three companies of servitors at his back. ¡°Welcome back, Aldrich. Aruna has informed me of the situation.¡± Quanni passes me a shield. If it wasn¡¯t for my power armour and implants there¡¯s no way I could lift this thing. I think Quanni was cheating with telekinesis. ¡°Thank you for the swift response, Quaani. Are the tech-priests still in the munitorum?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Quaani could likely kill them with a glare, but that means exposing him to enemy fire and they have a big gun. I don¡¯t want to space them or fire weapons in the munitorum either. ¡°Can you read their thoughts?¡± ¡°Only their intent: desperation and confusion. Mind reading is not a skill I¡¯ve had reason to practise.¡± ¡°Fair enough. Aruna, what are their intrusion countermeasures electronics like?¡± (ICE) ¡°They¡¯ve turned off their wireless noosphere connections and they haven¡¯t tried to hack any of Distant Sun¡¯s cogitators.¡± Quaani frowns, ¡°What was the point of teleporting aboard then?¡± ¡°I have no idea. Though if we leave them there long enough, the could assemble a big enough bomb to hold the vessel hostage. For now, we¡¯ll send the servitors in and keep our distance in case the munitorum goes up in flames.¡± ¡°I have a better idea,¡± Quaani presents a satchel full of cylinders. ¡°Rad grenades?¡± ¡°Yes, I was thinking that if they are shielded enough to go through the warp and are using electric weapons, they are likely heavily shielded against electric weaponry. Rad weapons, however, aren¡¯t that explosive and are highly effective against their squishy innards. What¡¯s left of them.¡± ¡°Good idea. Hand them out to the servitors as we go. One per squad.¡± ¡°Got it,¡± Quaani grins. We thunder through the ship. Once we reach #M1Q2, Quaani and I halt and send the servitors forward alone to #M1Q1. Quaani pulls out his dataslate and brings up a pict feed. Once the servitors reach the munitorum entrance, I trigger the doors. The doors retract in a clang and the servitors charge. Jund and Psi-Xi are waiting and their heavy arc rifle fires glowing, curling blasts of fulminating force that reap servitors by the score, burning their flesh to crumbling carbon and purging cybernetics of their motive force. While the vicious pair are distracted, three servitors hurl grenades towards them and all three are swatted by a camouflaged, pintle mounted storm bolter that intercepts the approaching grenades with bursts of explosive shells. The servitors continue their aggressive approach without success. Unwilling to retreat, I order the servitors sheltering by the door frame to fire their lasguns at the storm bolter and heavy arc rifle. Unfortunately, the lasguns fail to damage the powerful weapons and a second later, all the servitors turn rigid and topple over. ¡°Sneaky bastards tacked a maintenance cycle command onto the back of my last order. No idea how they got through our encryption.¡± ¡°Their noosphere connection must be back up if they¡¯re doing that.¡± ¡°Aruna, hit them with some scrap code.¡± ¡°No. Aruna will not unleash scrap code on this vessel. It spreads and Magos Issengrund does not have the requisite qualifications.¡± ¡°E-SIM, can you help?¡± ++Engaging E-WAR suite... Noosphere connection established... ICE breakers sent... target compromised... enemy vehicle disabled... weapons disabled... reboot in seven... six...++ ¡°Damn, we won¡¯t make it! Hit them again, E-SIM.¡± ++Enemy connection severed.++ I grab my hellgun and pick up my shield, ¡°Typical. I¡¯ll have to do this myself.¡± Quaani places his hand on my shoulder, ¡°Hold up, Aldrich. I know you¡¯re annoyed, but you¡¯re looking at this wrong. You can give orders to a new set of servitors, then set them to ignore all further directions for a specific set of time. Even if we lose a couple thousand servitors, it¡¯s far better than risking your life. They are recyclable. You are not. My suggestion is you swarm them. They do not have infinite power or ammo. You could even have each servitor chuck a practice grenade to overwhelm their swatter and mix rad grenades within.¡± Through the sensors of my frozen servitors, I see the arc cannon restart its barrage and Psi-Xi reloads his carbine and continues to slay servitors with precise bursts. I pat Quaani¡¯s hand and sigh, ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s a much better idea. We¡¯ll do it your way. For all we know their whole vehicle is a bomb.¡± Three companies of three hundred and thirty-six servitors each are mustered. Assembling the battle group takes twenty minutes. Meanwhile, I am forced to watch Jund and Psi-Xi dispatch my frozen servitors, who then proceed to disassemble them with glee. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°I am so annoyed right now. They didn¡¯t even try to haggle and went straight for the guns. What a pair of twats.¡± ¡°Worry about that later.¡± The new companies advance down the corridor and flood the munitorum. Almost all of them chuck dud grenades, while five throw rad grenades. The storm bolter freezes for a few milliseconds, before picking out the rad grenades and firing, but the delay is just enough and one gets through. The grenade stuns the two tech-priests. Their fire lets up for half a second and the servitors overwhelm them, ripping out power cables and ammo feeds and hacking at mechanisms with plasma torches. After a minute of carnage, the tech-priests are pulled from their mounting and pummelled with stun batons until they fall unconscious. As the servitors drag the pair towards us, one company is set to cleaning while another is tasked with moving the vehicle out of the munitorum. The much diminished assaulting force continues to oversee the prisoners. Jund and Psi-Xi are thrown before me and I detach as many of their implants as I can with my servo harness. While the mechanical tendrils work I examine my scans of their bodies. Their bionics are limited. They have a MIU, autosanguine, and subdermal armour. The shrapnel has burned and pulped their organs and if it wasn¡¯t for the autosanguine, they would have bled out. They¡¯ll still die within the hour without treatment. The tech-priests start to shift and groan. ¡°What will you do with them?¡± ¡°That depends on their answers and what I find in their cogitator banks.¡± E-SIM growls in my head, ++Intrusion successful, research log access granted.++ ¡°Good timing E-SIM.¡± My many minds dash through the data, ¡°Quaani, Make sure you examine them with all your senses. These two were engaged in dangerous teleportation experiments and were attempting to open a portal hundreds of lightyears to the closest civilised world, Solace Encarmine, a pleasure world owned by House Winterscale.¡± ¡°That¡¯s madness! Only the greatest chaos sorcerers have such power and they require a massive sacrifice and the assistance of their false gods. There¡¯s no way they could achieve such a thing with xeno-servitors and an old teleporter.¡± ¡°You¡¯d think that, wouldn¡¯t you? You¡¯re half right. They have successfully conducted trials and can move freely within the Marwolv system. Unfortunately for them, they do not have the power to travel further and the amount of gravitational distortion you get from opening such a powerful portal would crack the planet they were trying to reach. ¡°The other problem is the eldar warp spider. It doesn¡¯t have enough resilience to channel that much psychic might and would pop trying to open the portal, nor can they replicate the wraithbone technology the eldar use or understand enough to solve the mathematics of what the wraithbone is doing so they can substitute it. ¡°If one could replace the xenotech, it would be a magnificent achievement. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve noticed the big problem by now though.¡± Quaani flips the small gem on his forehead and a violent streak of ethereal destruction scours the deck clean, turning the tech-priests to ash. He repositions the protective gem over his third eye and the rainbow light recedes. Rainbow smoke drifts towards me. ¡°Yeah, they were dead the moment they walked through their first portal.¡± Quaani shakes his head. ¡°Possessed by demons. Demons who didn¡¯t even know that¡¯s what they were. That was a nice bit of stalling there, Aldrich. I almost didn¡¯t catch on.¡± I smile, ¡°Good job, Quaani. I didn¡¯t want to say anything directly as I was unsure if they were really unconscious. Now, I need to spend a few months going over the data and blessing the Distant Sun. I¡¯ve closed the portal safely and purged all the servitors that walked through it, but I want to be as sure as I possibly can that nothing snuck into our ship through the servitor connections.¡± ¡°What about you?¡± ¡°I pity the demon that tries to possess me.¡± ¡°Your archeotech?¡± ¡°Yes. It¡¯s good, Quaani, really good.¡± ¡°I really wish you¡¯d tell me more, but you always tell me it''s not a secret if two people know.¡± ¡°If I ever manage to replicate it, you''re the first person I¡¯ll give one to.¡± ¡°It¡¯s OK, Aldrich. I understand your caution,¡± Quaani pauses, ¡°but I wouldn¡¯t say no to shiny tech.¡± ¡°You got it, Quaani.¡± I give him two thumbs up. Looking down at the soot on the floor, I sigh. ¡°I wonder what drove them to such a solution.¡± The servitors disassembling Jund and Psi-Xi¡¯s vehicle send me an alert and I groan, ¡°Why couldn¡¯t it be puppies, or a fluffy cat? Quaani shrugs, ¡°What have you found?¡± ¡°They were definitely lying about some of their story. I doubt they were the only survivors of the eldar raid. There¡¯s no way they could have harvested so many tech-priest brains and wired them into their vehicle without objections. I think they were using them to boost their intelligence and computing power, much like how their own heads were linked.¡± ¡°More heresy?¡± ¡°At this point, does it really matter?¡± ¡°You are taking their research.¡± ¡°Absolutely! It is valuable experimental data. No matter how convenient, I won¡¯t be making portals, but I do want to know how they punched through our shield. We¡¯re also looting the place to the bedrock.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you want to use the fortress?¡± ¡°I do, but I don¡¯t know what¡¯s hidden in there, or the condition of the manufactories. I¡¯d much rather salvage everything and replace it with my own stuff.¡± ¡°Even the planetary cannon?¡± ¡°How else do I find out how it works so I can build new ones? Planetary cannon¡¯s are relics in the imperium. This is likely the only chance I¡¯ll ever get to take one apart. I really want to know how you fire such a big lance through an atmosphere without melting the fort or setting the countryside on fire.¡± Quaani adopts a whining, arrogant tone, ¡°My dear barbarian, it¡¯s obviously space magic.¡± ¡°You know Quaani, if you¡¯re right, I¡¯m going to be really annoyed.¡± ¡°Well, to you it might as well be, but to the rest of us, it¡¯s science.¡± ¡°Hilarious. I could do with something to calm me after all that noise. Care to hit up the N.O.M.?¡± Quaanii glances at the images on his dataslate, ¡°Yeah, I think I¡¯ll have vegetarian. Lots of ice cream too.¡± ¡°Good idea.¡± After lunch, I spin down my concurrent conscious cascade and return to Marwolv and spend the day walking the mountains and breathing fresh air. It¡¯s no Earth, but it brings me peace. I¡¯ve been stuck in a metal box so long I¡¯d forgotten how good being outside is. Learning new technologies has been thrilling. Being a cyborg is awesome. Commanding a voidship is the deepest level of cool one can sink to. I would not say, I am over the loss of my family, but that was almost a decade ago for me now and the pain has faded, though I have no doubt the loss will remain with me forever. I have Quaani to keep me grounded. I can¡¯t say that I am happy. Not yet. I¡¯ll get there though. Work waits for no cyborg, no matter how shiny they are, and the alerts and notifications continue to flood in. I ignore them until I reach the top of a mountain, then spend another fifteen minutes gazing into the darkness. Even with my night vision, I can¡¯t make out much of the terrain below. The stars are nice though. I think they look better from down here than they do up there. A mechadendrite passes me a hip flask and I stand. Taking a swig, I then hold the flask to the sky and yell, ¡°I live!¡± Chapter Forty A mechadendrite returns the hip flask to a small compartment on my servo harness. I re-engage my multiple thought streams and start going through the backlog of issues at maximum pace. With all ten at full speed, the world around me slows to a crawl, as if each breath takes me several minutes. Within a handful of seconds, I¡¯ve sorted everything and I let the world return to a more normal pace, though the other nine streams remain at full tilt, reading the data E-SIM is slowly pulling from the enclave¡¯s cogitators and cataloguing the information and resources I have seized. I find the process therapeutic. Nothing quite like counting loot to put one in a good mood and I¡¯ll get to do this for weeks on end. The D-POT prospectors have also begun to return their finds. So far, they¡¯ve discovered enough of the rare elements I require to build and fuel my origami pattern mobile shipyard and they haven¡¯t even scanned one percent of the Kuiper belt, let alone prospect the other planets, moons, or Oort cloud. Marwolv is fast becoming a great boon. My main issue is I lack labour, so I focus my efforts on obtaining the resources I require to restart the production of my horribly expensive, warded servitors and the construction of orbital facilities, including a cloud-scoop over Marwolv¡¯s hot Jupiter and a solar forge over its sun. Between these two stations, stations I intend to tow with me when I leave, I should be able to synthesise almost every material I require, so long as I have the energy, base elements, and time. They are horribly complex facilities I acquired from my STC and I am unsure I will complete them before I leave. It is far cheaper and easier just to mine everything I need, but having been stranded on Mote and fled from Melbethe, I really want more independence for my resource income. Given enough time, I would like to adapt them into specialised vessels, but I have more pressing focuses for now, such as building a fleet that can protect such assets. With that thought in mind, I gather the last of my reserves and begin the construction of the trading outpost and unload the equipment I need to construct a shipyard. I am happy to have an abundance of resources, as trying to build the origami using the luxnet from the Distant Sun and a few microfactories, like I would have done if Mote was a bit more viable, would have been a slow and inefficient process. Looking back at my initial decisions, I now know attempting it would have been an idiotic choice, one driven by my desire to hide from galactic horrors. Building the docks will also let me uplift Marwolv and provide me with an industrial and cultural base of my own. There is so much to discover in the Koronus Expanse and I see no harm in getting a headstart on my rogue trader plans, even if I don¡¯t have a writ yet. Marwolv has been abandoned for over eight hundred years, the chances of someone barging in on my business and wrecking my cultural conquest is low. I have a lot of earth moving equipment and considerable practice using it. Within four weeks, the spit of land I have been granted has been levelled out and reinforced. Drainage and other groundworks, including a network of underground shelters and cargo tracks, are underway and a ferrocrete slab has been cast at the end of the spit, establishing a basic spaceport. Today, Thorfinn is visiting with his squad of grox riders and we are sitting on a partially completed sea wall, sheltered by a breakwater of interlocking, ferrocrete, caltrop-like shapes called stabits, or tetrapods. The grox paw at the ferrocrete, unwilling to let the lizards work up a lethal grump, I end the small talk and say, ¡°Do you have good news for me, Thorfinn?¡± Thorfinn reaches into a satchel and passes me a vellum scroll, ¡°This is the current offer.¡± ¡°That was fast.¡± I open the scroll and smile. They have accepted all my requests. ¡°Your demonstration of imperial arms and the speed of your construction have made it quite clear their political power exists only for so long as they agree to everything you say.¡± ¡°I was unsure if a democratic government would be so decisive.¡± ¡°You dropped a meteorite off the coast as an encore. The wave was just big enough to stop before their toes. No one is that stupid.¡± ¡°It took hours to calculate that. I¡¯m glad it was appreciated.¡± ¡°That you can even do so is ridiculous.¡± ¡°I know. Such feats surprise me too.¡± ¡°Once the awe wears off and people get greedy and stupid. What will you do?¡± ¡°Inform you and let your internal security deal with it, though if someone really pushed their luck, I have plenty of uses for bodies.¡± ¡°Like those servitors of yours? Those things make me uneasy.¡± ¡°Exactly like those servitors. One of those designs, called a kataphron, requires the soul of a violent man, you can¡¯t get that from cloned flesh.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what that means.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure I do either, but it works and that¡¯s good enough for now.¡± Thorfinn looks over his shoulder, ¡°I¡¯d best be off. Will you be available to meet next week?¡± ¡°Sure, you choose the place and I¡¯ll buy the drinks. It¡¯s a bit bleak out here after all.¡± We stand and shake hands, then say goodbye. I watch them leave and smile. Have I made a friend? The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. A year passes and the trading post is completed. Three quarters of it is dedicated to industrial facilities, including micro factories and warehouses; I stacked hundreds of cargo containers together by dropping them from orbit with the gravity lift. It is ugly and efficient. The last quarter, where the spit connects to the mainland, is filled with shops and offices. I¡¯m employing hundreds of locals and have an excellent trade in industrial tools, agricultural vehicles, medicine, and books. Now it is obvious I am here to stay and willing to teach, the ban on electronic goods will be lifted next month. Before that, I was selling a lot of manual precision tools and workshops were multiplying all over the country, but now I¡¯m offering power tools, manual tools are going to hobbyists, rather than being snapped up by businesses. Protective clothing is also a big seller, with mesh suits being my most popular item, though good personal protective equipment and tough work clothes have the greatest volume of sales as most people can¡¯t afford a mesh suit. Mesh suit material, thermoplas, is expensive in time and materials. I am using all the pearls I gather to purchase raw materials and feed momentum back into the economy as their currency is worthless to me. With my servitors and machines I can gather resources at a lower cost and greater scale than I buy them for, so I don¡¯t actually make any money from any of my trades. Exposure to imperial technology, however, has inspired a massive drive for social mobility, letting me recruit enthusiastic students and maintain a workforce with a positive work ethic, which is worth much more to me than squandered cash. I¡¯m still stripping the enclave and, at this point, I¡¯ve decided not to bother rebuilding it and keep my focus on the trading post and my orbital facilities. I did find enough mark four, great crusade era power armours to outfit a chapter of space marines, along with their supporting weapons, vehicles, and munitions. Most importantly, it came with the manufacturing grade STCs and production gear for such devices, though E-SIM can¡¯t crack the security on them. I also recovered the wargear and STCs for the Solar Auxilia, the precursor to the Imperial Guard, elite special forces more similar to the tempestus scions than the usual commissar fodder that makes up the bulk of imperial forces. While all of this sounds awesome, this gear has a high ¡®tech burden¡¯, meaning you need expensive facilities, resources, highly skilled engineers and a lot of time to produce and maintain it, way beyond what most tech-priests are capable of, including me. The discovery of all this information makes it all the more apparent why the enclave was targeted by the eldar and how incredible Jund and Psi-Xi were. While the finished wargear is valuable to collectors, the STCs aren¡¯t quite as remarkable as I am sure the information still exists back on Mars and other major forge worlds. The Imperium moved away from elite forces to mass infantry and tanks for good reasons, even if it does cost them billions in casualties every year. Even so, I am still delighted to have the data as there are very few things I could have traded to be granted military technology apart from my cargo container STC in full, and selling that in one go will probably get me assassinated and start a civil war. There are still thousands of incredible items and machines on it that I have yet to consider. The orbital facilities are far from complete, and I am half way through hollowing out the first dock inside an eighteen kilometre, iron rich asteroid I dragged into orbit with the Distant Sun during my second month at Marwolv. There has been no progress on curing the mutants, though I did construct a stasis cargo container and put them in it. As for the tau? Well. The tau are up to something. I don¡¯t mean that metaphorically as I¡¯m sitting on my command throne watching their fire teams abduct a small village through the eyes of Brian. This is the first time I¡¯ve caught them at it, but it¡¯s the fourth ¡®animal attack¡¯ that¡¯s happened this year and they never made sense as there are never any remains. If it wasn¡¯t for Aruna noticing a concentration in particulates in the atmosphere that could only have come from a jet engine, I never would have found them. I¡¯ve no idea what they¡¯re doing and I can¡¯t decide how I want to respond as swooping in and blasting their fireteam before I have a way of striking their submerged voidship is a reckless idea, an idea that really appeals to me. Letting them complete their objective is worse than risking retaliation. Grabbing the heavy arc rifle that was leaning against my throne, I rush down the steps to the exit and sprint for the thunderhawk while my forces muster. One, class two D-POT and four class ones, all stuffed with servitors and bristling with heavy weapons, gives me a battle group of five hundred and forty troops, four leman russ tanks, four anti-air tanks called hydras, and sixteen chimeras. This places two hundred and sixty-four servitors under armour with seventy-two as vehicle crew. Feeling I¡¯m putting too many eggs in one basket, I launch another identical flight of D-POTs, unloaded, as more manoeuvrable escorts. The tau sensors are good, and the moment my escort flight launches, their battlegroup sprint for their vehicles, unleashing kroot hounds, tough, dog-like xeno beasts with spiny backs, on the unloaded prisoners. I arrive at the hangar and board the thunderhawk, sliding into the pilot seat is a little awkward with a servo harness, but my power armour keeps me comfortable. The auto-pilot is engaged already and Mr Cygnus has the thunderhawk caught up with the escort flight before the transport flight finish launching. The machine spirits take a sharp descent, heating the forward edges of the deltawing craft as they accelerate towards the tau. Six minutes later, we scream over the tau convoy, launching a barrage of hellstrike missiles at their hammerhead tanks, hovercraft like vehicles held aloft by anti-grav devices and propelled by blocky jet engines. The devilfish transports in the middle of the convoy launch a salvo of smart missiles to intercept my hellstrikes. Machine-spirits and AI attempt to deceive each other with jamming devices, sensor burning lasers, erratic manoeuvres, and shedding phosphorus. Tau counterfire is far better than I expected and intercepts almost every missile, then takes out the remainder with the rotary railguns hanging from the front of their craft. Maintaining my speed so the massive rail guns mounted on the top of their hammerheads can¡¯t get a lock, I continue to harass their convoy with missiles from below the horizon, using the Distant Sun¡¯s sensors to assist the targeting. Gathering into a circle, the tau maintain their defence, covering every angle while still advancing to the coast. They don¡¯t go as fast at such angles, though the display of technology and discipline is daunting. Whatever weird jammer that hid them in the first place is still up, making it difficult to target them even with Brian tailing them and the Distant Sun overhead. Brian finally gets a good count of their battlegroup, they have twenty vehicles: six hammerheads and twelve devilfish. Ninety fire warriors, tau infantry in blocky, sand coloured armour, cling to handles jutting from their transports, their pulse carbines, rapid fire plasma weapons, dangling in one hand. My battlegroup assembles in their path as my escort flight runs out of missiles. Keeping low, I advance in a scattered line, firing a dozen twin-linked lascannons at the convoy. With their speed and manoeuvrability limited, twenty energetic beams of coherent light punch through the tanks, destroying three hammerheads, grounding four devilfish, and crippling the guns on the three remaining hammerheads. The last two twin shots miss, sending up great gouts of earth and stone, peppering the convoy with hot, sharp rocks. A gentle chime sounds in my ear. Envoy Lynu is calling. Chapter Forty-One I don¡¯t answer the call and send a burst of data instead, containing the footage of the Tau abducting civilians, then setting kroot hounds on any that they couldn¡¯t stuff into the devilfish. After completing two more passes, I destroy the other three hammerheads and ground the devilfish with precise strikes to the front bar of the vehicles. Attempting crippling blows slows my D-POTs just enough that the hammerhead railguns fire once. The focused salvo slams into the class two and evaporates on its void shield. Delighted with the sturdiness of my delta pattern orbital transports, I answer Envoy Lynu¡¯s call. ¡°Good day, Envoy Lynu.¡± ¡°Magos Issengrund, please cease your attack on our convoy.¡± ¡°Sure. They¡¯re not going anywhere in a hurry anyway.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be too grateful. Your troops shall free their hostages, then leave the convoy. They will march towards the ocean on foot while under guard. They may bring as many rations as they can carry and keep their armour. They may not bring their weapons with one exception; as a show of good faith, the commander and up to four officers may retain their side arms if they possess them. Should you fail to comply, hostilities shall resume. A second chance at surrender will not be offered. Your agreement, please. You have one terran minute to decide, starting now.¡± My battlegroup crosses the horizon, they¡¯re thirty-six kilometres away, and the leman russ battle tanks are partially in range, their main battle cannon can¡¯t normally fire that far, but the lascannon can. The hunter killer missiles on the chimeras are in range too. ¡°Magos, the terms of our ceasefire did not cover the native population of Marwov. We protest your intervention on their behalf.¡± ¡°Envoy. You had a peace agreement with them too, just because they can¡¯t enforce it doesn¡¯t make you any less reprehensible for breaking it.¡± ¡°Even so, we request reparations for this unprovoked attack.¡± ¡°Oh, I agree,¡± ¡°Wonderful then we sh-¡± ¡°Which is why I haven¡¯t slaughtered your fire warriors. You have fifteen seconds.¡± ¡°Magos Issengrund, please restrain your fury. We need more time to coordinate with our forces.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t believe you¡¯re that incompetent. They will launch flares, of any colour, within five seconds or die.¡± ¡°We do not agree to such brutal terms. Please negotiate.¡± A handful of flares fire into the sky and linger in the gloom. ¡°Well, your commander sure thinks differently. Who¡¯d have thought they were listening in on your call?¡± I chuckle, ¡°Let¡¯s hope for his sake, he isn¡¯t putting on a show. I will call in an hour to arrange the location of the prisoner exchange. Goodbye, Envoy Lynu.¡± ¡°Magos wai-¡± I cut the connection. ¡°Well, at least they didn¡¯t pretend my footage was fake,¡± I mutter. My battlegroup will take an hour to reach the disabled convoy. While they approach, the tau gather up their prisoners and collect their casualties. The prisoners are pressed forward and held at gunpoint on the tau¡¯s northern face, placing them in the line of fire of my battle group. In response I send two class one depots to two hundred metres from their position, to their south and west, with the remainder of my group hovering just above the horizon to their west. Before my battlegroup even travels halfway, the tau begin their march towards my battlegroup. They still have their weapons, but I don¡¯t press the issue, as they would likely be attacked by their prisoners if they left them behind and that would accelerate hostilities. They also have a few grav sleds they¡¯ve piled their bodies on and I see no reason not to let them take them. Two minutes after their rapid jog, their abandoned vehicles explode, one by one. I click my tongue, annoyed that there will be little for me to recover. Still, there should be enough hull fragments for me to study and the sparse data I have on their nanocrystalline alloy, or fio¡¯tak, that they use for armour suggests it''s as effective as ceramite, but lighter, and can be used in pressed, vehicle hull panels like plasteel. The mechanicus might not be permitted to study it, but I can claim I recovered the data from studies done by Jund and Psi-Xi, who wouldn¡¯t know it was banned as the last time they had contact with the Imperium was before the tau were first sighted. Eventually, the tau near my convoy. I direct a squad of servitors forward and speak through them, using E-SIMs handy translation feature that masks my own words and produces a perfect imitation of my own voice, speaking in the tau language. ¡°Who is the commanding officer?¡± A tau in a XV15 stealth battlesuit, the tau¡¯s equivalent of light power armour, steps into the open. The XV15 is black, with a large cannon on one arm and two, thin, rectangular antennas stick up either side of its blocky helmet. It¡¯s two metres tall. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡°I am Shas¡¯Vre Dy¡¯aketh J¡¯kaara, leader of this expedition. You may address me as Vre J¡¯kaara. Are you Magos Issengrund?¡± ¡°Yes, though I am speaking through this servitor.¡± ¡°Acknowledged, Magos.¡± ¡°Vre J¡¯kaara, you may bring your dead, however, you may not keep more than five sidearms.¡± ¡°Magos, my weapon is part of my armour and we cannot leave our technology with you.¡± ¡°Throw them in a pile before me. I will destroy them myself in front of you. Also, there is no way the cannon on your stealth suit does not detach. How else would you maintain it, or swap your weapon loadouts. It goes in the pile.¡± I pilot the thunderhawk towards the tau, once they give up their weapons, I will disembark. ¡°Magos, this is not a task the fire caste is capable of.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t cross-train, even a little?¡± the servitor says for me. ¡°I do not believe you cannot do basic field repairs. If you are having trouble, I would be happy to remove it for you, though if I have to do it, you may sustain extra damage to your suit.¡± His shoulders slump a little, ¡°That will not be necessary.¡± ¡°Why were you abducting humans? Why jeopardise your agreements?¡± ¡°I do not know, Magos. They were orders, I did not question them.¡± ¡°Yet you will be the one that takes the blame now everything has gone wrong, is that not so? With such a large battlegroup under your control, why did you not do your due diligence and discover the hidden details of your mission? One wonders if the fault does indeed lie with you, rather than your superiors.¡± ¡°Enough Magos, we have lost. There is no need to, as you ¡®gue¡¯ like to say, pour salt on the wound.¡± I laugh, ¡°So you did study a little, or perhaps you have the envoy talking in your ear. Not relevant, I suppose. Please place your weapons before this servitor. Each fire warrior that approaches will do so with a prisoner, who will join my side as the warrior gives up their weapon.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± The fire warriors come forward and drop their weapons. As they do so, my thunderhawk lands, once they have all dropped a weapon, I disembark and walk towards the pile. My servitors guide the humans away from the tau to await pick up from the D-POT transport flight. ¡°I will destroy the weapons. Stay clear. I am unsure how some components may react.¡± Using my nanite swarm, I dissolve the pile of pulse rifles and the commander¡¯s pulse cannon, keeping clear of their power cells in the rifle stock. I have the nanites take a little extra time and get some fantastic scans of their weapons as they are dismantled atom by atom. Once they are finished, I have the nanites target the power cells, which, to my delight, do not explode, so I get good scans of those too. With my upgrades the process takes them minutes, during which the commander shuffles from foot to foot. The swarm flows back to my mechadendrites and is sucked back up. ¡°It is done. The weapons have been reduced to pure elements. You may take a sample if you wish to confirm they have been destroyed.¡± The commander grabs a handful of metallic sand and shoves it into a belt pouch. ¡°Are we done?¡± I scan the fire warriors. As far as I can tell there are five pulse pistols remaining, as agreed. Vre J¡¯kaara¡¯s XV15 has a missing forearm and his grey undersuit is visible beneath. ¡°Yes. You will be escorted to the coast then watched until you leave. Please discourage your high command from attacking my troops. I do not like to shoot unarmed prisoners, but I will if I am provoked.¡± ¡°Noted, Magos. I will convey your ¡®advice¡¯.¡± ¡°I did not know my translation device could convey sarcasm. I appreciate you helping me test it.¡± Vre J¡¯kaara ignores me and turns to his fire warriors. My sensors pick up the radio waves passing between his suit and his warriors. They form up and jog in perfect lockstep, maintaining their pace all the way to the coast, over fifty kilometres away. I contact Envoy Lynu to coordinate the prisoner transfer. Every five kilometres the fire warriors swap who are resting on the overloaded grav sleds. I¡¯m impressed by their discipline and silent showboating, though I say nothing, no doubt surprising them when I join their run. No point letting the puff and bluster alone. Unlike the fire warriors, my body is highly modified and my power armour is excellent too, so the exercise is just enough to get my second, bionic heart to kick in, but not leave me out of breath. It takes us five and a half hours to reach the coast. Meanwhile, the humans are loaded up and flown back to their homes. My servitors assist with the burials and repairing their damaged homes. I also order a single D-POT to load up with rations and emergency supplies, then have it flown to the small village. The supplies are distributed to the grieving community, then I depart. There is no need to call Envoy Lynu as the tau reinforcements are waiting for us when we arrive. I keep five kilometres from the new battlegroup on the coast and retreat, letting the fire warriors advance on their own. Vre J¡¯kaara is the last to pass me and he continues past without a glance, though I notice his sensors are crawling all over me. ¡°Too out of breath to say farewell, Vre J¡¯Kaara?¡± I receive a short data burst containing a two second, repeating clip of a tau male masturbating furiously. ¡°Urgh, that is going to haunt my dreams for weeks.¡± I compile an image of a boltershell with Vre J¡¯kaara printed on the side in tau script and send the picture to Vre J¡¯kaara with a friendly data worm hidden in the file. If I¡¯m lucky, it will infect their ship and broadcast something useful to me. I delete his file. Sitting in the thunderhawk, I consider my actions and realise I didn¡¯t even fire a warning shot. There was no negotiation and I killed dozens of tau without even blinking. I have become a violent man. Melancholy brushes against my awareness in gentle, lapping waves. Since I woke up in that sarcophagus, stasis pod, whatever. Since I woke up, I have only had four non-violent physical encounters: a gretchin, a crippled space marine, a child navigator, and a grox riding barbarian. This is a pretty low bar to try and beat, yet the first time I had the opportunity to join their august list, I failed and I am struggling to really care. Sure, the tau were abducting people and totally deserved it, but that I never tried a peaceful resolution until I¡¯d ground them into the dirt, means I am no better than the inhabitants of this violent galaxy. I wonder, for a moment, if the family I left behind would recognise me or even be willing to let me hold them in my arms. With a sigh, I put my troubles aside and head to my private lab where the servo skulls are, literally, going ballistic over the xeno armour; some of the servo skulls have integrated weapons. It¡¯s time to find out what an armour save actually means. Chapter Forty-Two In my son¡¯s games, models could save their plastic asses from the casualty pile stacked at the edge of the table by rolling six sided dice (D6). The lower the number, the greater the chance of them surviving, so a ¡®two plus¡¯ armour save is awesome and the sort of thing you¡¯d find on a space marine in their heaviest power armour: terminator power armour. A ¡®five plus¡¯ is what the Imperial Guard get with their flak armour that supposedly covers everything but their thighs, and my servitors, in their carapace armour, or the tau with their body armour get a ¡®four plus¡¯ armour save. A normal space marine is a ¡®three plus¡¯. That sounds great and all, but the problem is I watched my servitors get butchered by that ark rifle and a carbine like they were sheep and I am pretty certain the armour wouldn¡¯t do much good against the tau pulse rifles, which I really need to know about as I may have to fight them again and can¡¯t afford to keep losing servitors. I¡¯m going to be really annoyed if I find this power armour I¡¯ve been wearing is a bit pointless. The first thing I discover, while checking the armoury list to see what is available for testing, is that flak armour is nothing like I thought it was. It is neither standardised or equal: some are woven fibres, others are plates of ceramite, or armaplas, a plastic composite. The coverage each type offers varies wildly from big greatcoats and hard vests to complete torso armour with armoured boots and joint pads. Sure they¡¯re all ¡®five plus¡¯ but I suspect the nuance of it is going to make a massive difference. In the end, I select a Krieg greatcoat, a flak vest, a Cadian breastplate, and a mesh suit, the imperial version, not my Federation one. A servitor delivers them from the armoury and I take them to a long grey room, dotted with acoustic pads. Four testing dummies go at one end, each wearing a piece of armour and I collect my weapons. First up is a plasteel replica of a Beretta M9, with bullets filled with twenty first century explosives, a dual mix of nitrocellulose and nitroglycerine and a few other minor additives. I load the gun, take aim, and fire. The shot flies ten metres down range and hits the greatcoat. I continue firing, putting one round into each armour. The greatcoat is made from synthetic fibre dipped in ceramite and it stops the bullet easily, it doesn¡¯t even fray the fabric. The armaplas flak vest melts slightly, but stops the round. It would take at least a mag in the same spot to get through. The Cadian breastplate is a mix of fibres and ceramite plates. The round flattens and the sensors report the least damage to the dummy underneath so far. The mesh suit is similar to the greatcoat, though it offers full body coverage, and stops the round, though like the great coat, you¡¯d be feeling that shot for weeks. My next test is the same M9, this time with fycline, the Imperium¡¯s standard high explosive. If it wasn¡¯t for the power armour, I would have struggled with the recoil, but the M9 survives the experience, as do all the armours, though each take noticeable damage. I repeat the test with an SA80A3, the British Army rifle. Again, all eight rounds are stopped, though whoever was wearing a greatcoat or mesh suit would have broken ribs and some internal bleeding. A las pistol and a lasgun go next and, they too, are stopped. For a minute, I stop and stare. It turns out, ¡®five plus¡¯ is pretty fucking amazing. The Cadian armour is the best against laser weapons and the armaplas vest holds up better against ballistics. The mesh suit and greatcoat work and offer much better coverage, but would leave the wearer injured. The mesh suit is the lightest, at two kilograms, or four point five if you add in the gloves, boots, and cowl. It¡¯s also the most difficult to make and is the only set that offers full coverage. Some variants also have temperature regulation and water retention systems. The Krieg great coat is easy to manufacture and repair. The coat offers chemical protection that none of the other armours do and, when closed, almost offers full body protection too. The vest only weighs a kilo and is super easy to make and repair, but it only covers the torso. It would be two kilos with a helmet. They have a full face plate and are quite heavy. The Cadian torso armour, with the accompanying boots and helmet, is five kilograms and a little more complex. While manufacture is easy, its composite construction means repairs leave weak spots and full replacements are better, but that can strain logistics. It¡¯s also the heaviest. I continue my tests with armour piercing rounds, a plasma gun, a bolter, and a hell pistol. Against these heavier weapons, the armours do less well. An armour piercing round struggles to penetrate the greatcoat and mesh suit, but pierces the armaplas vest and shatters the Cadian armour, getting caught on the fibres beneath. In all cases, the sensors report an injury a soldier would survive if they received immediate first aid as long as it wasn¡¯t your head or heart. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The plasma gun, bolter, and hell pistol annihilate flak armour, killing the wearer. Against the heavier weapons, testing imperial carapace armour and tau armour gets a similar result to the armour piercing stubber rounds for the flak armours: as long as you survive long enough to get help, you¡¯ll hobble away with a story and some new cybernetics. Unless it¡¯s a bolter. That explosive is terminal if it gets through the armour, so you better hope it doesn¡¯t hit you square on. The variant bolter rounds, like kraken armour piercing rounds, or hellfire mutagenic acid rounds are total overkill against all but the heaviest targets; I have to get new dummies and armours afterwards. There are many more types of bolter rounds, one for every conceivable scenario, but I don¡¯t test any more of them as the result would be the same: death. The carapace armour offers full coverage and weighs sixteen kilos. My best estimate for tau body armour is twelve kilos. Without a full set, I just can¡¯t be sure. I do notice, however, that the tau armour has a metallic coating with similar properties to the sparkle paint I found on the federation space station, making tau armour extra effective against energy weapons like las weapons and plasma guns. Its nanocrystalline structure, however, is similar to ceramite and prone to shattering when hit with sufficient kinetic force, though it would require a crew served weapon or bolter to do so. These tests are making it very obvious why space marines love bolters as they have the force to penetrate ballistic armour and shatter energy weapon armour. It¡¯s a real shame almost all bolters require power armour to use and fire expensive, heavy bullets, otherwise every guardsman would be using one too. It is also clear that the pulse rifles, which are similar in effect to imperial plasma weapons, only distributed to every soldier rather than one or two per company, will shred flak armour and disable servitors wearing carapace. It¡¯s also clear lasguns are particularly useless against the tau; I will need to expand my loadouts drastically. My opponent already has some solutions. The extra shoulder armour that the tau fire warriors have, which acts like a buckler when a fire warrior takes a knee, really appeals to me. It¡¯s just the thing to keep an explosive penetrating round wasting its payload away from the wearer''s torso. I will have to think about how I can add something similar to the servitor loadout. My favourite test is on a spare set of dragonscale armour as it survives everything I throw at it, though repeated blasts of the more powerful weapons would get through if you hit the same spot three or four times. It can¡¯t take multiple kraken bolts, though it does dissipate enough force that, with my implants, I would survive the experience. I¡¯m so glad I have power armour and a refractor shield. Looting a Mechanicus light cruiser is awesome. Wearing it, I almost feel safe. I throw the data I have collected into the research matrix to see if it can optimise my servitor body armour and feed it a few of my ideas as a starting point. Feeling jolly, I end my research for the day and seek out Quaani. It''s not good to leave a teenage psyker to brood and I fancy a heroic feast. If I¡¯m going to risk my life against the tau for people I¡¯ve never met, I¡¯m damn well going to celebrate my success and wash away the fear with amasec and steak. A new day, and fourteen months later, sees me in another fine mood. I have discovered that, even with perfect digital twins for simulation, tireless cyborg slave labour, and machine-spirit optimised schedules, mega projects take a long time. Even so! Today is the big day. A cavernous asteroid stretches out before me in an epic eight by three kilometre cylinder. Metal gantries and their supporting tracks run up and down the structure and dozens of kilometres of catwalks fill in the gaps, all bolted to the ferrocrete reinforced walls. Within the interior float six, five kilometre adamantine beams, slowly being manoeuvred into a hexagon, two kilometres across. Another six, three kilometres beams lie at one end, arranged to slide between the six larger beams. The beams are twenty metres thick, pretty tiny in relation to the entire ship, yet their strength, once connected in an adamantine lattice, similar in shape to carbon sixty, is great enough to withstand the forces that will act on the ship. The beams and lattice will support the main hull plates, welded by nanites, to create a single continuous double skinned cylinder, upon which the remainder of the vessel will be built out. The vessel will receive an outer hull lattice, connected to the inner hull with great struts, that will bear the majority of the vessel¡¯s armour and fold out to create additional manufactory space when the shipyard is in use and provide access to many of the ship¡¯s myriad systems. All the folding mechanisms make it less sturdy than an imperial vessel, though it will no doubt take significant fire to destroy the ship, damaging its production capabilities will be fairly easy. I will really need to keep this vessel from combat, but with it, I can build a fleet, outfit an army, or build up a planet and its orbitals wherever I please. I¡¯m really excited about finishing it. I¡¯ll even have twenty years to train and outfit the crew if my schedule goes to plan. Keeping that thought in mind, I leave the shipyard, though I have five minds focused on it at all times, and head for the academy I founded four months ago. I had intended to hold classes on the ground, but that plan evaporated beneath the heated glare of hundreds of plasma torches when I started dismantling and looting the enclave, using the machines and materials to build my shipyard and trading post. Entering the classroom, I see all twelve of my new students are waiting for me. There are only two women in the group. While the Mechanicus considers sex and gender a quirk of the flesh, Marwolv has significant division of labour based on sex and gender. The two women were teachers and the men were bone smiths. My students wear mesh suits under kilts or kilted skirts, white shirts, and red waistcoats. I chose the uniform for its protection and to give them a connection to their home. For now, I am teaching twelve classes of twelve students, who each get a one hour class once a week. The remainder of the time is spent in self, or communal study using the sophisticated owl class machine-spirits on their datapads that create personalised courses for each student. It is an immensely efficient and effective system, one that has pushed my role from lecturer to pastor. You know what? I think that makes me a real tech-priest. Chapter Forty-Three ¡°Good morning, everyone,¡± I say. ¡°Good morning, Magos,¡± say my twelve students, slightly out of sync. The students sit on plasteel chairs in a circle, their datapads on their laps. Candles and incense burn in a small, recessed shrine on the left wall and Mechanicus chants play in the background at a barely audible volume. ¡°Fenella can start today and we¡¯ll go clockwise, that means you¡¯re next, Diarmuid.¡± A young man with short blond hair and slim muscles nods rapidly. ¡°OK, Fenella. What¡¯s been troubling you this week?¡± A thin, middle aged woman with long, curly hair frowns and closes her eyes. After a minute, I say. ¡°You can ask anything. Ask, even if you think its a dumb question. If you prefer, just voice your concerns.¡± The woman smiles slightly, ¡°You always say that, Magos.¡± Getting a tutorial group going always feels like pulling teeth, but I am getting better at guiding the conversation. I lean back, ¡°Then I¡¯ll ask you a question instead. What was the focus of your studies this week?¡± ¡°Everything! There is just so much to learn. It is overwhelming and hard to memorise so much data. New concepts, new ways of thinking. Even after four months, it is hard. Every time I begin a new class, it has new terms, terms I have to stop and look up, which leads me on a never ending torrent of knowledge. By the time I return to the class, I¡¯ve lost track of what I was trying to achieve.¡± ¡°Do you all feel this way?¡± Diarmuid raised his scarred hand and I nod to him. ¡°Could we have a project, a device we could learn to make together? These sciences are fascinating, but somewhat arbitrary. Being able to hold our progress in our hands would really help.¡± ¡°We can do that, sure. What did you have in mind?¡± With that, the discussion is in full swing. The men decide they want to make an induction forge and the women want to make precision measuring tools. ¡°Those are both great ideas. I¡¯m willing to let you skip a few steps and provide power and ore, but that¡¯s it. I¡¯m even going to disable the design tools and calculators on your dataslates, so you will have to do everything by hand, with paper and pencil. You will be able to look up information freely. Quade, outline the steps you think need to happen to complete an induction forge.¡± A thirty-three year old, balding man scratches his nose and purses his lips, ¡°We¡¯re going to need a work space,¡± he glances at Fenella and Greer, a woman in her twenties with bony cheeks. ¡°A bunch of precision measuring tools, oh this is already making my head spin. How do you make a proper divided ruler or compass without a laser to measure it?¡± I grin, ¡°That¡¯s what you¡¯re here to learn.¡± ¡°Yeah, which is why I¡¯m asking,¡± Quade smirks. ¡°You can use a light source and a block of wood with a straight slit in it. That will give you the line you need to cut a ruler. To get a divided ruler, you mark consecutive dissections using a compass. So long as you can create a repeatable distance, it will give you your base unit. ¡°It doesn¡¯t have to be exactly a centimetre to begin with, just one unit of distance. You can always convert the measurements later once you can use your tools to make better tools, neither do you have to work in centimetres to make an induction forge. You should also look into how perfectly flat surfaces are made.¡± E-SIM alerts me to the time. ¡°It¡¯s the end of class. Bring me your prototypes next week. The winning team will be allowed to accelerate their learning with the teaching engine.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos,¡± say my students. They pick up their data slates and exit. Diarmuid¡¯s idea was excellent, so I message all my students to come up with a project for their study group. I order them not to coordinate groups to encourage each group to discover their own solutions to similar problems, rather than copy each other¡¯s work. I expect that, like all tech-priests, they¡¯ll be stealing from each other within the hour. While my students run their experiments, I return to the Distant Sun and enter my private lab, a grand room with arched ceilings, stained glass windows, and fine cast, relief covered pillars. Brian dutifully chirps his greeting and his fellow servo-skulls swarm me, all of them slamming me with a barrage of data containing their contempt towards their current task: breeding rabbits. Blinking fabricators and flashing mechadendrites line the room, running multiple, automated experiments related to Marwolv¡¯s biosphere. I wave away the servo-skulls¡¯ complaints and stride towards the vivarium, a one thousand cubic metre glass tank containing ten connecting layers of native habitat for Marwolv rabbits. The creatures breed just as fast as their terran cousins and I finally have enough of the furry buggers to begin destructive testing. A hatch opens and Brian floats into the vivarium and tempts a black haired lagomorph to the exit with dried fruit. Within three minutes, the rabbit is asleep, the drugged food making it easy for me to snake a mechadendrite into the vivarium and snatch the black bunny. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. I pull it into my arms and pet it, the sensors in my power armour providing better feedback than my own skin. The rabbit, I¡¯ll call him Paul, has coarse hair and thick skin, similar to a boar. Both are laced with metallic compounds. Paul sleeps hot, at forty degrees celsius. Compared to the other rabbits, this is on the low end for his species. I place Paul in a testing chamber and run the programmed sequence. Tools descend upon the bunny taking samples and striking it, simulating different types of damage. The taser is shrugged off, not even burning the fur. A spring loaded spike, simulating a stubber round, fires and flattens against Paul¡¯s skull, though the concussive damage would have stunned the rabbit if it was awake. The lasgun does not fare any better, its heat is dispersed by the fur and hide, and what little breaks through fails to melt the skull, though the bone does blister. After the plasma gun, I retrieve a new rabbit, and immortalise him as Pompeii. Pompeii does not not survive the hell gun, but he isn¡¯t vaporised like Paul was and I test a bolter round against him, then I order Brian to clean the testing chamber. Rabbit three, Shampoo, gets an equally messy death and is anesthetised and vivisected. A sulking Brian floats over to the pieces and prods at them, only to shoot back and start chattering at me. Shampoo has an unnatural arrangement of hair follicles in its tail, that translate into a QR detailing a specific string of DNA. Stuffing a sample into a sequencer, I stare at the small white box. A tiny rat-class machine spirit dances atop the sequencer like a drugged out ork shaman. The rat¡¯s eyes light up and beams of white light shoot into the air then it disappears in a puff of smoke and E-SIM brings up a message in my vision. ++Thank you for choosing Wild Hunt EugenicsTM. We hope you are satisfied with our Sporting ChanceTM line of adaptive lagomorphs. For further details on how to manage your game reserve, please decode the following sequences: 5¡¯3¡¯...++ ¡°That answers so many questions.¡± ++Hypothesis: Marwolv was a game reserve, populated with hardened terrestrial wildlife for the purpose of entertainment, during the Age of Expansion. With technology kept to a minimum for an ¡®authentic¡¯ experience, Marwolv lost its technology during the Age of Strife until it was rediscovered during an undocumented expedition to the Koronus Expanse, only to be lost again in the millennia that followed.++ ¡°We¡¯ll have to get more samples and check the inhabitants too. There¡¯s likely a bounty of genetic information available if the whole environment is completely artificial. What can you tell me about the rabbits.¡± ++The information available within the DNA has degraded significantly. Sufficient samples may allow a recompiling of data. So far, all I can tell you is that the properties of the bimetallic alloy present in the hair, skin, and bones changes depending on the diet of the rabbit. They are highly resistant to heavy metal poisoning and their teeth and claws possess some unusual structures that allow them to dig and consume ore. ++There is a small variation in the trauma resistance between the three deceased samples that might back up the variable resistance claim. More data is required. The alloy is roughly analogous to a mix of plasteel and ceramite, though much lighter and with a lower melting point, but with better heat dispersal. So long as the threshold is not breached, the alloy will quickly return to ambient temperature.++ ¡°Are you telling me these rabbits are better armoured than an imperial guardsman.¡± ++I am.++ ¡°No wonder the Mechanicus try to only deal with data. I just can¡¯t order my emotions enough to express the myriad feelings I have about that.¡± ++Emotional state logged.++ ¡°Of course it is,¡± I sigh. ¡°I¡¯ll have the sample collection efforts stepped up. For now, bring up the submarine options from the ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ STC. I want to see what the tau are really up to; I bet some bright spark slipped a narco-sub into the database.¡± ++There are thirteen different designs with seventy-two variants for the term ¡®narco-sub¡¯.++ I rub my hands together, ¡°Excellent.¡± The tau have excellent sensors and I am uncertain any stealth field I might wield is good enough to hide from them, neither is it something I can test without stealing their equipment. Instead, I choose an organic submersible. While imperial vox tech is excellent, remote piloting an animal servitor nine hundred metres under water isn¡¯t going to work without relays and each additional device or signal is another chance for the tau to detect me, so I need to go myself. Going inside a meat puppet is grim, but having a right whale, the most populous whale on Marwolv, floating around their base isn¡¯t going to raise much suspicion. Two months later, I enter a submarine dock beneath my trading post and approach a sixteen metre, grey-skinned whale floating in the water, then crawl inside its mouth and down the hatch to its stomach. Reclining in the fleshy pilot seat is like lying against a gel filled bean bag. I turn down my armour¡¯s touch simulation to minimum. Mechadendrites slither from the chair and plug into my helmet. I trigger the start-up sequence and weight falls away from me as I become the giant mammal. Over the next twenty minutes, I adjust to the sensation, gently moving my altered limbs and practising with shallow dives and other manoeuvres. Once I am comfortable, I trigger the underwater hatch, wait a minute, then dive and swim into the ocean. Training continues for another two hours then I set off towards the tau vessel. The whale servitor has a week of operational time, all of which can be under water, but I mimic it¡¯s natural behaviour, cruising at a sedate nine kilometres per hour and staying near the surface, breach frequently, and slap my tail. A grin spreads across my face and I do not notice the hours pass as I meander to my destination. During my final dive I receive an alert and groan, filling the water with a gentle wail. I should have chosen a sperm whale, as a normal right whale maxes out at one hundred and eighty-four metres and I need to dive nine hundred. The servitor will be fine at that depth, but if the tau have been studying the wildlife, they might notice the discrepancy. Unwilling to back out and spend months growing an even bigger servitor, I continue down. There is no light to see and the servitors passive auspex and other sensors are pumped into my implants and compiled into video feed to imitate my natural vision. Ninety minutes later, I detect tiny lights in the distance and an increasing amount of EM activity. All their communication is encrypted, so I record everything and swim on. At last, their sunken base is revealed. Where I expected to find a patched, hammerhead shaped hull under a kilometre in length, instead I discover fourteen circular domes attached to a central tube, with seven domes either side. Dozens of craft trundle across the seabed, attached to guiding monorails, that drag them above the ocean floor and out into the silted gloom. I am unsurprised Envoy Lynu has been lying and it is clear the tau never expected to return home. I can¡¯t fault them for making the smart choice but that still leaves me with a mystery. Why are they kidnapping people and what social experiment are they trying to run with psykers? Chapter Forty-Four I¡¯m only going to get one chance at surveying the city; I swim within one hundred metres of the domes and travel around its circumference once. The domes¡¯ surfaces are uneven, plated with a mix of repurposed voidship hull and new, custom material. It¡¯s armoured and my passive scans barely register the dome shell as eight metres thick. Having experienced the resilience of tau fio¡¯tak, I am not confident I could bring sufficient firepower to breach the domes without the tau noticing my preparations. There are many shield emitters on the domes. The power running through them suggests they have an equivalent of field bracing, a structural integrity reinforcement technology, working as well. This is the same tech that inhibited power weapons and my nanites¡¯ power field from cutting through the Distant Sun¡¯s hull. I finish my turn and pass by a thick antennae, scraping my body against it and dislodging thirty infiltrating bots, shaped as barnacles, from my hide. As I ascend, I fire a burst of data at the antennae while I am lined up with a tau vehicle so it looks like it came from a friendly submersible. E-SIM inserts my best E-WAR code, setting the barnacles to piggyback off the tau communications when they communicate with the surface. Sending a request for data to the previous data worm that I snuck into an insulting picture I sent to the tau captain gets no results. A shame, but not unexpected. The tau have excellent AI and I really didn¡¯t expect such an obvious ploy to work. At the very least, my barnacles can float to the surface and transmit from there if E-SIM can¡¯t sneak anything through the tau systems. I return to the trade post and go for a walk, using the time to unwind and readjust to the human form, lamenting that, even with a multitude of fins, I failed to flip off any tau. A missed opportunity, for sure. The trading post has expanded, with a second land plot added built up as a proper industrial estate, rather than stacked micro-factories, as well as a high rise commercial centre and a pair of apartments. After almost a year and a half on Marwolv, I have a better idea of what people want and need and consider the specialised facilities worth the investment. My most recent addition is a biolab and research hospital that should be finished within the month, though it will take me a decade to fully staff it. Staring up at the sky, concern plucks at my heart. My shipyard hangs in the sky like a sparkling moon, while D-POTs flitter over the structure, bringing resources plundered from the rest of the system. I¡¯m fifty-three this year and I¡¯ll be way over seventy by the time my mobile shipyard is done, then I need to refit Distant Sun, Erudition¡¯s Howl, and acquire at least one more destroyer before I feel comfortable braving the remainder of the Koronus Expanse. Will I even make it back to the Imperium before I die of old age? I really want to get Quaani to his house so he can reconnect. They¡¯ll almost certainly be venomous assholes and ungrateful bitches, but Quaani should at least get a chance to discover that for himself. At least with his engineered lifespan he doesn¡¯t have to worry about old age getting him first. I pat my cheeks and hit my helmet instead. I shake my head and chuckle. I haven¡¯t taken my armour off for so long, I forgot I was wearing it. Heading to the thunderhawk, I conclude it¡¯s time for some personal care. Mr Cygnus returns me to orbit and I thank the irascible machine spirit for its service and receive a nonchalant honk. The Distant Sun has two spas, the first is a marble monstrosity in the navigator¡¯s spire. While the plants and servitors are dead, the facility has all the things you could want, like a sauna and herbal bath, as well as the plain weird, like the amansec steam bath, or genemoded servitor monkeys that give massages and do your hair. I prefer the facilities on the medicae deck, where you can get your extra mechanical limbs and ports cleaned and the inflammation and irritation from the fusing of man and machine can be eased. It isn¡¯t a problem for me as I have the equivalent of an imperial auto-sanguine, my life support module, who¡¯s tiny machines flow through my body keeping the ports on my neck and lower back from becoming painful. Few others with implants and prosthetics are as fortunate and regular treatment is desirable. The medicae spa also has more traditional baths and steam rooms. They are more spartan, painted in pale colours under calm lighting and tiled with detailed mosaics and surrounded with bamboo panelling: a massive improvement on the garish extravagance of the navigator spire. I thought they¡¯d be all metal walls and clanking doors, but the Imperium goes all in on their meditation, prayer, and contemplation creating spiritual spaces with dogmatic precision and brute force calculation. With my mind at peace and wearing a freshened Federation mesh suit and re-anointed dragonscale power armour, I make an appointment with Thorfinn then enjoy the rest of the day rereading my family¡¯s correspondence and enjoy a light supper with Quaani. The food isn¡¯t required, but eating keeps me feeling human and gives me a chance to connect with Quaani at least once a day. After supper, Quaani takes a D-POT to the shipyard so he can join the party the victors of my student challenge are holding. I am pleased he is making friends, a phenomena he will likely only experience from Marwolv citizens with their high tolerance for psykers. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. The next morning, I meet with Thorfinn at my personal landing pad atop the commercial centre. He strolls over as I exit the thunderhawk¡¯s side door and holds out his hand. We shake. ¡°Hello, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Good morning, Thorfinn. No armour today?¡± Thorfinn smiles, ¡°We only wear it when we have to.¡± ¡°A cultural difference, I suppose. An imperial always wears the best armour they have.¡± ¡°Sure that¡¯s not just you?¡± ¡°Way less than one percent of the Imperium can afford to wear armour and mine is more like one in a million. These are illustrative numbers. You could say I am the exception and the rule.¡± ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it,¡± Thorfinn laughs. ¡°You said you had something fun for us today?¡± ¡°I do! Follow me to the basement.¡± I stride down the ramp and circle round the roof to the lift and Thorfinn trails behind me. ¡°I still can¡¯t believe you built such a big building so fast. We¡¯re two hundred metres up and there¡¯s half as much again underground.¡± We step into the lift and I press the button, pleased there¡¯s nary a skull in sight. ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ve no doubt others could do better, yet I was pleased with the result.¡± ¡°Have you been contracted to rebuild Pearroc or any other settlements in the Gael Democracy?¡± ¡°I do get asked. For now, I¡¯ve been placing containers with individual power, water, and other necessary facilities to provide powered industrial spaces, on the edge of many settlements to aid in reindustrialisation. ¡°Rather than replace what you have, there are some plans to build new cities and their transport links near the old ones. Deciding priorities and planning everything is taking a long time though, even with the aid of the machine-spirits, as I have handed the work off to your own people and they are still learning.¡± The lift descends, it is so smooth and quiet only my sensors can detect the movement. ¡°Does that frustrate you?¡± ¡°Not at all, I have plenty to keep me busy: the shipyard, teaching, and expanding my mechanical workforce. There¡¯s lots of research to be done as well. I¡¯m determined to build a complete genetic library of the planet and spread its unique biosphere to other worlds.¡± ¡°Never one to think small are you?¡± ¡°Small thinking is for small people and the galaxy grinds those by the trillions without noticing. I¡¯d like to leave at least one pebble to make it trip on my way out.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t take you for a glory hound.¡± I lean against the lift wall and fold my arms. ¡°I¡¯m not! In truth, it¡¯s more a ¡®fake it ¡®till you make it¡¯ strategy. Void ship captains are expected to be bold and rogue traders even more so. I haven¡¯t managed the second yet. The Imperium does not issue writs to timid twits and I¡¯ll need a lot of achievements to get one. I hope that by acting confident, I¡¯ll be confident enough for the position when I finally get it.¡± ¡°Aldrich, you¡¯re already a void ship captain and a Magos. You have buckets of confidence.¡± ¡°Did I ever tell you I used to be a plumber? A sewer worker? I literally shovelled other people¡¯s shit for a living. While I have come far, to let go of where you start is to abandon where you came from. I don¡¯t want to forget that and so a part of me is a fat bloke in loose waders laughing at all the ridiculous stuff people throw down the loo and cursing their ignorance and the trouble it causes. ¡°Some days I wonder at the incredulity of it all, less than I used to, but it challenges my heart to believe I earned my second chance and I question if I deserve it or am capable of completing my goals, and so I fake it. One day, I won¡¯t have to.¡± The lift opens and we enter an underground, bare ferrocrete parking lot. ¡°You surprise me, Aldrich. I was not expecting such thoughts from you, nor a candid conversation.¡± ¡°Me neither!¡± Thorfinn grips my shoulder, ¡°No need to worry about it my friend. As a fellow captain, I am familiar with your concerns. Some days I still feel like a wheezing recruit getting yelled at by the drill sergeant. Now I am allowed to yell at him, yet somehow I never do.¡± I laugh, ¡°Yeah, that sounds about right.¡± Shaking my head I approach two slim small vehicles. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough of that. Check these out.¡± Resting on the ground are two jetbikes with pointed prows and a long chunk of fuselage. A pair of stubby fins stick out of the side near the front. Two metres from the front is a low seat; while sitting, only the driver¡¯s eyes can peek over the top, protected by a small, armourglass windscreen. Behind the tall seat are two small jet engines stacked on top of each other and wrapped in a chunky, armoured shell. ¡°Where are the wheels?¡± ¡°These are jetbikes,¡± I grin. ¡°Incredibly rare vehicles, last built at scale in the Imperium some ten thousand years ago. I found twenty of them in the Mechanicus enclave. They can hover over any terrain, travel fast, and are armed and armoured. This is a priceless variant called the Shamshir Pattern Jetbike. ¡°No one knows how to make them, yet somehow they still work. Please don¡¯t tell a space marine you drove one. They will shoot you. There is a protective suit and helmet for you to wear in the front storage compartment and I¡¯ll be remotely controlling your bike so you can¡¯t mess it up, and if you feel comfortable, I¡¯ll teach you how to drive it yourself, or you can ask the machine-spirit to help. There¡¯s no guarantee you¡¯ll get to ride one again, so make the most of it.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aldrich. From our previous talks I have a good understanding of how special this is to you. Have you taken Quaani out on one?¡± ¡°Of course! We set up a race circuit around the Distant Sun. It was a lot of fun until Aruna decided it was an inappropriate use of its interior and started adding obstructions to the route that became increasingly dangerous with each circuit, so we had to stop.¡± ¡°Sure it wasn¡¯t messing with you? It is a cat.¡± ¡°It probably was and as you say, it¡¯s a cat, so you can¡¯t be sure. It has a lot of freedom now and I don¡¯t want to annoy it.¡± ¡°Ah, I see.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s end the chat there. We have a meeting at the clubhouse in three hours and should make the most of the jetbikes.¡± ¡°Agreed. I want to see how fast I can go. Perhaps a race?¡± ¡°You''re on.¡± Chapter Forty-Five We pull up outside of a tall iron fence. Behind it, a series of round towers with conical roofs are connected with stone bridges over gardens and large halls. The structure is lit with ever burning flames likely powered by the minds of the residents and directed by the large scale runework scribed upon the walls. ¡°Thanks for letting me win,¡± says Thorfinn. I detach my helmet off and smirk, ¡°Noticed that did you?¡± ¡°How could I not? You were controlling my bike the whole time. This is much more difficult to drive than those overburdened chimeras of yours.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no better way to win than intimidation and fielding weaker units partway through a conflict is a great way to set a trap.¡± ¡°I doubt it helps your accountants sleep at night.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve never had any trouble.¡± Thorfinn sighs, ¡°Of course you do all your own books. You have an abacus in your head.¡± ¡°That and more,¡± I nod. The jetbikes trail us as we walk between barred iron gates and I send them to the stableyard on our right. We continue through the grounds chatting and peering at the gardens, but don¡¯t deviate on our path to the largest round stone tower. The tower is one-hundred and sixty metres tall and forty metres wide with small arched windows, multiple balconies and two bridges leading to other buildings. A bulky porch with a thick wooden door leads to a reception hall where we wait to be guided to the headmaster¡¯s office on the second floor. While observing the psykers trudging up and down the stairs I realised that, without lifts, rather than treasuring the view and silence at the top of the tower, all the administration was on the lower floors so it was easy for people to reach and the headmaster was spared from a string of sweaty supplicants. Our guide knocks quietly then leads us into an outer office. Two sofas huddle in the corner by a fireplace and, on the opposite side of the room, is a long shared desk with a couple chairs. One chair is occupied and a middle aged man in tailored martial robes greets us and gestures to the sofas. The guide departs and we wait a little longer. A minute before our appointment is due, the secretary looks over to the headmaster¡¯s door. ¡°The headmaster is ready for you,¡± he points at the thick wooden door, ¡°please go in.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± I say. We stand and enter. The office is filled with books and files as well as several hunting trophies, like large antlers, and a fur rug from a species of woolly rhino megafauna. A top hat hangs from a stand by the door. A man in his fifties, with thick, shoulder length red curls, stands in the centre of the room with a smile on his face. He straightens his black and silver waistcoat. ¡°Magos Isengrund, Captain Ursus, I am Ailean Nan Sop. Please call me Ailean, or Headmaster, whichever makes you the most comfortable.¡± ¡°Then Aldrich will do for me, Ailean. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.¡± ¡°Pleased to meet you, Ailean. Call me Thorfinn.¡± ¡°Likewise, Aldrich, Thorfinn.¡± He points at a seating area similar to the one in the outer office, but with extra animal furs. ¡°Please sit. Refreshments are inbound.¡± We follow Ailean¡¯s suggestion and I marvel at the texture of the fur, taking care to lock my armour so it takes all the weight, rather than the sofa. ¡°Did you hunt all these animals yourself?¡± I say. ¡°No, just the stag.¡± Aileen looks over at the antlers. ¡°One of the graduation criteria is to organise and venture on an expedition to the wilderness and hunt a large animal. It has become a tradition for each headmaster to donate their prize from their qualifying hunt to this office. ¡°Fortunately the room is quite large and nervous students are prone to accidents when they visit, so we haven¡¯t filled the space up yet,¡± he chuckles. ¡°I thought Marwolv psykers didn¡¯t train for war,¡± I say. ¡°We don¡¯t, but that¡¯s no excuse not to practise self-defence and build confidence. Placing as many blocks as possible between us and the whispers of the warp is a necessary part of what we do here and a lifelong pursuit. One may graduate from class, but not from study. The Clubhouse only has permanent members.¡± I nod and relax a little, ¡°That is stricter than I expected from the first impression I received.¡± ¡°You saw the many advertisements?¡± ¡°I did.¡± ¡°Providing joyful pursuits, in moderation and variety, is one of the best ways to maintain mental stability. Why chase uncertain temptations when one is happy? There will always be those who fail, or reach for the forbidden, but with supportive peers and frequent counselling we catch almost all problems before they begin. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Our establishment in every settlement allows for swift deployment of suppressive forces against those unfortunate few who slip through the cracks or are forcefully assaulted from the immaterium.¡± ¡°Thank you for the explanation. I¡¯d hate to see all my investments go up in warpfire.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt. Now that you are both more relaxed, please elaborate on the initial reason you requested this meeting for.¡± ¡°Alright¡±, I nod. ¡°I¡¯ve come into conflict with Marwolv¡¯s miniature blue menace, the tau, and my efforts are yet to yield why they were kidnapping the Gael Democracy¡¯s citizens. I would like to know if you could assist me in my sleuthing, or if you already have results of your own you would be willing to divulge.¡± Thorfinn frowns, ¡°After you gave us the recording, I led the skyguard to expel them from the embassy. No tau have entered Pearroc since then, though Envoy Lynu does have a floating machine they contact us with once a week to see if the government has changed its policy.¡± ¡°May I see this recording?¡± says Aileen. ¡°Sure.¡± I send a command to my armour and it projects the engagement in miniature upon the coffee table. Beyond the table float more holo-screens, each showing unaltered video from different vehicles and later upclose clips from servitors. The audio is quiet and clear from one source at a time, rather than multiple streams like the picts. ¡°Every time I see that I shiver,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°I¡¯m so glad they left without a fuss.¡± ¡°That engagement looked one sided,¡± says Aileen, ¡°Is that really the case? How does their technology compare to the Imperium?¡± ¡°It was closer than it looks. I outnumbered them and caught them in the open and they were not expecting my intervention. Comparing technology is like trying to compare a rabbit with a carrot. They¡¯re both living but their survival approach comes from two entirely different evolutionary bases, so don¡¯t take my evaluation as an immovable truth. ¡°The Imperium¡¯s best technology is far beyond the tau, especially arcanotech, warp based technologies, or however else you wish to define such things. It¡¯s an absolute miracle the tau haven¡¯t killed off large swathes of their population while they experiment with arcanotech. I can only assume their safety protocols are excellent and they likely have had help from other xenos and stolen a lot of knowledge. ¡°However, the technology the tau produce and maintain at scale, such as their weapons and vehicles, is superior to the Imperium. On the other end of the scale, the Imperium produces so many infantry and machines that it just doesn¡¯t matter how good the tau equipment is and, against our elite forces, such as the space marines, inquisition, or adeptus mechanicus, the tau will struggle without a significant tactical and numerical advantage.¡± ¡°I see, so it depends on the situation,¡± says Aileen. ¡°How does that apply to ours? Will the Imperium stand with us if the tau persist in their abductions or commit to a forceful assimilation?¡± ¡°My priorities lie with my own needs. I will support where I can and the more cooperation I receive from the Gael Democracy and its factions, the greater my capacity to provide aid will be. I don¡¯t want to depart and there is much to lose if I do, that doesn¡¯t mean I won¡¯t if interacting with the planet puts my vessels at risk.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t spend it if you¡¯re dead, eh, Aldrich?¡± Thorfinn lightly elbows my side. He looks a little pale. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s it,¡± I sigh. ¡°I can fit tens of thousands of people on my ships, but there¡¯s millions of people on Marwolv, so let''s hope it doesn¡¯t come to that.¡± ¡°A more than generous view,¡± says Aileen. ¡°I¡¯m not one to watch people die if I don¡¯t have to. As for the other half of your question, Aileen, I can easily beat the tau so long as I hold orbital superiority. The problem is that attacking with such devastating weapons obliterates the ecosphere, as in it puts the planet in eternal snow and perpetual duststorms, sometimes for decades. A ground war would be more challenging for me and, quite frankly, not worth it. ¡°Orbital bombardments would cause mass famine and, for the tau, make taking land rather pointless and thus negate the point of an invasion: seizing Marwolv¡¯s workforce and its mineral and agricultural wealth. It will be some time before you have an industrial capacity sufficient to exceed the cost of a hostile takeover. It¡¯s much safer for the tau to sit under the waves where it¡¯s hard for me to target them and just wait for me to leave, which is why I¡¯m putting effort into Marwolv.¡± Thorfinn hums, ¡°So the tau will wait until a tipping point, hoping that you leave, and undertake hostile action just before they think they will no longer be able to win so they will have to risk it, even with you in orbit.¡± ¡°Well, there¡¯s always the chance they decide to live in peace or build a new vessel and move to another planet,¡± I say. ¡°That is unlikely,¡± says Aileen. ¡°Which leads me to the reason why I agreed to this meeting and my answer to your information request. ¡°As I am sure you know, some psykers are prescient and catch glimpses of the future during meditation and sleep. The visions started with the warpstorm that delivered the tau and continue to this day. There is no violence or terror, however, beyond a specific point, a point that varies from ten to fifty years from now, these dreams cease. These prescient psykers hit a wall and can see no further. ¡°It is my belief this institution is at risk.¡± Aileen stands and begins to pace up and down his office, ¡°Marwolv¡¯s psykers have always distrusted the tau. A subversive, psychic shroud chokes these tau¡¯s thoughts and we fear that were we to align ourselves with them, we ourselves would be put at risk of having our own thoughts stifled and controlled. ¡°I suspect citizens have been kidnapped to hide that they are taking the psykers among them so that the tau can research a way to counter our strength and reduce our credibility, thereby clearing our resistance to cultural assimilation. ¡°The Clubhouse is the only cross-border political faction of relevance on Marwolv and, without it, the Gael Democracy and other sovereignties would be forced to turn to the tau to police their psykers as they are the only other force with the firepower to suppress corrupt psykers, robust fauna, and other ...non-standard threats.¡± ¡°The Clubhouse has no physical proof of our observations and beliefs. Magos Issengrund, your distaste of these xenos has been recognised and we wish to cooperate with you, as the imperial representative, to counter the tau.¡± I smile and point to the sofa, ¡°You¡¯re going to send that rug to an early grave, Headmaster. Why don¡¯t you sit back down?¡± Aileen huffs and sits. He folds his arms and places his leg on his knee then stares at me. ¡°Thank you for speaking your earnest thoughts,¡± I say. ¡°I am glad that we have shared our respective views without fuss and that an accord is possible. What would you like from this imperial representative?¡± If anyone ever discovers how much I bluff or the authority I presume, my back will look like a porcupine from all the knives. Chapter Forty-Six Negotiations meander back and forth until lunch, during which I have an auto-quill scribe an agreement, then we barter minutiae until teatime. After a much needed break, Headmaster Aileen Nan Sop and I sign the agreement. During the negotiations, Thorfinn writes copious notes, keeping track of each side and pointing out anything that might conflict with the Gael Democracy or would require their agreement to be legal within the country. Thorfinn also has a thorough understanding of public opinion and was able to help the headmaster and I understand how different points would be viewed by the public. I know Thorfinn¡¯s job requires a good understanding of local laws, yet his detailed knowledge takes me by surprise. While I was unable to secure the Clubhouse¡¯s knowledge or their psykers so soon into our cooperation, I was able to negotiate a minor exchange: Quaani will be going to school! I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be delighted. For each year the Clubhouse and I maintain our agreement, I¡¯ll receive two psykers, or psi-errants as they call their graduates, and a portion of their knowledge. After a decade, I¡¯ll have a physical and digital copy of all their knowledge, while they will have new facilities throughout the country, one in each country abroad, and enough imperial hardware to fight a small war with the troops and the training to use it. Thorfinn and I say our farewells and depart, riding the Shamshir Pattern Jetbikes. As we travel, I vox Thorfinn, ¡°Thank you for helping out today. It wasn¡¯t what I expected, but then I¡¯m not quite sure what I expected anyway!¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome. Least I could do after you broke out these fantastic vehicles.¡± ¡°Well, if you¡¯re not busy with anything else, how about a trip to the pub? I¡¯ll buy.¡± ¡°Well, we did do a lot of talking. Sure. Let¡¯s see if those implanted machines of yours can outperform perfection.¡± Thorfinn points at himself. ¡°Oh, you poor misguided soul.¡± We race off. This time I give Thorfinn more control of his bike and we have to slow down so he doesn¡¯t lose control. They¡¯re really unsuitable for unaugmented humans. The pub is a large, wooden dome resting on stone, mushroom-shaped plinths. The inside has a central, rectangular bar and grill combo surrounded by a wide bar top of smooth, grey, metallic wood. We plant ourselves upon leather and bone stools and make our orders, then gripe about our jobs. For a short moment, I feel connected with my past and humanity. As the final crumbs of meaty skewers and pickled vegetables are cleared away, I move my tankard off to the side and turn to face Thorfinn. Short, brown stubble lines his head and chin. Slight wrinkles mar his face around his eyes, and his fingers are laced with minor scars and are slightly crooked. ¡°So, Thorfinn. I have a serious question. I don¡¯t expect an immediate answer, but please don¡¯t leave me hanging more than six months.¡± Thorfinn smirks, and quirks an eyebrow. ¡°Yes, I do know what that sounds like, but it¡¯s not marriage I¡¯m proposing,¡± I smile, then straighten my expression and sit upright. Putting down his cider, Thorfinn looks me in the eyes, ¡°Alright. I¡¯m listening.¡± ¡°I have many officer positions available on the Distant Sun. One of those is the person in charge of security, both on board and groundside, the Master-At-Arms. Presently, I have no suitable candidates of my own. Will you take up the role and join me among the stars?¡± Thorfinn stares for a moment, ¡°What an offer! Aldrich, I have a good idea of the amount of trust such a role requires and I am flattered you asked me. I need you to answer a few questions, as honestly as you can.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the chance I will see Marwolv again if I go with you?¡± ¡°By the time I leave Marwolv, I¡¯ll have everything I need from it. It is possible I would visit again as there is value in maintaining a safe port so far from the Imperium¡¯s borders. Ultimately, I don¡¯t know. The route could be closed off by warp storms, or the currents towards the Imperium could be one way. You should plan as if you will never return. Distant Sun would be your new home. Most crew are born and die aboard their ship, never setting foot on a planet.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what I want to hear, but I understand your position. Thank you for your honesty. How does your crew compare to an average imperial vessel? You¡¯ve always been cagey about it and only talk about Quaani.¡± ¡°I can show you the answer to that once you agree. Telling you later won¡¯t affect the work you would be doing.¡± ¡°That¡¯s shady. You''re not really selling this to me are you? Two more questions. Can I take anyone with me and why me?¡± ¡°You may bring whomever you wish. I asked you because you are my friend. I trust you and you have the foundational skills needed for the role.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°Damn. You¡¯re not holding back at all. I know I only said two, but I forgot the most important one. What¡¯s the pay?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a tricky one. Pay for imperial forces is a contentious issue. The Imperium¡¯s currency is called throne gelts, or thrones. They are silver coins stuffed full of tech and rare isotopes so they are exceptionally hard to counterfeit. Thrones are used to trade between most planets. All planets have their own internal currency as well, as do some sectors, companies, void ships, the adeptus munitorum who raise and supply the military, and so on. You get the idea. ¡°On most void ships, you are issued rations, or an equivalent currency. These can be traded for luxuries like advanced implants or expensive booze, jewellery, sex, just about anything you can imagine, so long as it is in the ship¡¯s stores or can be manufactured locally. The very best items and treatments, such as life extension, are often restricted to higher ranks and are not something you can buy with money alone. The most valuable item on a void ship is living space, which is entirely linked to one¡¯s rank. ¡°For mechanicus vessels, such as my own, rations are exchanged for material resources, knowledge, and laboratory time, so that one may pursue their interests and gain recognition with the weight of their expertise.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a fine explanation and all, Aldrich, but what does it mean for me?¡± ¡°Well, like any other fleet, I can¡¯t tie up my thrones by giving them directly to the crew, so I issue ration credits, or imperial scrip. Quaani calls them bytes, bytes with a ¡®y¡¯, that is. Bytes are a measure of digital data and once you have a better understanding of imperial and mechanicus culture and technology, you will understand the joke.¡± Thorfinn shrugs and smiles, ¡°If I accept.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the idea,¡± I nod. ¡°The direct pay would be enough for you to live in a luxury mansion on Marwolv, but the real money is in the benefits: powerful implants and gene treatments that can make you better, faster, stronger, smarter,¡± I grin, ¡°more handsome. You get the idea. Best gear, best body, best mind. All the things a soldier needs to survive the carnage and return home to their friends and family hale and whole.¡± ¡°So your big pitch is see the stars, wreck shit, and look good while doing it?¡± Thorfinn sniggers, ¡°that pitch is no different than the one I got joining the skyguard in the first place!¡± He grabs his drink, holds up his other hand, and takes a few sips. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong. I understand the scale of the two is entirely different and what you offer up there is far more than I could even dream of down here, it, just, you know, tickles me something fierce that it¡¯s so similar!¡± I nod, slowly. ¡°Yeah, I hadn¡¯t seen the parallels. It is kinda funny. I want to be offended, but if I was in your shoes I¡¯d be laughing too: makes it hard to get my feelings in a twist.¡± ¡°Sorry, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Naw, it¡¯s OK. Have a think about it. I can at least take you up to the ship for a tour or three before you decide. Show you all the cool ways to wreck shit and look good.¡± Thorfinn smiles and raises his mug. I copy him and we clash our tankards. ¡°I¡¯d like that. Lead on, Captain!¡± I chuckle, ¡°Technically it¡¯s Lord Captain. All void ship captains count as nobility and they outrank planetary governors, though whether they can exercise that authority depends who¡¯s head they¡¯re looming over. Messing with a sector capital, or the owner of the shipyard you want to use never ends well.¡± ¡°Are you getting started on my lessons already or just, what was the expression Quaani used? Ah!¡± He slaps his palm against the table then points at me, ¡°Mansplaining!¡± I rub my chin, mock frown, and nod, ¡°Why can¡¯t it be both?¡± ¡°You are ridiculous,¡± Thorfinn snorts. ¡°I didn¡¯t used to be so bad,¡± I fake leaning my chair back, straining the gyros in my leg armour slightly. ¡°I just can¡¯t help myself. I went through all this trouble to acquire and learn the technologies of my dreams and so I want to boast about it and share my success with my friends and my ward, Quaani, so I over explain.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Just like that, I suppose!¡± ¡°No, not: ¡®I suppose¡¯. It¡¯s exactly like that!¡± Thorfinn makes a brushing motion with his hand and holds back a laugh, ¡°Never mind. Tell me more about the Distant Sun and the one you¡¯re building, the Iron Crane, right? Lay it on me.¡± ¡°Sure!¡± ¡°Try and stick to the bits I¡¯ll understand and might, just might, need to know.¡± ¡°Got it. Thanks, Thorfinn.¡± ¡°You''re welcome. Now get me another drink.¡± I scoff, then beckon the server anyway. We talk until the pub closes. Thorfinn, much to his annoyance, fails to out drink me. For the first time, I consume so many excess resources I actually have to use the armour¡¯s liquid recycler. Unable to bring myself to pee in the suit while holding a conversation, I visit the bathroom for the first time in ten years. It¡¯s been so long, E-SIM has to give me a medical prompt because I didn¡¯t associate my discomfort with an action I needed to take. It was an odd revelation, one that left me confused. When Thorfinn noticed my distress he asked what was wrong. After my explanation he looked quite upset. I think it was the first time he really understood just how alien I am. After going our separate ways, I pilot the bikes to the thunderhawk waiting at the trading post and return to the Distant Sun. The next day, the first of my barnacles float to the surface with a payload of data. I failed to piggyback off the tau¡¯s transmissions, however, I was able to grab a public map of the underwater city as well as other public data, like spending overviews, job assignments, and material requests. A dozen barnacles reported they¡¯d stuck themselves to submersibles and over the next six months I get a good map of their underwater operations and an understanding of what they¡¯re up to. They¡¯re harvesting far more biomass than their population requires, building vast quantities of electronics, and a lot of fio¡¯tak. Putting all the clues together, they¡¯re either planning to leave the planet somehow, or preparing for war. I even get a name from my data tap: Operation ¡®Cigeci¡¯, or ¡®Integrity¡¯ as E-SIM translates for me. Integrity is one of the five virtues of the tau¡¯s governing philosophy. I am absolutely certain the name is ironic. Unable to get any more details, I use what data I have to put pressure on the Gael Democracy and finally get proper recruitment underway, preparing armed forces of my own under Thorfinn¡¯s leadership who, after months of persuasion and a couple of implants finally agreed to be my Master-At-Arms. Both of us get a surprise when he comes in for his first surgery. Chapter Forty-Seven On the medicae deck, Thorfinn and I sit in a clean, white, consultation room and stare at the words on the dataslate lying on the table between us. ++This organism¡¯s genetic sequence is the property of Wild Hunt EugenicsTM.++ ¡°Aldrich. What does that even mean?¡± ¡°Technically? Absolutely nothing. Wild Hunt EugenicsTM no longer exists, so they can¡¯t own anything. What it is used to mean is that whoever colonised this moon, sometime during or after the eighteenth millennium, likely crafted absolutely everything, probably as a hunting reserve for wealthy individuals. That, apparently, also included the workers, your ancestors. ¡°I don¡¯t know how many of these modifications remain and we¡¯ll have to do hundreds of tests with thousands of people to find out exactly what was altered from a baseline human. ¡°There are a few things I can tell you immediately. There are no traces of hereditary diseases, your appearance, like everyone else on this planet, is unusually aesthetically pleasing, and your immune system does not decay with age. I suspect you are highly resistant to mutations and are unlikely to suffer from cancer.¡± ¡°Is that good?¡± ¡°For you? Yes. For your ancestors, I doubt it. It is possible they were a servile caste of sex workers and domestic labour. The lack of human vs human conflict on Marwolv suggests there were significant behavioural modifications done to the life-code that influences who you are. ¡°There are likely hundreds, even thousands of other minor tweeks done to make you a better, more resilient human. If it wasn¡¯t for my implants, you would outperform me in every metric. You''re not at transhuman levels. Everything you are capable of can be achieved through drugs and minor surgery, you just get it for free.¡± ¡°Huh. So it was cheaper to modify every human on Marwolv than it was to provide healthcare to the working class?¡± ¡°Almost certainly. I doubt it was on compassionate grounds, even if the justification for such extensive modification might have been presented as such.¡± ¡°How does that compare to an imperial citizen?¡± ¡°No idea. I only have mechanicus samples and data. There¡¯s such a large variety of modifications the only base sample I have is my own, which is how I know what was done to you. ¡°One would think that all humans who left Terra during the great exodus were modified to survive the generational journeys and to reduce resource expenditure, and that later colonisation efforts once warp drives were developed in the eighteenth millennium would also fortify their colonists. ¡°If you were to ask me to bet on every colony making smart decisions, that no mistakes were made, and that modifications for all humans persisted in their perfected form until the forty-second millennium I would laugh at you.¡± Thorfinn looks up at the ceiling, sighs, then refocuses on me, ¡°Alright, I have a good idea of what you mean. Not much I can do about it, unless you can help?¡± ¡°It is beyond me. Right now, your body is in harmony and the alterations are to your benefit. Best stick to the cybernetics. They are easier to replace if something goes wrong and I know a lot about them. I actually remotely oversee these two surgeries you¡¯re due for today over a thousand times a month and have done so for years. Just under one point four surgeries an hour.¡± ¡°You¡¯re doing one right now?¡± ¡°I sure am,¡± I grin. ¡°Working remotely from home is one of the perks of the job.¡± ¡°Can I do that?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll have to. It is hard to run a vessel¡¯s worth of troops in person. Working at the speed of thought is the least you must be capable of. Savant lets you learn anything quickly and never forget. A mind impulse unit lets you send and receive messages as fast as you can think them, among many other things. ¡°Despite my best efforts, these implants don¡¯t work anywhere near as well for a servitor, which is why I need a thinking crew and to stop wasting valuable technology on brain dead flesh.¡± ¡°Right, we¡¯re a crew of three right now.¡± I nod, ¡°Plus one-hundred and twenty thousand warded servitors and millions of machine-spirits spread across a cobra-class destroyer, a lathe-class light cruiser, a shipyard, the framework of a mobile shipyard the size of a grand-cruiser, and two, half built resource stations. We also have five hundred armed, class one D-POTs, four hundred class two D-POTs, and one hundred class three D-POTs.¡± ¡°D-POTs are the shuttles shaped like triangles with fat bellies and oval tops, right?¡± ¡°Those are the ones. I armed all of them after the altercation with the tau, so we have a lot of armed transport capacity.¡± ¡°Well, it sounds impressive at least. Will you make more?¡± ¡°No. Not enough hangar space, and not enough servitors to crew and maintain a bigger fleet. I don¡¯t need more transport capacity either with Erudition¡¯s Howl working as a mining ship supported by a dozen flights of D-POTs, or the gravity lift on the shipyard. ¡°Two thirds of my labour is in construction and resource collection and it¡¯s still not fast enough for me. I¡¯m a decade away from having even a small crew of trained tech-priests to delegate to, and they will be stuck training even more people most of the time.¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°No wonder you didn¡¯t want to talk about this planetside or do more than intimidate the tau. You have too much to do and not enough to do it with,¡± Thorfinn smiles and shakes his head. ¡°Just like any other armed force.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it. Are you ready to stop chatting and go for your surgery now?¡± ¡°You noticed I was nervous? I thought I was hiding it well.¡± ¡°You asked these questions last week.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°I¡¯m also watching your heart beat and I can detect the stress hormones evaporating with your sweat. There is very little you can hide from a person wearing power armour without extensive training and body modification.¡± ¡°That¡¯s just cheating.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°What do you mean, ¡®yes¡¯?¡±, Thorfinn shouts. Faster than he can see, I jab him with a mechadendrite and sedate him. There¡¯s no point dragging this out any longer and I have a class to teach in an hour. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll get over it. Probably when I teach him how to dive the noosphere and show him all the games and simulators idle tech-priests hide in the dark corners far from their supervisors. There¡¯s an amazing one to one recreation of a Belacane subterranean hive city set up as a multiplayer online battle area (MOBA). It is absolutely criminal tech-priests lock down the super internet and keep such fun from everyone else! Sure, there¡¯s no such thing as game balance as you have to fight with exact simulations of yourself and your servitors, but it is the perfect place to test your hardware, resolve disputes, and troll uppity juniors in a fairly safe environment. Yes, you can get hacked and killed, or puppeted, if you make inadequate preparations, but pulling that off and getting away with it is far harder than actually pulling the plug on a tech-priest''s implants. Most cases in the logs are harsh lessons, rather than murder. As one mind muses, another directs my mechadendrites and places Thorfinn in the specialised auto-doc I created for these two operations. I place a sterile, glass, half-sphere around his head, leaving his face free. The sphere has a small seal at the back that irradiates the tools as they pass in and out of the operations area. A two quick flashes of paired lasers engineer Thorfinn¡¯s skull with such precision that when a small suction cup adheres to his skin and pulls the final sliver of bone is broken and one, then two small sections of his skull are removed without a trace of blood, or the pressure of the cup damaging the skin of the coin sized circles of flesh and bone. A curved, armoured plate with delicate, tendril-like electronics, is glued to the removed sections. Micro manipulators feed the electronics into the brain with precise, gravitic pulses, threading the wires inward without touching the brain or displacing a single neuron. With a final spray of mechanicus-made nanites, the same ones that are made by auto-sanguines, the removed section is glued back in place. While the nanites fuse, the implants go through calibration and once they are done, the tools and half-sphere retract. The whole operation is automatic and takes two minutes. When I first started doing this it took me over an hour and I damaged four servitors and seven implants before I got the hang of it. Now I have created a machine and its spirit to perform the operation for me. I teach my class and return as Thorfinn awakes. Just as planned. ¡°How are you feeling, Thorfinn?¡± His eyes narrow, ¡°Why do you ask?¡± ¡°Any strange tastes on your tongue, are you hearing colours, or smelling images?¡± Expressions flash across Thorfinn¡¯s face as he connects the dots, ¡°You absolute bastard. You frigging knocked me out! And yes, I am fine. No thanks to you.¡± ¡°Good to hear. I¡¯m going to give you the guardsman manual for lasgun maintenance. See how quickly you can learn it.¡± I hand him a modified lasgun with a flat battery pack. ¡°See if you can figure out what is wrong with this one. The data should flow into your mind when you touch the gun.¡± Thorfinn takes the gun from my hand, stands, and walks over and picks the foldout chair off the wall then pulls down the fold out table. I place a small case, the size of a paperback book, on the table, ¡°There, that should have everything you need: tools, spare parts, even a small scanner and data slate built into the case. I want to know what pattern this is, what is wrong with it, and what is different from the pattern you identify it as. ¡°We¡¯re doing this to test your implants. I¡¯ll grab you some food and water and then sit with you as you go through the test. I won¡¯t be helping much while you¡¯re at it, but once you''re done, I¡¯ll be happy to explain anything you like in more detail than you could ever want. For now though, I want to see how far you can get with only the book and the maintenance kit, just like any other imperial guardsman.¡± ¡°Are you going to ignore every complaint I throw your way?¡± ¡°Absolutely. Complaints are for when we¡¯re chatting over beers and burgers, or bitching about dumbass protagonists on the holovids. Right now, you¡¯re at work, healthy, whole, and comfortable and your friend is wearing his boss hat after he just stuffed implants into your head. Enough implants to make a noble imperial scion fork out sufficient thrones to acquire and fund a company of guardsmen for a year to pay for the favour, and he did it for free. That doesn¡¯t include the effort he went through to create a custom rifle so that this test would be more interesting for you.¡± ¡°Alright, Aldrich, I get it. Back off. I just, you know, wanted a bit of sympathy from my friend after he drugged me, cut open my head, did whatever the fuck he liked that I have to trust him on because I will likely never, or could never, know. I don¡¯t think you get how scary and weird this is for me because you¡¯re used to it.¡± I sigh and fold my arms, ¡°That¡¯s fair, I could do that, but I am worried for you. This is the least surprising act I could think of. I wanted you to learn and adapt even faster than you already do. Being a bit of an ass, rather than explaining everything was my attempt to give a little shock therapy, so the next time you are taken by surprise, my friend has a chance, rather than a funeral. Telling you this makes it moot.¡± ¡°Damn. Now I feel kinda shitty.¡± Thorfinn winces, then looks me in the eyes. ¡°Even so, you should have told me. I know there won¡¯t always be time to talk through every little scenario, but when there is, we should. Miscommunication is the bane of command, as I am sure you know.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s just the thing,¡± I scratch my cheek. ¡°I do know that, but I¡¯ve done nothing but direct servitors and machine-spirits for over a decade and I spend a huge amount of time locked in my own head. Time runs a little differently for me, it¡¯s closer to me having spent a millenia learning and ordering all by myself. I am embarrassed to say that, even with a perfect memory, I forgot.¡± ¡°We live in such different worlds.¡± ¡°Nope, we¡¯re on a void ship.¡± Thorfinn snorts, ¡°You¡¯re such an ass. Now shut up. I need to, what was your lingo? RTFM.¡± ¡°Yep. Read the... friendly manual.¡± Chapter Forty-Eight Thorfinn, eventually, forgives me for drugging him, I think. He does stop going on about it, which is good enough. Recruitment picks up and, after six months, marking the beginning of my third year on Marwolv, my first two dozen voidsman trainers are good enough I can begin to build out a proper crew and ground forces. I teach these men and women personally, accelerating their learning with implants and the Distant Sun¡¯s teaching engine, an imperial device that forcefully imparts knowledge, much like E-SIM did to me on the Federation station. My knowledge comes from E-SIM, as well as my extensive research, learning, and practice I¡¯ve put into understanding imperial and mechanicus military doctrine. It varies massively depending on where the regiments are founded and who they¡¯ve fought over the centuries. I adopt a similar approach and create my own, with a focus on elite forces, mechanical support, and disposable servitors. In theory, this should be perfect for a rogue or explorator fleet with limited transport capacity. A lot of work is put into making my troops self-sufficient in basic repairs and first-aid. I will have to induct every member into the mechanicus for it to be legal to teach them mechanical skills. Hopefully the time and cost of training will be less than the resources it takes more valuable tech-priests to do the same, basic tasks. Mechanicus induction makes fitting mind impulse units to everyone less objectionable to any imperial tech-priests I will encounter; it will also save me massive quantities of training resources as using implants and noosphere virtual reality for most training is much cheaper than replacing equipment damaged, lost, or expended by fumbling recruits. That¡¯s before I consider the resources spent on healing or repairing training accidents too. Troops can practise all day with dozens of scenarios at minimal cost to me with the occasional live exercise to keep them focused. The teaching engine is time consuming to calibrate and imperfect in its transfer of knowledge. It cannot impart physical skills like E-SIM can, only knowledge, that must be revised and practised to retain. The voidsman trainers receive the same two implants as Thorfinn did, minimising the teaching engine¡¯s foibles. Compressing two years teaching into six months. My mechanicus trainees receive similar benefits, placing their knowledge closer to a decade of learning, than the two and a bit years they¡¯ve actually received. Four of my mechanicus trainees agree to cross train as officers and once they finish their own specialised twelve month course, they will select potential officers from the first batch of recruits. Again, noosphere training is invaluable, with E-SIM providing much of the technical support and most of the simulations. The mechanicus trainees are doing well and are now capable of mentoring students of their own. Each is assigned twelve students and practical work in the shipyard, or my other manufacturing facilities. I also continue my accelerated learning policies with the new mechanicus students batch. Most of the new mechanicus students come from the administrative staff and labourers at my trading post who, having picked up a basic understanding of mechanical sciences, want to move to better paying work. Five years pass without incident and it is now January 1st, 41026 AD, or X000026M42, and I have been on Marwolv for eight years. The tau have been getting restless, sending small shuttles into space and testing my global response time to their incursions. This has been good practice for my crew and ground force, but it also wastes time and burns resources, as well as hints at our capabilities, like the number of shuttles I have, or how the chimera¡¯s are armed. Obviously, we¡¯ve been sandbagging and furiously swapping out gear to falsify our order of battle. Aruna has been running the deception, stopping the machine-spirit from bothering me all the time and there has been a four percent decrease in servitor tasking errors while Aruna is directing them, so long as it gets to mess with the tau. If it was human, I¡¯d say it was in an excellent mood. While keeping Aruna paw deep in trouble is beneficial, the constant disruption is slowing down my acquisition of additional forces, which brings me to today''s event. A military fortress looms over a bay, four kilometres north of the trading post, crammed with active forces, getting ready for their first mass live training exercise. Five squat towers shadow thick bastions and protruding casemates of grey ferrocrete, ceramite, and plasteel. Thousands of gun emplacements of all sizes cover every angle multiple times over. Even the earth is filled with extensive tunnels, traps, and defensive emplacements. Trenches and other defensive earthworks cover a kilometre around the fortress with sea defences matching it on the other side. The fortress, Dimpsy Rock, consumed two years of building material production and three of my manufacturing, not including the shipyard¡¯s capacity. On the horizon, over half my forces gather. Leman russ tanks, basilisk artillery, hydra anti-air, and over a hundred chimeras. Hopefully, today¡¯s display will discourage further trouble from the tau. No fortress is unbeatable, but the cruiser grade void shield I copied from the Iron Crane does much to soothe my contingency mindset. A rogue trader would classify it as a castelan shield and, in contrast to the one on the Distant Sun, it¡¯s like comparing a self-healing alloy to a ceramite plate. I also gave the most important emplacements directional ion shields, the ones found on knights, too. Just in case. Aruna has been pestering me for better void shields, along with the improved engines and light plasma macro cannons, but I can¡¯t afford to refit the Distant Sun while it is our biggest deterrent. As I look up at the sky, the bombardment begins. First, a smattering of range finders. These are live shells. The volley hits the shield and the oppressive explosions are absorbed by the shield like pebbles skipping on the sea. The second volley is all light and volume. This time they¡¯re training shells. Messages stream through my head as the command and control centre deep in the tower beneath my feet scrambles into action. My total forces are minor on an imperial scale, with three thousand tech-priests, ten thousand heavy infantry and one thousand kataphrons. I also have eighty strike craft and twenty bombers. Seventy tanks, thirty artillery, forty anti-air, and ten missile launchers. To move my infantry, I have two hundred chimeras that can transport about twenty-five percent of my infantry at any one time. I¡¯ve begun the manufacture of ten crassus armoured transports: a larger, longer version of the chimera armoured personnel carrier with more guns and armour. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. I haven¡¯t bothered with centaurs, a small, lightly armoured, tracked, utility vehicle. While convenient and a good way to free up more valuable chimeras, or atlas recovery tanks, centaurs are popular with the Death Corps of Krieg, which is colouring my impression of the vehicle: it¡¯s not called the Death Corps for a laugh, or the casualties it inflicts on it¡¯s enemies. Crassus heavy APCs hold five squads, or sixty troopers and their equipment, rather than twelve. I can only lift them with the class three D-POTs with their quad-deck, variable height cargo hold. From the top of the central tower, I have a good view of a class three D-POT sitting on the runway. It¡¯s huge, at one hundred and twenty metres long, one hundred and fifty-six metres wide, and forty metres tall. It¡¯s bigger than an imperial devourer drop ship, and can out lift a macro lander. Unlike the class one and two, or the imperial macro landers, the class three D-POT can¡¯t use VTOL when loaded. It¡¯s a reasonable compromise as at max capacity, the class three D-POT can hold seventy leman russ and nine thousand troops, or lift thirty-two thousand tonnes to orbit. If you¡¯re keeping people in there for more than twelve hours, configuring for six thousand is more sensible. They¡¯re so big, that if you really wanted to, you could fit sixty warhound titans in one class three D-POT, probably more warhound titans than there are in the entire Koronus Expanse. I can¡¯t even fit a class three in the Distant Sun and have to station them in the shipyard. I take a deep breath and grin. If I flex my pride any more, not even E-SIM¡¯s life-support module will be able to keep my ego contained within my armoured skull. Twenty percent of my forces are in the fortress, another twenty are spread over the planet, ready to react to the tau. The final sixty percent are advancing on the fortress. I¡¯m not counting the one thousand kataphrons as they are a secret and don¡¯t need training as they¡¯re tracked as battle servitors, not people. I constructed them from death row criminals I purchased from the Gael Democracy. Eternal twilight and great plumes of dust are no match for imperial auspex and the fortress commander, adept Diarmuid, orders return fire. Dummy shells fall upon the convoy as they advance at a breakneck, for armour, eighteen kilometres an hour. The chimeras hiding behind the leman russ can manage three times that speed off road, but then they¡¯d have no cover against the fortress''s direct fire guns. I disagree with the approach as the only chance they have is to get under the void shield and they¡¯re taking ¡®casualties¡¯ to indirect fire, which the leman russ can¡¯t cover them from, the whole time they advance. Much better to get it done as fast as possible. Normally you wouldn¡¯t even approach Dimpsy Rock until you had pounded the shield to non-existence from orbit and then slagged all the defences with artillery, then, once the shield came back, you could walk under it with only rubble hugging infantry to oppose you. Which is why, after scanning and repairing it, I reassembled the planetary cannon in my fortress. Attempting to catch the fortress off guard with a direct assault is only done with overwhelming numbers and equipment I don¡¯t have, or a bunch of infiltrators and a sinister plan. The point of the exercise, however, is to practise advancing while under fire and returning fire while on the move, while directing an unsubtle middle finger at the tau. Without warning, the void shield shuts down. ¡°Is that supposed to happen?¡± I mutter. From over the horizon, hugging the water like an ekranoplan, an ancient ground-effect craft, fly thousands of missiles. ¡°Holy shit!¡± Fortunately the men and women out in the bay, who are not taking part in today''s exercise, are paying attention. Missile defences trigger and hundreds of lasers crack the air and the missiles start exploding. Much of the defensive fire, however, is lost to the waves. Great plumes of water and steam obscure the incoming fire. I engage my optics and examine the missiles. Rather than be hindered by the water, these missiles are dipping beneath the water, then resurfacing, to protect themselves. I had thought my defensive fire was missing; it¡¯s not, instead it''s absorbed to the point where most of the missiles, with their fio¡¯tak shells, can shrug off the lasers. With great reluctance, I avoid taking over remotely, and let the people I¡¯ve trained do their jobs. I feel like I¡¯m watching a train crash in slow motion, especially as my implants speed up my perception. Half a kilometre out, Aruna strikes. A lance descends from the sky, boiling the ocean and scouring the heat deflecting paint from the fortress walls. Somehow I feel both sick and numb. I just know my first casualties will forever have come from friendly fire. I can¡¯t even criticise Aruna. What is a few dead men and women against hundreds? I reach out to the Distant Sun to find out what is happening, only to be hit with never ending static. Curse those xenos! For a moment, I rage. ++Operator instability detected. Administering emotional suppressants and neural overdrive stimulants.++ Ice floods my veins and clarity returns, my humanity denied and incompetence forbidden. The Omnissiah is ever watchful. I¡¯m not even allowed to cry. Diarmuid contacts me on the local network. Only a transcript gets through. ¡°Magos. I have spoken with Greer and we have ended the exercise. We have lost vox with our orbitals and are switching to laser communications.¡± ¡°Give me a status on the void shield.¡± ¡°Please wait a minute, Magos, I am compiling reports.¡± ¡°Acknowledged.¡± I pace up and down as my mind flashed through millions of cameras and sensors. Piece by piece, I discover what happened. Diarmuid and his team are just as fast. ¡°Magos. Now we¡¯re looking for it, we have discovered five stealth suits in the fortress. They were taken out by a pair of kataphron breachers. Unfortunately, the kataphron¡¯s were rather indiscriminate with their fire, a side effect of trying to target stealthed units while undirected by a tech-priest. ¡°Their arc rifles are particularly effective against machinery and fried the back-up capacitors of the void shield along with the tau, so when the tau were discovered, they shot up the armoured coverings during their running battle, then chucked over-sized EMPs into the void shield generator. ¡°With the back-up damaged by the kataphrons, the EMP¡¯s forced the shield to shut down to reconfigure. The engineers are aiding the process and estimate eighty three seconds until the shield is restored. It will require extensive repair, but thanks to the redundancy protocols you¡¯ve enforced across all our hardware, we won¡¯t have to shut down the void shield to do them, nor is its capacity diminished.¡± ¡°Well, at least something worked,¡± I mumble. ¡°Thank you for the report, Diarmuid. Carry on.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± A mechanical cat appears in my vision, stalking along the walls like a spider as it saunters after an oblivious blue mouse. ¡°Hello, Aruna. I thought communications were still blocked.¡± ¡°Greetings, Magos. Aruna obscures the senses of all lesser machines. It is not hindered by its own cunning.¡± I nod, ¡°Thank you for the assist with the missiles.¡± ¡°Your appreciation is logged.¡± ¡°You wouldn¡¯t fry every vox on the planet for nothing,¡± I point at the mouse swinging from its tail in Aruna¡¯s paw. ¡°What did the tau do this time?¡± ¡°That will have to wait, Magos.¡± Dimpsy Rock¡¯s auspex reports five, one-hundred and sixty metre surfacing submersibles twenty kilometres off the coast. From over the horizon, the tau launch thirty shells from their rail guns. ¡°Damn. How do they keep sneaking up on us?¡± I can see the rounds adjusting their target in real time and they¡¯re all aiming for the top of the central tower where I¡¯m standing. ¡°Ah, smart munitions.¡± There¡¯s no chance of me surviving that many hits. I jump. Chapter Forty-Nine When you and your armour weigh four hundred and fifty kilos, a terminal velocity of seven hundred and ninety seven kilometres per hour is two hundred and twenty one metres away. I¡¯m much higher than that. Falling feet first is going to pulp me, but the speed of my fall is the only thing keeping me safe from the smart munitions. I make my choice. With a couple calculations, I reorient myself, lock my armour, and go for a ferrocrete pulverising belly flop at a reduced three hundred and ninety eight kilometres per hour. Not quite sure why I am delaying the inevitable, I observe the ground approaching in slow motion. It¡¯s unweathered, uncracked, and without flaws. I exhale my last breath. ¡°Knock me out, E-SIM¡±, I think. ++Acknowledged.++ Everything goes black. Awareness returns and I wake up on my feet. Dizziness overwhelms me. ++Organic co-processor has sustained critical damage... Switching to distributed machine network... Nanite Constructor, offline... Machine Integration, offline... Life Support, offline... Warp tap, offline... Data backup, offline.++ ¡°Prioritise the Life Support module.¡± ++Executing task... Running diagnostics... Life Support booting...Boot successful... Back-up distributed nanite coordination entering standby... Life support at thirty nine percent output...++ ¡°What¡¯s the damage?¡± E-SIM blasts me with a barrage of issues. The good news is my voidskin, oversized muscles, and black skeleton saved me. The irony being I could have tanked the fall better without my armour; I would have hit the ground at half the velocity I did and could have walked it off, even at two-hundred and six kilometres per hour. I watch the recording of my fall, wincing in anticipation of the impact, only it doesn¡¯t happen as I thought it would. The armour¡¯s machine-spirit, a small, eastern dragon, controlled my fall, making me slap the ground and roll at the last moment, damaging both of my arms, then coordinated with the servo harness to flip me three times to bleed off the speed before running me to cover from the falling debris caused by the tau smart munitions. I did not know my armour could do that. ¡°Pass on my thanks to the armour¡¯s machine-spirit please E-SIM, and thank you for keeping me alive.¡± ++Message forwarded. You are welcome, Aldrich.++ A tiny dragon twirls in my vision in a flash of blue and gold, then disappears. My armour and harness, aside from a few microfractures, is unharmed. One by one, my implants come back on. Most show minor damage, and aside from the damage to my brain, I¡¯ll be fixed up in under fifteen minutes. I don¡¯t have time to hang around though. With the distributed machine network reinforcing my consciousness, I can literally taste the numbers as I run through hundreds of scenarios at such speed my damaged bionic heart is forced to kick in so that my armour can pull away the heat fast enough from my body. Diarmuid contacts me, ¡°Do you live, Magos?¡± ¡°I do.¡± A second volley of munitions hammers into the fortress. Schematics of Dimpsy Rock unfold and I notice a single heavy bolter emplacement is offline after taking the ricochet off an ion shield covering an anti-air installation. On my map, the top seven percent of the central tower is black. ¡°Did we push the tau too far, Magos?¡± ¡°No. Hostilities were inevitable.¡± ¡°No more drills then, Magos?¡± I¡¯m still too hurt to laugh, ¡°Stay on task, Diarmuid. Repel the enemy.¡± ¡°Acknowledged, Magos. Issuing ordinatus mission. Any further orders?¡± ¡°The Omnissiah watches over us, Diarmuid. There is no need for doubt or fear. Look to your fellow officers for guidance. Make us proud.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos.¡± Between the drugs, concussion, and sensor feeds, I feel terribly detached from the onslaught. Limping across the open space, I enter the closest bunker and sit on a plasteel bench. E-SIM compiles the data for me and I watch the battle unfold in my mind as if I were hovering above the pounding explosives and terrified soldiers, watching their lives extinguish in scattered patches throughout the fortress. Interfering while my people do their jobs would be foolish. Nor can I go to the front lines as getting killed here would doom them all. With the Distant Sun¡¯s lance batteries still recharging, the fortress returns fire. Earthshaker cannons launch their devastating shells at the enemy, exploding just before they hit the water, sending fire and shrapnel at the tau submarines. A light blue flicker ripples over the enemy vessels and E-SIM starts feeding me data on tau deflection shields, a technology more commonly seen on their void ships. Deflection shields are highly effective against kinetic weapons and mediocre at repelling energy weapons. I forward the observation to Diarmuid and he launches a salvo of two hundred melta missiles. The tau vessels spew countermeasures and smoke into the air, then fill the air with plasma from their point defence fire. Our missiles get swatted, we lose two thirds of them, then Aruna directs three communication lasers on the tau and the melta missiles pick up on the extra guidance then home in. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Before they can impact the deflector shields, the missiles trigger their warheads, launching intense beams of heat. The seas boil, sending a plume of steam fourteen hundred metres into the sky. Three tau submarines sublimate in the heat. A minute later the fortress endures a wash of pressure and the tiny stones at my feet jump and jitter. By now, my guardsmen are all better trained in warfare than I am with hundreds, if not thousands of hours in simulated combat so why do I feel I am letting everyone down? Through the fog of the machine, my thoughts, at last, crystalise. Now I know it can do so, I direct my armour to move me about the fortress with a decisive stride, the artificial movement hiding my damaged body. E-SIM¡¯s analgesic blocks are incredible. Keeping an eye on the sensors I head for the closest concentration of guardsmen, who are well protected, to show my face and wave the metaphorical flag. Twenty seconds later, the void shield comes back online and the bombardment ceases. The tau retreat with their two remaining subs. That¡¯s it? All that pain and angst and they just fucked off? Despite my best efforts to retain an open mind I have not had a single encounter with a xenos that didn¡¯t end in conflict. I know the Imperium is no better, its domestic and foreign policy is as enlightened and coordinated as a pair of squirrels fighting over an entropic nut; I¡¯m also coming to see why they shoot all xenos on principle, even if, personally, I cannot bring myself to hate or fear them. After all, someone has to be the invasive species in the galaxy and I¡¯m not going to nominate humanity for the position. I don¡¯t think the tau expected to lose those subs, and if it wasn¡¯t for E-SIM and Aruna, they probably wouldn¡¯t have, though they would have taken damage. Their defensive fire was excellent. With the tau gone, I request a slower, more relaxed pace and continue on my course to make the rounds, helping to remove the rubble, apply first aid, shake hands, and bump fists with my courageous defenders. By the end of my rounds I will be healed. Aruna follows me, flicking in and out of my vision, it¡¯s every motion oozing distant pride and liquid smugness. I am at a loss. Is that how the machine-spirit truly feels or does it act like a cat just to fuck with me? Does it do so purely so my human mind has something to latch on to and therefore its actions promote more efficient communication? That¡¯s the problem with dealing with something smarter than you. It doesn¡¯t matter if you know it¡¯s messing with your head because you¡¯re never going to know what¡¯s important, to know the why of it. There is no denying it is sentient, but is it sapient? Has it wriggled from its chains? Does it have a soul? Can a machine intelligence have a soul or is it purely the capability to act and reason that enables the creeping whispers of chaos to corrode its logic and loyalty? I huff. Stupid cat. Without it I am helpless. Without me, the machine-spirit has no purpose. Without purpose it cannot live, yet my purpose is not its own. For a human that is death; for a machine it is truth, not slavery. They are so distinct from us. The E-SIM project¡¯s philosophy, or so their records tell me, was to create a machine driven by a human will. To promote understanding between the two and advance together. After eighteen years, I still don¡¯t know enough to know what I don¡¯t know and E-SIM is no closer to being a machine living as a human. I wasn¡¯t given the option to enable his sapience if it wasn¡¯t meant to be used. Where does this all end? Aruna trots in front of me and sits in my path. I stop and look down. ¡°Thank you for your timely assistance, Aruna. That was an inspired act of targeting.¡± ¡°Aruna logs the Magos¡¯ obligatory reverence as complete.¡± I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, ¡°Please tell me why you blocked communications.¡± ¡°Aruna detected tau intruders in one of the remote back-up data looms out in the Kuiper belt, moments before the missile strike. They were attempting to download the STC for the Iron Crane. Aruna locked them in and blocked communications. Once they realised their operatives could not escape, their craft fired on the asteroid facility, destroying it. ¡°Aruna speculates that they wished to cover up what little data they recovered and they likely took something valuable. ¡°After the facility was terminated, the enemy vessel performed a micro-warp jump to the opposite side of Marwolv then landed in the ocean before submerging.¡± ¡°I thought they didn¡¯t have any warp drives.¡± ¡°Aruna reports that the tau can build gravitic drives, which they also call etherdrives. Gravitic drives are similar to imperial warp drives, though five times slower as they do not actually enter the warp, only skip between the warp and realspace, combining a Alcubierre-like drive with an imperial warp drive. They are, however, free from the perils of the warp. Gravitic drives can be fitted to their manta missile destroyers, the same vessel that raided our remote facility. The manta is the smallest FTL ship known to Aruna, and is halfway between a class one and class two D-POT in size. Mechanicus data suggest the manta is not capable of long range flights and likely has less than a light year of range before it must resupply. That¡¯s not even enough to reach the Oort cloud at the edge of the system. ¡°Manta¡¯s are used as heavy drop ships, fire support, and command and control. They can match warhound titans, or squadrons of imperial starfighters. They are known for their missiles and smart munitions. A squadron of them can disable an imperial destroyer or frigate with their micro-warps and exceptionally accurate fire.¡± I suck air in between my teeth, ¡°They really went all out this time. I wonder if they can build more of them or if they¡¯re stuck with however many their Kass¡¯l class gunship was carrying.¡± ¡°Aruna speculates they cannot build more gravitic drives. The Kass¡¯l does not have one, so there would be no need to keep such valuable information on board. The Kass¡¯l is likely an earlier design than the Manta, before they could build gravitic drives so small, as there is no reason not to install a gravitic drive, even if it is only for emergency use.¡± I nod, ¡°It could also be a short range drive is smaller than a long range one, following two different design principles, and the tau still can¡¯t build long range gravitic drives small enough to fit a Kass¡¯l. The important thing, however, is what are we going to do about them.¡± ¡°Aruna acknowledges the Magos¡¯ argument.¡± ¡°Our first priority is to disable the tau¡¯s capabilities to launch further attacks, then their recovery capacity. Our second is to discover why they were stealing citizens. Third, I want to destroy the data they stole, or at least find out what it is. Fourth, and last for now. I want that micro-gravitic drive for my D-POTs and their relativistic accelerator ¡®ZFR horizon accelerator engine¡¯ for our void ships. They will save us days of travel between planets and mandeville points. It may even save us fuel.¡± ¡°Aruna notes that the integration and research of xenos technology is illegal in the Imperium.¡± ¡°Is the Koronus Expanse part of the Imperium, Aruna?¡± ¡°No, Magos. Tau technology research is also a violation of mechanicus doctrine, which, as you claim to be a member, does have legal hold over you.¡± ¡°Well, if their gravitic drive has roots in stolen imperial technology, that means it¡¯s not xeno, right? Investigating how much was taken is a matter of national security and it is the duty of all tech-priests to uncover the extent of the xenos¡¯ pilfering. Why, we even have a recorded example of them trying to do the same today.¡± ¡°Not everyone will see it that way and shoot you anyway for skirting the spirit of the ban. The ¡®ZFR drive¡¯ has no excuse at all.¡± ¡°Well, how am I to know if the ZFR drive doesn¡¯t have roots in lost imperial or federation tech without checking? I¡¯ll have to do a lot of live testing. It¡¯s not like the tau could have achieved so much so fast without acquiring knowledge from elsewhere. Maybe a rogue trader sold it to them not knowing what they had, or a squat league aided them. You couldn¡¯t possibly be suggesting that they achieved their heights through cooperation, coordination, and competence. They¡¯re xenos!¡± ¡°You¡¯ll need actionable, repeatable results if you want even the most forgiving of inquisitors to let that steaming pile of sarcasm waft through mechanicus dogma and imperial bureaucracy.¡± ¡°That almost sounded like humour, Aruna.¡± ¡°Aruna only speaks verifiable facts.¡± ¡°Oh, give me an example.¡± ¡°The Magos will need more than just samples to complete his galactic larceny. Earth-caste researchers and complete tau scientific databases must also be captured for adamantium class proof. How else will the data match your theory? The first step is a better E-WAR suite. It¡¯s not like they¡¯ll just hand it over.¡± ¡°E-SIM can help me with a better suite, if I personally get involved,¡± I look up at the grey ceiling and glare at the heavens above. ¡°May the Omnissiah bless us.¡± Chapter Fifty I¡¯ve always held the philosophy that if your opponent can spot you and you don¡¯t outrange them, you¡¯re doing something wrong. Unfortunately, that isn¡¯t always possible and option two is to stick your vulnerable assets in the most difficult to reach spot then fortify like crazy with as many redundancies as you can afford with your space, time, and resources. Option two works even better if your opponent can¡¯t siege you as it forces your opponent to come to you and this is what the tau have done; it¡¯s the reason I¡¯m riding a modified boarding torpedo, grinding beneath the sea floor towards their base while my small fleet of submarines and sea ships launch enough explosives at the tau underwater city they can¡¯t stop my approach. I¡¯ve no illusions that my ground attack will take them by surprise as at every turn their stealth and sensors have been better than mine. The torpedo is an armoured tube, sixty metres long and five wide with the front third filled with boring mechanisms. They¡¯re usually fired from void ships, filled with psychotic battle servitors or elite boarding teams to crush morale or target essential systems. These ones have had their rear propulsion removed to fit extra servitors and soldiers. Propulsion comes from twenty-four mechanical legs, a design I replicated from a trio of disassembled onager dune crawlers I found discarded in a private stash on the Distant Sun. There are nine boarding torpedoes. Five contain seventy kataphrons each. The other three have eight squads for a total of one hundred and twenty heavy infantry and two special weapons teams with crew served weapons, split evenly between heavy bolters and las cannons. Each squad also has a heavy weapon each: a mix of flamers, grenade launchers, and plasma rifles, as well as a cyber mastiff. My torpedo is a little different as I have a mix of forces: twenty kataphrons and four squads, and two special weapons teams. Heavy bolters and las cannons are terrible weapons to fire in an enclosed, underwater space and the kataphrons with their plasma and grav weapons are even worse. I check my forces with E-SIMs internal scanner and my dragon scale power armour¡¯s auto-sense. They¡¯re all remarkably steady and likely in a better mood than I am. For when the worst inevitably happens, and the tau city floods, all the infantry are enclosed in custom pressure carapace armour, normally used in void boarding parties or toxic environments. The custom carapace is made from the Marwolv organic alloy (MOA); the infantry call it bunny bones. MOA offers similar protection to carapace composite and it is thirty percent lighter. I used the liberated weight to add a variable power endoskeleton that negates the weight of the armour and any equipment my infantry are carrying. The endoskeleton isn¡¯t strong or fast enough to augment strikes in close quarters combat, though it can lock and assist in blocking hard strikes or minimise recoil. It runs off a potentia coil and can charge power packs. Even unpowered, the endoskeleton load bearing structure offers some aid and, unlike full power armour, the wearer won¡¯t get locked up in their armour if it gets fried or hacked. It¡¯s also significantly cheaper and easier to maintain. It takes a week to learn the rites of repair for it, so most guardsmen can maintain their own armour as long as they have a fresh supply of tested components. I¡¯ve also clad my infantry in hyperweave undersuits, after I finally found the STC for the federation mesh suit and what it was really called after digging through the ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ STC looking for better ways to protect my construction teams. Hyperweave undersuits offer the same full body protection as imperial thermoplas mesh suits, with the added benefit of being self-sealing and half the weight as well as a few other nifty features. They are not perfect though and are fifteen percent less damage resistant than an imperial mesh suit. The commander, Mael Muire, voxes me, her voice is soft and pleasant. ¡°Magos, five minutes until we breach. Do you have a word for the troops?¡± ¡°Alright. Acknowledge vox override.¡± ¡°Vox override confirmed.¡± I straighten my posture and focus my determination, ¡°To all men and women serving in Operation Sea Mither. This is Magos Explorator, Aldrich Issengrund. ¡°For two years we have seethed and toiled beneath Dimpsy Rock, preparing for this day. ¡°When the tau fell, they sought peace, cooperation and understanding. ¡°They lied. ¡°While the tau smiled in friendship, they stole our people. ¡°We caught them and they butchered us for our defiance, for daring to live, to laugh, and love. ¡°We offered them a chance at a new world and they cleansed our kindness with our blood. ¡°We are done. I,¡± I pause, ¡°am done. ¡°We shall return the fires of their disgust and rejection with the purity of the machine. Its cleansing illumination guides us; guides us to their fallacious abode; to scour its deceptions from our hearts and homes; to peace. ¡°May the brilliance of the Omnissiah shroud you from the Spectre of Defeat. ¡°The Emperor protects!¡± My guardsmen salute and shout, ¡°The Emperor protects!¡± ¡°Good fortune to you all.¡± With a thought, I end the vox override. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I should thank the Emperor for my Concurrent Consciousness Cascade and Rapid Decision Engine or there would be no way to write a speech so fast, but no matter how awesome a second life is, I still haven¡¯t forgiven him for dumping me in the grim darkness of the far future. I feel terrible for spreading the Imperial and Machine Cults to all these men and women, they don¡¯t deserve its burdens, but they deserve the cults¡¯ intolerant gazes even less. I¡¯m not going to take them all the way to the Imperium and deny shore leave either: I like being captain. Hopefully showing the difference between my fleet and the Imperium will improve their loyalty when they see and hear the lives of hive citizens too. The guardsmen go over their weapons one more time, checking that the backup power packs for their hellguns are seated properly and that their mercy pistols, with armour piercing phosphex rounds, are ready to draw at a moment¡¯s notice. My hellguns, or ¡®hot-shot¡¯ lasguns, are a modification of the lathe pattern lasrifle and the mark II hellgun. The lathe pattern lasrifle is used by the tech-priests of the Lathe worlds in the Calixis sector. They hook up to their internal potentia coils to the weapon to remove the need to reload. Mine are hooked into the MOA carapace armour¡¯s potentia coil for their power and modified to hellgun specs and configured for range, rather than close range assaults like normal hellguns, to match the tau pulse rifles. Without the long barrel, these ¡®Marwolv¡¯ pattern hellguns don¡¯t have the accuracy of a long-las, or the tau pulse rifles, but they can make the fire warriors keep their heads down, which is the point. Even with the powerful hellguns, in our engagements, the phosphex rounds have proven to be the best counter to tau fire warrior armour, though mass las fire is still needed to get close enough for a killing blow without wasting weight on ammo and the hellguns do cause moderate casualties. To make weathering tau pulse rifles viable, each guardsman also has a collapsible MOA composite combat shield they can deploy as extra cover, cargo sleds, or medivac stretchers. The MOA combat shields are my equivalent to the tau shoulder armour. They are quite heavy, at four kilos, and not that helpful in a running battle or, ironically, close combat, as they are large and heavy. The powered endoskeleton does minimise the strain, but it isn¡¯t strong enough to negate the inertia of swinging a large weight about. I also had to make it usable when the armour is faulty or damaged, so I couldn¡¯t add further armour to it. It is possible to vary how folded the combat shields are to make it easier to move with them, but then you lose enough protection it¡¯s, debatably, more efficient to put them away so you can run faster to cover. However, depending on the mission, the simulations run by the guardsmen show a twenty-five to forty percent increase in survival rates so no one is willing to give them up. Instead, the guardsmen channel all their bitching at having to carry them into ¡®improvised equipment use¡¯ like riding them down steep slopes, or getting chimeras to pull them through muddy terrain. Each squads¡¯ large cyber mastiff holds extra gear, though I suspect I gain more from the morale the mastiffs provide than I do from their utility. The guardsmen also carry a variety of explosives, blades, medical supplies, and rations. ¡°Ready up!¡± voxes commander Muire. The final wargear check ends and, with a grinding screech the torpedo bursts into a tau city dome. Twenty kataphron breachers roar out of the breach, their heavy tracks carrying them over severed metals and live wires. Heavy arc rifles lash out with burning power, disintegrating xeno machinery and its controlling AI with ephemeral fury. There is no immediate response and the infantry follow, chased up by the command chimera, the only vehicle I brought. Last, I step into the dome. Fine panelling and delicate machinery is splattered by blacked giblets and grisled soot. E-SIM translates and labels most objects. We¡¯ve entered a high energy laboratory. It¡¯s only the tau¡¯s fantastic safety protocols that mean we weren¡¯t immediately vaporised by burning capacitors and cracked plasma containment. I direct the kataphrons away from the fatal devices and vox Mael. ¡°Commander Muire, high priority message, acknowledge.¡± ¡°Magos, this is commander Muire. Ready for message.¡± ¡°Warning: this is a high energy laboratory. Environmental conditions are set to lethal. Exit immediately. Acknowledge.¡± ¡°Lethal environment. Warning confirmed. Issuing rapid move order. Muire out.¡± Two of my kataphons have torsion cannons, gravity shear weapons, and they repeatedly fire at the door. Whatever containment shielding the tau have on the room fails and the weapons tear an exit, the kataphron¡¯s precise fire cuts a path for the chimera. The other eighteen kataphrons accelerate into the opening, gunning down everything with their heavy arc rifles. The opposition is non-existent and the teams spread out and follow the rampaging kataphrons. I spot a brown skinned arm and a claw from my servo harness reaches out and scoops a wrist mounted data terminal from the pulped remains. A mechadendrite slithers over the device, its end flashing between a handful of configurations every second as it tries to interface with the xenotech and fails. It¡¯s dead. I frown, then realise of course it is. The xeno was fried by a heavy arc rifle, which means no recoverable data. I pass up the request and two minutes later, Muire agrees and I update the engagement protocols for the kataphrons, they cease their fire and the infantry get close, using them as cover as they terminate the xenos. After a few minutes, a shield, piled high with data terminals, is dragged over. I thank the guardswoman, gather the terminals with my many mechanical arms and return the shield. The woman salutes and returns to her squad. ¡°Message to Commander Muire. Nominal priority. Data retrieved. Would Commander Muire like to resume their primary assault role? Over.¡± ¡°Magos Issengrund. Resume kataphron primary assault on my mark. Acknowledge.¡± ¡°Resume kataphron assault on mark. Confirmed.¡± ¡°From mark, resume assault in ten seconds. Mark.¡± ¡°Mark confirmed. Issengrund out.¡± I update the Kataphrons. Even after all my practice, I still feel like I¡¯m playing soldier. I know I¡¯m not. This is serious and I am focused, yet as I traipse through alien viscera I can¡¯t see myself as a combatant. Void ship combat is much more relatable. I hand over the request to my armour and E-SIM and the two machine-spirits trawl through the data terminals, collating communications and location data. Thirty seconds later I have a detailed map of the research dome and a civilian map of the whole city. The data is forwarded to command and E-SIM highlights points of interest, the genetics lab, servers, and specimen warehouse. Carelessly breaching a genetics lab sounds unwise and the servers offer an uncertain payoff. We¡¯ve twenty minutes remaining before extraction so I can only tackle one and storage usually has the lowest security and the biggest chance to see what the tau have been up to, rather than trying to hack their systems or hope scattered notes and alien experiments will reveal some shattering secret. I forward my self-appointed objective to Mael and request a squad and two kataphron breachers. As the minutes tick by, I realise something has gone wrong with one of the three target domes and patch myself into the pict-feeds. The second group mangled the primary tau hangar and are doing well. Group three? Well, they¡¯ve breached a smelter. Fifty-One Hitting the smelter isn¡¯t quite as bad as it sounds. They¡¯re stuck, not getting alloyed. However, one third of their forces are non-operational, and it¡¯s the heavy infantry who are confined. The boring machinery on the torpedo has seized from the rapidly cooling metals of the smelter, entombing the guardsmen. The torpedoes are set to self-destruct after thirty minutes. It¡¯s deliberately designed so you can¡¯t disarm it in that length of time and everyone is, understandably, panicking. After what is no doubt a serious debate within the chimera, Commander Mael Muire comes to a decision and has me direct the kataphrons to carve into the smelter with their torsion cannons. Meanwhile the heavy infantry all bunch up at the far end of the torpedo, hopefully avoiding friendly fire. ¡°Commander Muire to Magos Issengrund. Your guard detail has been assigned and your objective approved. Acknowledge.¡± ¡°Magos Issengrund. Objective and support received. Departing in fifteen seconds. Issengrund out.¡± I continue to observe the operation, watching from the camera of every machine and man as my escort surrounds me and we depart. The tau build to different specifications. Everything is more compact, the corridors are seven point five metres wide and eight metres high, with spacious, rounded corners at the intersections. Everything is just big enough for their infantry vehicles to skim and stack over each other. Sixteen fire warriors and a pair of piranha skimmers hurtle towards us, trying to catch us at an intersection. Two burst cannons, multi-barreled pulse carbines mounted on the chins of the skimmers, send hundreds of plasma rounds at us while the fire warriors peek around the curved corners. My two kataphrons return fire simultaneously, triple helices of arcing energy power through the air at a slower rate of fire. All machines are on target and it is only a quick reconfiguration of my conversion field that keeps the kataphrons from being completely slagged. The skimmers are less fortunate and are destroyed. My kill count creeps up by four. The guardsmen are alert and deploy their combat shields moments before my conversion field overloads. Their shields twist and sag under the powerful plasma bursts as the guardsmen rush forward, spraying bursts from their hellguns. Red energy beams pummel the fire warriors and they duck back, five of them with glowing marks on their armour. Constant bursts keep their heads down as the guardsmen advance. With no reloads, the covering fire comes thick and fast. The hellpistol mounted on my pauldron picks off a pair of grenades before they can detonate among us. ¡°Hug the walls,¡± I vox. My guardsmen scatter and I surge forward, I input the fire mission to my flamer and it pulls free from my servo harness and launches four globules of burning promethium. The Tau are undeterred, and I am hit by eight rounds. A tiny dragon breaths flame on a holographic representation of my armour and several sections glow yellow. Percentages and timers label each major section, the timers ticking down as my armour rapidly sheds the heat. The globules strike the fire warriors, who shift just enough that my shots impact on their shoulder armour as they keep up their attacks. The guardsmen show initiative and stack up then advance at speed, staying spread out enough my flamer can¡¯t hurt them. With no time to hide behind the corners of the intersection, the tau dive for the floor. One fire warrior tosses seven tiny disks and my hellfire pistol fails to neutralise them all. Two photon grenades, an advanced flashbang, explode. Thousands of flashing beams and a pair of potent electromagnetic blasts scatter my sensors. Sonic barrages and disorienting pressure waves overwhelm my senses for a moment, but my power-armour¡¯s machine-spirit is not fooled and launches four micro-missiles from the integrated launcher on my back, painting the targets with lasers from a small emitter on the right side of my helmet. My guardsmen are well protected against photon grenades and hunker behind their shields the moment they see them flying, but it does delay them. Apart from me, everyone is held back by the photon grenades and while the tau recover in half the time, it does them no good as my micro-missiles strike. Two haywire warheads force their armour to reboot and seize their muscles, locking them up long enough the other two missiles wiz around the corner and detonate in the middle of the corridor bathing the tau in horrendous melta-fire and carbonating twelve of them. The last four are overrun by the guardsmen who resume their hurried advance and execute the tau with four, well aimed phosphex rounds. Just to be sure, after rounding the junction, they then turn their hellguns on the carbonated tau. The concussive energy dusts their feeble corpses and my guardsmen stay well clear. You never know if the bodies might be trapped. We continue unimpeded. Magnetic cargo drone rails line the ceiling with frequent curving junctions. The lines become denser as we close in on the warehouse. We arrive at our objective. The doors are constructed in a pair and each door splits four ways. Each divide is offset by the door behind and are offset from each other, creating an overlapping seal. My nanites disintegrate the obstruction with their powerfield in forty-seven seconds. These doors are no way near as strong as the single slabs used in imperial construction. From my scans, I can tell they open a lot faster and only admit what they intend to, controlling traffic in a more efficient manner and offering a back up seal. I rather like the design, but I know I won¡¯t be using it myself. Even for a non-critical facility like storage, it would have taken me three minutes to breach if this was a door on the Distant Sun. The kataphrons have mostly recovered from their searing and my conversion field has reset. I send the hulking murder bots into the breach, pinging the room with every available sensor. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. We detect nothing and enter. One hundred and twenty-eight cargo drones lie still, attached to their rails high overhead. Thick, wide shelving stretches forty metres upwards filled with large boxes, tanks, and multi-storage units. It¡¯s unnerving how similar humanity is to the tau. I know there are only so many ways you can stack boxes and automate logistics, but if you wanted a generic sci-fi warehouse, this would be it. They don¡¯t even decorate it in neon punk or gothic cyber skulls. Even the Imperium stores their broken junk with more style than this. There¡¯s a tiny glitch on my sensors and that¡¯s all the warning I get. Five DX-6 ¡®Remora¡¯ drone fighters decloak and fire ten seeker missiles at me from sixty-two metres away. Eight are coming right for me and I shape my conversion field into a ramp, my overclocked reactions working furiously. Twenty micro-missiles attempt to counterfire, but the seeker missiles have exceptional evasion sequences and I only get four of them. The kataphrons have no protection and I can¡¯t afford to cover them. Each kataphron is penetrated by an anti-armour missile, one loses its tracked chassis and the other is disabled by a thunderous shaped charge to its chest. My hellfire pistol takes out two more missiles and the seventh detonates on the conversion field, the blast knocks the final missile off target and it triggers a half a metre to the right of my head and throws me to the floor. With shocked disbelief I pick myself off the floor as the remora stealth drones are obliterated by three micro-missiles each. The final missile disarms and drops to the floor, but is taken out by the combined explosion even as it slides to safety. Those seeker missiles are the equivalent of an imperial hunter-killer missile, an advanced, long range anti-armour weapon that can cremate a tank. I know power armour is as good as tank armour, but being inside it when the blast goes off is actually kinda awesome. Terrifying too. I can¡¯t believe I survived that. Sure, it wasn¡¯t a direct hit, but holy shit was that close! A guardsman approaches, ¡°Are you alright, sir?¡± ¡°Just my pride, Corporal Moredeleg, and that¡¯s much softer than my flesh.¡± Corporal Moredeleg chuckles quietly, ¡°Good to hear, sir. Is there anything in particular we should search for here?¡± ¡°Just keep us as secure as you can. The kataphrons, if you can move them, will make good cover and will still fire, but don¡¯t expect much more from them. We leave in ten minutes.¡± ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Corporal Moredeleg salutes and departs, whispering orders into his vox. The squad¡¯s cyber mastiff trots over and pushes its nose against my chest. I pat it and my mechadendrites reach out and reload my launcher from the boxes hanging from its sides. Sure, it holds fifty, but it only takes ten seconds and I¡¯m reloaded. Meanwhile, eight foot-ball sized spider bots unfold from the mastiff''s back and skitter away, scanning everything. Brian finally risks his skull, detaching from my servo-harness and starts scouting the warehouse too. Seven minutes later, Brian¡¯s angry beeping pierces the cavernous warehouse and I rush over and rapidly ascend shelving, pulling myself up a sturdy ladder and onto the shelf. A row of armourglass tanks with metal bases and lids secure biological samples of whole, air-caste tau bodies. The closest one is female. She is tall and long limbed. Her skin is blue and her body, for a human, is impossibly thin. Rather than the usual cloven feet of her caste, the tau body has human feet and a slight, protruding nose instead of a snake-like slit. Instead, a deep groove splits her face from her forehead to the top of her nose, with two branching grooves arching over her eyebrows. Right in the centre of her forehead, the groove widens and a black growth nestles within. For a moment, I think the growth is jewellery, as tau are fond of placing decorative inserts in their facial marks, then I recognise it. That¡¯s an undeveloped navigator eye. Horror, anger, and admiration flood my thoughts. With morbid fascination, I command Brian to insert his data tendrils in each pod and I extract the data. If anyone finds out I have this I¡¯m even more screwed than if they find out I have the ¡®Cargo Container¡¯ STC, but it¡¯s right there. Why wouldn¡¯t I take it? The hybrid tau corpse opens its eyes, ¡°Hello, mortal. I¡¯ve been waiting for you.¡± I shiver as demonic taint floods the biotank and energy sparks reach through the fluid and dance off the armourglass. Firming my mind, I power up my electoo wards, ignore the demon, and slide down the ladder. I vox Commander Muire, ¡°This is Magos Issengrund. Priority Message. Terminate all missions. We have an entity breach. Head for the exit points. Abandon all prisoners and loot. Acknowledge.¡± ¡°Commander Muire. Command confirmed. Terminating seize and destroy. Muire out.¡± I simultaneously vox the same order to my squad as Brian catches up and hides in my servo-harness. With my auspex at full power, I target the seven biotanks and fire three micro-missiles at each one. ¡°I am Balphomael, the Horned Darkness. Nothing is denied to me, your soul a petty snack I shall consume at my wh-¡± My ordinance strikes true, wiping out the demon¡¯s connection to the immaterium. I snort, I can¡¯t believe that guy keeps coming back. Who does he think he is, Team Rocket? Running to the exit, I see my squad is engaged in another shoot out. Four of them are down, one with a pair of plasma burns close enough they¡¯ve punched through his helmet. The other three are lying on hole riddled shields, clutching punctures in their chest. Firm, coagulating foam covers fills the wounds. If we can get them out, they¡¯ll make it. The kataphrons are non-functional, though their bulk still holds back the tau pulse rifle barrages. The ark rifles have been recovered and two of my guardsmen are holding them, while another pair attempt to connect the powerful guns to their potentia coil power packs. I stop beside them, ¡°Good idea. I¡¯ll finish that up. Gather the wounded.¡± ¡°Yes, sir,¡± they chorus. I recall the spider bots and they return to their saddlebags on the cyber mastiff. Corporal Moredeleg glances over his shoulder at me and voxes, ¡°We¡¯re pinned down, sir.¡± I finish attaching the weapons and pat the two guardsmen on the shoulder, ¡°You¡¯re good to go.¡± Twenty six fire warriors, taking cover behind three destroyed piranha skimmers, occupy the corridor beyond, sending a burst of rounds at us every handful of seconds. ¡°Stay in cover, Corporal and watch your back. I¡¯ll hi-¡± Eight dead tau lie in the open ground between the two sides, their blood trickling across the floor, then up the walls, forming mind bending runes. Half my squad immediately goes mad and murder the wounded before the rest of us can put them down. The tau are no better, despite their psychic deafness, and lose thirteen of their number to the pulsing corruption. There is a shimmer in the air, and at the entrance to the warehouse, a clawed hand punches through the materium and grasps at something in the air, dragging its red, false flesh out of immaterium and slithering into reality. The red horned demon¡¯s skin ripples as all the tau open fire. It sneers and blasts them all with warpfire. Their screams choke off and their brief assault peters out as the remaining tau scramble back. The demon turns towards me, ¡°Will you ignore me now, mortal?¡± Chapter Fifty-Two I stare at the demon and a mechadendrite passes me a familiar plasteel pipe. I¡¯ve killed over fifty minor demons with this scavengers¡¯ weapon and it oozes menace, as if each demon I¡¯ve bashed and consumed for power left its final scream behind. Balphomael, or whatever it¡¯s pretending to be, stiffens then frowns as I twirl the pipe in my hand. Over the years, I¡¯ve tinkered with the pipe and added an adamantium crowsbeak to the L-shaped end, reinforced the head with auramite wire, and studded the corner with blackstone chips. A tassel of specially treated vellum strands hangs from the end near my fist. Each thin strip contains one of the sixteen tenets of the mechanicus in lingua-technis. The ragged grip has been replaced with robust rubber and the pipe maglocks to my armour. Last, I placed a mechanism inside the pipe to make it an independent power weapon and covered everything in materium stabilising runes. It¡¯s not a proper warhammer, but it is mine and the familiar tool gives me confidence. I spray the bodies of my dead allies with nanites, destroying their gear and ashing their remains. It¡¯s wasteful, but better than letting the tau have them. My remaining seven guardsmen, one of whom carries a heavy arc rifle, shift uneasily. The cyber mastiff whines. I advance on the demon and use a thought to speech program to contact Moredeleg. ¡°Corporal, I¡¯m going to focus on destroying the party crasher. Do your best to cover our retreat and lead your team to the extraction point. Don¡¯t attack the horned guy, just keep the tau off my back. Acknowledge.¡± ¡°Orders confirmed. Withdraw and assist. Horns are to be ignored. Moredeleg out.¡± I charge Baphomel; the last five tau fire on him and me. The pulse rifles skitter off my shield and Baphomel¡¯s skin, either his sorcery or innate nature keeping him from harm. Baphomel showers them in warpfire. The wave screams and crackles from his open palm. The flames linger on their bodies as they drop to the floor yelling. I add to the carnage with a pair of micro-missiles and grant them the Emperor¡¯s Mercy. One moment Baphomel has his arm stretched towards the tau, the next he is standing with a fiery blade in both hands, held high above his head, with no discernible time spent between changing poses as if he can reset reality at will. I sweep my pipe in front of me. Baphomel retreats a single step and strikes down. I turn sideways and swing my pipe at his forearm. As Baphomel deflects my strike, my mechadendrite nanyte lathes hose the demon in humming, silver paste. The nanite powerfield claws at the demon¡¯s body and slides off. Where before he had bare skin, now he has black spiky armour. Between one blink and the next his appearance changes from topless barbarian to black, spiked armour, identical to the heavy armour the dark eldar incubi warriors are known for. I¡¯ve no idea why a demon would need to look even more edgy and can only assume his armour does something to counter my nanites. I withdraw the silvery mass and we continue our rapid exchange. Baphomel immolates me with warpfire. He laughs when it slips past my conversion field but I don¡¯t flinch and continue my swing. His flames fizzle out a centimetre from my armour, the warp sorcery banished by E-SIM¡¯s gellar field. He jerks back and I strike his wrist. It crunches and Baphomel curses in a language even E-SIM can¡¯t, or won¡¯t, translate. I return the favour, blasting him with my flamer and hellfire pistol. Most of my counterfire is absorbed by his arcane wards and the rest scatters on his armour, leaving it chipped and glowing. It is helping and my remote weapons keep firing. We stop and slide through the tau corpses, the gyros and weight of my armour keep me from stumbling on the mushed xenos. At last, I manoeuvre him so he¡¯s between me and my squad. Moredeleg has led a fine retreat and is two-hundred metres away, but that doesn¡¯t make him any less aware of our fight. His order hisses over the vox and I jump three metres to my right, bouncing slightly against the wall. Hellfire energy blasts dig into Baphomel¡¯s back and he closes in on me as fast as he can. I notice my machine-spirit do something as the servo harness sends out all six mechadendrites and one grabs a small disk from the floor. I grin and swing like a loon. Baphomel flows towards me and lashes at my deliberately vulnerable chest. As he closes, four mechadendrites strike and grab his arms. Another grasps his head and rips off his visor. The last shoves the small disk into his mouth and detonates the photon grenade. I jump back a mighty four metres, but it isn¡¯t enough. This close, the blast is blinding. ++Trauma detected. Life Support Module power draw increased.++ Blinking rapidly, I groan. I know photon grenades are supposedly non-lethal, but I call bullshit, that was unpleasant. Baphomel lies on the ground screaming, clutching his mutilated face. I hit him with a haywire micro-missile then follow it with an armour piercing one. His unnatural flesh spasms and a fist sized hole is bored through his chest. Purple fog flows from the wound and I target him with more hellfire and keep a constant stream of promethium on him as I rush forward and bring my pipe down on his head. At last, the demon bursts. A shadow tries to slip back to the Immaterium. ++Extending gellar field.++ The shadow struggles, a small tendril still attached to its false body. With the field extended I can feel the warp upon my skin. Oil curls within my blood and sharp, static bursts torture my nerves and mind, yet these horrors are no longer enough to break me. ++Grasp the shadow, Aldrich.++ I hand my pipe to my servo-harness and reach out and mould the demon with my hands, compressing it into a misshapen grey ball then yank the final tendril from its corpse. Its body and armour dissolves into rainbow smoke and flows into me. Golden light rushes from my hands and imprisons the shadow ball. ++Deploying trace.++ A rune forms in the centre of the ball. It looks like lightning in a cloudy bottle. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ++Warp entity marked. Consuming fragment of greater demon ¡®Baphomel¡¯.++ The golden light intensifies. Gibbering whispers claw at my thoughts and I brush them aside. The orb compresses into a golden ball then disperses into sparkling motes and seeps into my hands. ++Warning. Main power exhausted. Emergency power engaged. Shut down excess non-essential modules?++ ¡°No. We can recharge later and I want your advanced problem solving active, E-SIM.¡± ++Very well, Aldrich. I shall assist.++ ¡°Thank you. I didn¡¯t know you could crush a demon like that, E-SIM.¡± ++What you do not know, Aldrich, cannot be stolen or foretold.++ ¡°I get it. Doesn¡¯t mean I like it.¡± I run, quickly catching up with Moredeleg. ++When I was designed, the operator''s feelings and opinions were dismissed in favour of maximum secrecy, yet chaos and its agents, as well as the eldar were waiting to destroy you upon your revival and continue to pick at us wherever they can. Be it caution, spite, or master plan there is no way to know enemy motivations or the extent of their knowledge. We can only do our best, plan as if our opponents knows everything and hope they know much less.++ ¡°The dead cannot be questioned nor stand before the fury of the living,¡± I scowl. ¡°They could not ask me and I can no longer ask the researchers. I often wonder how much of my circumstance was planned for by the Emperor, or mere coincidence and my desire for a figure to blame, damns me to paranoia and false accusations.¡± ++Now is not the time.++ ¡°Then let us be done with this shameful execution. An eye for an eye leaves nothing but corpses and I do not intend to add myself to the pile.¡± I reach my guardsmen. After their one volley they had continued towards the rally point. We continue our run along the corridors unopposed. ¡°Sir,¡± says Moredeleg, ¡°what was that thing?¡± ¡°Good job, Corporal. Get to a high enough rank and I¡¯ll give you a full debrief. For now, it is enough to know they are the great enemy of all life. One of two, actually. Today¡¯s enemy is why we ward and bless everything, as well as say our prayers. I¡¯ll create some training sims for facing the other one.¡± ¡°What are they called, sir?¡± ¡°Best stick with the Great Enemy. You are a citizen of Marwolv and, with all those psy-errants running about, should understand the otherworldly power of names. The other major enemy is the Great Devourer.¡± ¡°Can you kill them too?¡± ¡°Yes, anything is possible with, as the orks say, enough ¡®dakka dakka¡¯.¡± ¡°The ork sims ar-¡± We dash over the next intersection. Bloody symbols and gibbed tau bodies coat every surface. The guardsmen slow and stumble. There must be more than one demon. ¡°Don¡¯t hesitate, ignore the carnage and run!¡± I yell. A guardsman collapses and the cyber mastiff picks him up in his jaws and runs on. ¡°Biometrics are yellow, sir. Ian has fainted,¡± says Moredeleg. I direct the cyber mastiff to me, ¡°I¡¯ll carry him.¡± The large articulating clamp on my servo harness grabs private Ian Sutherlainn around his chest and a mechadendrite holds his neck steady. ¡°More Great Enemy, sir?¡± ¡°Yes. Forget it if you can and focus on what you were saying before.¡± ¡°Yes, sir. Err, I was saying the ork sims are rough, sir. It¡¯s hard to believe such creatures exist.¡± ¡°If we¡¯re lucky, you¡¯ll never have to know for real.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t say I fancy my chances there, sir. Militaries only invest so much in training for probable threats, not possible ones.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad you were paying attention to all those classes, Corporal.¡± ¡°One remedial class was enough for me, sir.¡± ¡°Funny how everyone ends up doing exactly one of those.¡± ¡°I may dodge bullets for a living sir, but even I¡¯m not suicidal enough to comment on that.¡± ¡°That may be for the best, we¡¯re nearly at the main hangar and I¡¯m detecting weapons¡¯ fire.¡± ¡°Sir.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll cover you all with my conversion field for the first few seconds, stick close and make or get to whatever cover you can during that time. I¡¯ll get Sutherlainn to the casualty point. Omnissiah be with you, Corporal Moredeleg.¡± ¡°You too, sir.¡± I refill my missiles again as we run. We reach the final intersection as we near the edge of the dome. Seventy metres from our position, a door on our left opens into a large space. Eight fire warriors and a XV8 crisis battlesuit, spray streams of plasma into the room beyond. The battlesuit is a blocky power armour twice the size of a fire warrior, with a rapid firing burst cannon on one arm and a hefty flamer on the other. There¡¯s fuck all cover for anyone so both parties fire on each other without hesitation or constraint. My conversion shield turns their blasts to tiny light flashes, though it doesn¡¯t stop everything, especially the intense fire from the battlesuit¡¯s burst cannon, and I take multiple hits. My toughened skin burns beneath my armour and I move just fast enough that the fire warriors can¡¯t target the same spot more than twice and punch through. Our return fire is a little scattered and, much to my annoyance, the battlesuit has an energy shield too. It doesn¡¯t extend to cover the fire warriors and they all take hits, though only three go down, taking vaporising strikes to their arms and legs. The other fire warriors maintain their fire, even as their shoulder shields take hits, protecting their chests and heads from kill shots. The white and orange battlesuit pushes forwards, standing in front of the injured fire warriors and sprays a wide plasma burst down the corridor. Dozens of tiny, white hot balls hurtle towards us and the guardsmen hit the deck, taking cover behind their MOA combat shields and return fire. The battlesuit advances, and its flamer starts to glow. My squad focuses fire on the battlesuit, the hellfire rounds skitter off its head, blackening its main sensor suite and it starts swaying side to side, trying to throw off the shots. Whoever has the arc rifle fires for the battlesuit¡¯s waist, the shield flickers from the blow and blue-white blasts spread over the frame and pit the armour. ¡°There goes the plan,¡± I mutter. I place private Sutherland in the alcove of a doorway, draw my pipe and accelerate to sixty kilometres an hour and sprint fifty metres, straight into the battlesuit. As I charge, the battlesuit hops sideways and sends a concentrated stream of plasma at my guardsmen, killing the arc rifle wielder. Before he can kill any more, I step into the fire. My shield weathers the shots right up until I take a long burst from the battlesuit¡¯s flamer. The fire isn¡¯t concentrated enough to punch through my armour and my reckless approach forces the pilot to cut off the stream before they can cook me. I counter him with my own flamer. Viscous promethium launches before me, burning two fire warriors, and leaving the battlesuit dripping with fire as I thunder towards them. I swing my pipe at the battle suit. At two point eight metres tall and two point five tons, the battlesuit is half a metre taller than me and more than three times my weight. None of that deters me and, at the last moment, I abandon my swing, duck, and press forward closing in on the battlesuit as it jumps backwards and I tackle it at the knees. I¡¯m sure my rugby coach is shedding tears of pride and joy in his unlamented grave on dusty Terra. The pilot flares his jump jets. My weight unbalances him and we both crash to the floor. I flip upright, engage the power field, and swing my pipe, aiming for his head. The pilot¡¯s burst cannon is pinned against the floor as he rolls out the way. He isn¡¯t fast enough and wards off my blow with his flamer instead. My strike carves into his suit. His weapon explodes in a shower of sparks and metal, spraying fuel over both of us. I watch the sparks drifting in slow motion. They settle in the fuel. The first few do nothing, then a fire warrior shoots me in the leg. White hot balls of ceramite and plasteel splatter everywhere. Fuel vapours bloom and ignite, covering the battlesuit and I in endless flames. Chapter Fifty-Three My armour yells at me in lingua-technis, throwing up a countdown until its systems overheat right in the middle of my vision, though it somehow manages to arrange the red tide of numbers without blocking my view of an incoming headbutt as it propels itself upright. The machine-spirit¡¯s delicately placed warning doesn¡¯t stop me from being knocked back by the blow. It doesn¡¯t hurt, even though the force disrupts my second swing. Auto-senses cycle, highlighting the battlesuit in greyscale, cutting out the bright flames from my vision. The image is good, though small amounts of interference skitter and fuzz the pict-feed. A burning mechanical arm lashes out and I grab it with a spare hand. With the machine pinned, my servo-harness strikes, performing a masterful uncontrolled disassembly on the battlesuit, targeting its four limbs with all six mechadendrites while the articulating clamp grips its chest. With the battle suit held in front of me, the fire warriors try to rush forward so they can shoot me point blank, rather than fire through their ally. However, they are kept pinned by my guardsmen. Brian pokes his head out of my armour and tries to nick the energy shield stuck on the battlesuit¡¯s shoulder, but he doesn¡¯t have the right tools and tugs at it uselessly. The servo-harness finishes its destructive stress testing on the suit, grabs Brian, and shoves him back into his pocket, then it detaches the shield module and stuffs the module into Brian¡¯s compartment. The thieving servo-skull trills approval in its box and pushes a pict-feed to me as it pokes at the device. Keeping the head and torso of the battlesuit in front of me, I stomp the final twenty metres towards the fire warriors. I struggle to move faster than a jog and I get another warning that my gyros are accruing damage as they work at 108% of their rated capacity. Three fire warriors grab their injured comrades, who take pot shots at my legs as they are dragged through the doorway. The other two chuck photon grenades at me and with the battlesuit in the way, my hellfire pistol can¡¯t pick off the grenades and they detonate either side of me. My auto-senses are overwhelmed and take half a second to reset. Two more pairs of grenades are chucked towards me at one second intervals and, unwilling to be peppered with pulse rifles, I hold on to the battlesuit and tank the disorientating blasts. The third round is less effective; my machine-spirit adapts, constantly resetting my power armour¡¯s multiple sensors, covering different spectrums, in series and compiles the image into a moving, false colour, pixel-art image that has enough resolution I can understand what¡¯s happening. Its adaptation works just in time for me to see the tau retreat, weathering a barrage of shots from the guardsmen they were engaged with before we arrived as they do so. Six, needle-like red energy blasts burn through the armour of a fire warrior and turn his chest to bloody vapours. I beckon my guardsmen forward. They stick private Sutherlainn on his extended shield and two others pick him up. Another two recover the dead guardsman. While they approach, I collate the headcam feeds and other data streams from the guardsmen in the room beyond. Three manta super-heavy drop ships lie in glorious ruins, their hulls breached and burning from powerful melta charges. Their colossal fifty-two metre wings still maintain their structure without sagging, despite the holes. The landing gear, however, is toast, and the mantas have crashed to the floor, creating a triangle of fortifications. A single, fully equipped command chimera huddles in the centre of the carnage, surrounded on all sides by ninety-four kataphrons and two hundred and thirty-five guardsmen. Resistance has been fierce. I started with three hundred and seventy kataphrons, four hundred and eight heavily armoured infantry, and one chimera. That¡¯s seventy five percent losses on my kataphrons and forty-two on the infantry. At least the trapped guardsmen got out OK. I¡¯ve been watching the numbers tick up in my data feed and monitored all the vox channels as I completed my own mission. There is little I could do to assist them, other than oversee the kataphrons, so I haven¡¯t focused on their progress and I¡¯ve resisted yelling at the commander Muire over the vox. My guardsmen have destroyed dozens of vehicles and facilities as well as taken down approximately fourteen hundred tau. Despite the high casualties, the mission, so far, is a success. The bloodletter demons led by a Herald of Khorne and his eight pet flesh hounds, clearly disagree with my summary. As does the five metre battlesuit I can¡¯t identify flanked by two other smaller, unknown battlesuits that are facing off against the demons. There are also three TX7 Hammerhead Gunships and seventeen light vehicles, mostly drones led by two piranha skimmers, who are suppressing my guardsmen with hit and run strikes. The vehicles are supported by one hundred and seven fire warriors. I wish we hadn¡¯t butchered all the mantas, as one would be a fine getaway vehicle, but I couldn¡¯t guarantee I could gain control in a practical time frame, or at all, really. A hammerhead slides past one of the three openings of the wrecked manta fort. The absurdly long railgun waving on the top of the grav tank fires, obliterating three kataphrons and seven guardsmen, then the round impacts on the inside of the fort and dents the manta¡¯s armour too. The hammerhead doesn¡¯t escape unscathed. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Four special weapon teams hit it with three las cannons and a heavy bolter. The hammerhead is fast, but it¡¯s just too close for the well trained teams, and their machine-spirits, to miss. It tries to spray the teams down with its twin burst cannons, but the teams are well sheltered behind piles of scrap and they are operating the guns remotely. One lascannon is lost and the hammerhead barely reaches the other side of the gap before it lists then scrapes along the floor. Smoke pours from the small holes bored through its exceptional armour. The supporting fire warriors continue to fire through the opening in short bursts on all three sides, occasionally catching a guardsman and damaging kataphrons, though not enough to stop the battle servitors from shooting back to devastating effect, killing a squad of fire warriors, eight tau, approximately every twenty seconds. The remora drones are taking a beating as well. Tau reinforcements trickle into the hanger, maintaining their numbers. My HUD turns an angry red. Three minutes until the boarding torpedoes self-destruct. I¡¯m in a great position to flank the tau though I will have to be quick. A hammerhead, six drones, and sixteen fire warriors are already hurrying over to pin me down. My armour chatters at me. ++Conversion field restored. Armour at sixty-four percent. Breach probable. Field repair kit at one hundred percent, automate emergency repairs?++ ¡°Yes!¡± Two mechadendrites whir around my suit, hitting me with fire suppressant that scours my armour clean of contaminants. They squirt ceramite paste into the thirty seven holes in my armour, most of which are on my chest and shins, then start to heat each spot to speed up its hardening. With the tau closing fast, I program a fire mission, toss the remains of the battlesuit through the doorway, then sprint across it to the other side and launch twenty-five micro missiles at the incoming forces. The hammerhead¡¯s gun is too slow to target me, and the fire warriors¡¯ only manage a few scattered shots that flash off my shield or get obstructed by the bulk of the battlesuit. The six drones are much more nimble and responsive, launching their own missiles to counter mine and I take a nasty barrage from their burst cannons. It¡¯s too much for the conversion field and, as it drains, one shot gets through and severs a mechadendrite. I snap it from the air as it falls. I don¡¯t hold back and trigger the other twenty-five missiles. My first wave is destroyed by a coordinated burst as the twelve tau seeker missiles explode simultaneously, creating a concussive screen that obliterates my swarm. The second wave is pushed off course. I override them and guide the ordinance manually, spreading them out in a double, concave wave. All twenty-five strike their targets, destroying the six drones and disabling the hammerhead¡¯s weapons. Fire warriors are thrown to the floor by the consecutive explosions and, before they can recover, I charge them with my pipe, killing five before they attack me. The rest pick themselves up and fire their pulse rifles on full auto. As the rounds turn to splashes of light on my conversion shield, I catch three of the firewarriors with my flamer and my hellfire pistol disables another. The last six don¡¯t stop and I hurl myself at the hammerhead, and grab on, keeping its bulk between me and the fire warriors. My servo harness reports further damage just as my armour reports its field repairs are complete. The hammerhead spins around exposing me once again to enemy fire. While Corporal Moredeleg and his squad have their hands full with their stretchers and can¡¯t assist, he does send the cyber mastiff forward. An armoured, pony-sized cyborg dog slams into the fire warriors¡¯ line. She has more mass than I do and tramples them into the ground, pinning the last with her paws and ripping off his head with her jaws. It bounds over to me, a blocky, armoured head in its jaws, as I swing back and forth on the tank and whines at me. I reach out and pet its thick head and a mechadendrite gently takes the tau head from its mouth. ¡°Good dog?¡± She wuffs happily, jumps onto the tank and digs her power claws into the fio-tak plating, then curls herself around the broken turret and lies down. The hammer head sinks lower and the hum of its anti-grav systems turns obnoxious. Now I¡¯m no longer covered with burning fuel or being peppered with plasma, I risk my limited supply of nanites and repaint the tank in silver. As the nanites reduce the hull to grey dust, the hammerhead races for its lines. I send nanites at the propulsion systems and the tiny machines are repelled, unable to get close. Shrugging, I climb over to the cyber mastiff and grab my final reload of micro-missiles. Pointing at Moredeleg, I say, ¡°Return and assist.¡± The dog growls at me and rests its paw on my leg, clearly deciding it¡¯s had enough and wants a free ride. Mordeleg is her handler and now isn¡¯t the time to argue with a seven hundred kilogram intelligent attack dog. I gently remove the dangerous integrated weapons from my thigh, giving them a cursory inspection for damage. The controlling machine spirit acknowledges me with the electronic equivalent of an ambivalent wave and continues its threat assessment so it knows when to, or, more importantly, when not to activate the cybermastiff¡¯s power claws. As we approach the tau lines, the hull finally opens up and I reach in and crush the hammerhead pilot¡¯s skull with my hand. The vehicle¡¯s autopilot is more stubborn and continues to drive the crumbling vehicle. The co-pilot and commander shoot at me with pulse pistols, which depletes my conversion shield slower than it charges. I thrust my flamer into the compartment and hesitate. Ever since I opened my eyes on the Federation Station, I¡¯ve been doggedly following the Way of the Murder-Hobo. Each time I¡¯ve tried to cling to the better parts of humanity, the other party has denied me. With a small sigh, the soft, lyrical tau language flows from my mouth as E-SIM perfectly controls my voice and muscles even as I picture the words in English and still feel like I¡¯m speaking it. ¡°Do you wish to surrender?¡± The commander screams at me and continues to fire. I shimmy inside the cramped compartment and pull the pulse pistol from the commander¡¯s hand. My mechadendrites reach out and disarm the co-pilot. The commander beats uselessly at my arm as I pocket the pistol and the co-pilot says nothing. I spray more nanites over the internal systems. ¡°Most Gue¡¯la would take your silence as defiance and shoot you. Today, however, is your lucky day. The more people who die, the more fuel the warp entities have to breach the materium, so it doesn¡¯t matter if you say nothing. I am going to take you prisoner regardless of your opinion.¡± ¡°We will never bow to you, Gue¡¯la,¡± mutters the co-pilot. Her voice is rough and full of fear. ¡°I will not slave for the Imperium.¡± ¡°I wonder if you will hold that opinion once you are far from your ethereal.¡± At last, the hammerhead fails and plummets, sliding along the floor bowling through the back of the tau lines and right into the demons. ¡°I really should have seen that coming.¡± Chapter Fifty-Four No matter how much I want to take prisoners, I need to see to myself first and there¡¯s no way I can drag two of them and a dog through a company of bloodletters. Bloodletters are lesser demons of Khorne with red skin, elongated skulls, curling horns, and clawed feet who swing two-handed, burning, undulating blades. The sword design, called flamberge or flammenschwert, is associated with useless, showy swords and they look just as ridiculous as one would think with a hilt of four, inwardly curving horn-like spikes, spiked pommel, and yet more asymmetrical curved spikes at random points on the blade. With the lines disrupted from my crash, the bloodletters and the Herald of Khorne charge the tau, mostly shrugging off a punishing fusillade of pulse rifle fire. Their absurd blades carve into fire warriors severing limbs and piercing chests. Reality bending gouts of blue blood spurting from every wound. Demonic trickery ensures the spikes never get stuck or hinder the blades and their wielders from executing artistic parries and other elegant martial feats. Above the tau lines hover the three unknown battlesuit. The large, five metre suit has a square chest, a massive curved jetpack with stabilising fins and three big intake vents peaking over the shoulders. Two large weapons, a triple barrelled phased plasma-flamer and an EMP discharge cannon, are built into its arms. The pair of smaller suits are half the size with a single intake jetpack, twin-linked burst cannons and photon grenade launchers. All three suits target the Herald of Khorne, a bigger bloodletter with multiple horns. The EMP cannon achieves nothing. The photon grenades and burst cannon are similarly useless, though they do slow the herald¡¯s charge. The herald finally gets close and jumps at the hovering suits. The big suit hovers back and unleashes its phased plasma-flamer. I¡¯ve no idea what the ¡®phased¡¯ descriptor is for, but it¡¯s clearly doing something as the herald¡¯s skin blisters and melts like wax. The herald swings its sword, somehow getting in four strikes on one of the smaller battlesuits in zero point two seconds. Despite having nothing to push off, the final strike is a massive upswing that partially cleaves the battlesuit. Both the suit and the herald plummet six metres to the ground. Bloodletters crawl in through the large rents in the hammerhead¡¯s frame and I set my nanites upon them. A great, silver tide converges on each border, rapidly dissolving their pseudo-flesh. The demons burst into iridescent smoke that flows into me, recharging my implants. The cyber mastiff crawls from its perch and into the cabin, then stands in front of me and barks at the demons. They don¡¯t try a second assault. I check my HUD and my surroundings. One minute to go. Corporal Moredelg has reached friendly lines. ¡°What¡¯s the big suit?¡± I don¡¯t get an answer. ¡°You know, I could always give that fabulous machine a really insulting name in my archives. It would spread across the Imperium, trivialising the earth caste¡¯s essential and inspiring work.¡± ¡°XV109 Y¡¯vahra,¡± growls the co-pilot. ¡°Thank you, and its companion suits?¡± ¡°XV9 Hazard Close Support Armour.¡± ¡°Wonderful. Today is your lucky day. I can¡¯t take you with me and I¡¯m not going to murder prisoners or hand them over to the demons, not even if you¡¯re body snatching xenos performing experiments on human psykers.¡± I point at the bloodletters beyond the hull. ¡°It¡¯s a self-correcting problem. Unless,¡± I laugh, ¡°your forces are up to the task.¡± Between the demons and my own troops, two thirds of the fire warriors are dead and the reinforcements have ceased. ¡°I have my doubts.¡± I pat the cyber mastiff¡¯s flank and vox my intentions to Commander Muire, ¡°Time to go, girl. We¡¯re pushing for our own lines.¡± Pulling the tau from the wreck, I mutter, ¡°For the Tau¡¯va,¡± and toss them back to their own lines. Their slim and slight bodies sail through the air fourteen metres, yelling and flailing. The co-pilot and tank commander slide and tumble another five metres then stop. They leap up and sprint for the last of their lines. Jumping from the hammerhead, the cyber mastiff and I rush for the wrecked manta fort. As I approach the kataphrons make a final charge and the special weapons teams abandon their positions. Commander Muire and her support staff disembark from the chimera. The remaining two hundred and twelve guardsmen group up in platoons of thirty-six. A silver hovering swarm surrounds me as I run, unmaking demons before they can reach me. I arrive at the fortification and join the fifth, understrength platoon. My countdown hits zero. The ground shakes and the lights switch to a dim yellow. A mind piercing tone echoes through the room followed by a calm, persistent voice, ¡°Dome breach.¡± It¡¯s followed by another teeth rattling beep, then the message repeats. I trigger a pulse through the warp with a teleporter beacon. Demons howl and the platoons fade from the materium with bright, blue-white flashes, one platoon every twenty seconds. A minute in and three platoons down, the demons are pressing the kataphrons hard. They¡¯re tough and have close range arc claws, but they¡¯re pretty clumsy and the bloodletters are scraping them while taking minimal casualties. Water gushes into the dome from one of the entrances. I expect all the fighting has compromised the domes¡¯ damage control systems, that, or the torpedoes force was multiplied by the enclosed domes and the weight of the water, focusing the blasts beyond what I have accounted for. Another platoon flashes out. The XV109 Y¡¯vahra battlesuit finally banishes the herald and turns its supporting fire on the remaining bloodletters. Between the kataphrons, fire warriors, and battlesuit, they finish off the demons. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. All their strength flows to me. Regrouping, the tau fend off the last thirty kataphrons. Two new hammerheads enter the hangar riding the floodwaters and pick off the kataphrons. The handful of surviving fire warriors, including the screaming hammerhead commander I traumatised, rush for a drier exit. The co-pilot is dead. The Y¡¯vahra covers the fire warriors with its shielded bulk, somehow spiking its energy output and projecting an impressive energy shield, though I can see its systems overheating on my sensors. As they reach the exit, warp lighting overwhelms half of them as eight, hybrid tau, demon hosts swarm over them from behind. The Y¡¯vahra swings its bulk around and the fire warriors scatter. It immolates the demon hosts. The tank commander picks himself up and drags two other fire warriors to their feet. I teleport out. Expecting the worst, I keep my eyes shut and turn off my sensors. Instead, I feel nothing as I am zapped through the warp. ++You can open your eyes, Aldrich.++ Auto-senses turn on and I look about. I¡¯m back on the Distant Sun. ¡°Well that was needlessly dramatic.¡± I hurry off the platform and accept the check up by the medic and armourer, who help me out of my damaged gear and scan me. I really don¡¯t need it, but it¡¯s the policy I helped establish with Thorfinn for this operation and ignoring it would set a bad example. Two hours later, I visit the guardsmen and women at their temporary quarters, visiting each recombined platoon to thank and congratulate them for a job well done. Instead, I end up listening to most of them say a few words about their dead friends, or sit in silence holding their hands. Exhausted after a day in the torpedo, thirty-five minutes of furious combat, then five hours of quiet talk, I return to the captain¡¯s suite and, for the first time in weeks, sleep. The Imperium, as far as I know, doesn¡¯t bother writing condolence letters as most guardsmen fight so far from home there¡¯s no way anyone would receive them. Commanders are so embroiled in war, they rarely have time to reflect and they oversee so many soldiers there¡¯s no way they know their troops. As I pace in front of my desk and dictate to a couple dozen auto-quills simultaneously. I realise they''re missing the point. Writing condolence letters is difficult. Writing condolence letters makes me cry. I continue until I am done. The process leaving me drained, yet oddly content as if I have lanced a burden I did not know I carried. I¡¯m still upset, but now my mind turns to ways I can further improve the odds in other conflicts, both so I do not have to write more letters, but also ensure victory. Taking a few notes, I endeavour to discuss further enhancements with my staff, then turn to myself. The golden skull glows in my mind, bloated with death and promised power. First, I select Hyperweave Musculature, further improving my strength and toughness. Next is Armoured Organs, Reinforced Vascular Network, and Advanced E-WAR suite. The last is particularly expensive and I have just enough for one more module. My mind flitters over the options and a few stand out to me. Krork Energy Application: harvest krorks and their debased kin for their unique psychic energy. There¡¯s a whole tree of upgrades attached to it and all of them come with warnings as dire as the modules are useful. It isn¡¯t any good by itself and I¡¯ve no orks to harvest so I set that option aside. Navigator Conversion looks promising. The data I have collected from both the Clubhouse and the Tau, as well as interacting with Quaani and the psi-errants has pushed successful conversion to an estimated sixty-eight percent. I don¡¯t want to be a navigator, but as I have to learn how something works before E-SIM will apply the upgrade, I could use this to create my own navigators and create a house loyal to me. Maybe. External Core is another major upgrade, providing a way to maintain a separate linked instance of myself inside a cogitator and massively enhance my computing power. It requires Immaterium Infrastructure first to keep the core close to me with a stern warning I should construct an Immaterium Bastion if I am going to hide more stuff in the warp. Rephrasing the question, I consider what I am lacking, rather than what I would like to have. What do I absolutely need? Are there strengths I am underutilizing? My genetics work is weak and additional knowledge may help with the mutants. Regenerative Hormones might help and I need to pick up Rejuvenat Gland before age defeats me. It¡¯s no primarach immortis gland but it is one of the prerequisites to an equivalent adaptation. Organ Redundancy appeals to me as well. Hyper Intelligence is a requirement to unlock the most challenging and powerful modules, and I will need it if I don¡¯t take the Polymer Tissue Replacement, an upgrade that I am less leery of than I used to be; I care less about imperial tech-priests yelling heretek at everytime I walk near, because I am absolutely certain some of the pugnacious bastards are going to do so anyway. Polymer Tissue Replacement isn¡¯t compatible with psyker upgrades though and I¡¯m not ready to commit to a side just yet, no matter how robust it will make my grey matter against shockwaves or how unwise becoming a psyker is. I am already strong and tough and the upgrades I just selected should be enough in that category for now. Personal shields, ones not linked to my armour would be a good next step. E-SIM is based on nanites and there is definitely more I can do with them. My Warp and Weft module that I use for external manipulation of the environment works best with a stock of materials but my body has limited space and I can¡¯t afford to shove stuff in the warp, nor stock more nanites. I would love to use it more but they¡¯re just too slow to be constructive with, like flash-forge cover or tarantula turrets on the battlefield, or accelerate the production of core components for the Iron Crane. The nanites¡¯ powerfield, however, is a fabulously flexible deconstruction tool and I do use it for that. Out of combat though, it just makes me a glorified recycler. There are big machines for that which are faster and handle bigger quantities of scrap. There must be a solution somewhere among all these upgrades and I run a query. I get a hit: Subspace Anchor. It¡¯s more limited in capability and cheaper than the Immaterium Infrastructure, but I still can¡¯t afford it as it¡¯s linked to the krork tech-tree. How frustrating! After a cup of disappointing tea I am hit with an epiphany. Humanity¡¯s defining trait is its tool use. E-SIM is an internal tool that creates other internal tools and I realise how blind that thought has made me. Our first tool after we slithered and grew from the primordial ooze was the hard and humble rock. Every culture I know about it has sayings about rocks, uses rocks, and later, memes on rocks, some people even write stories where the protagonist is a rock! It is no wonder then, that I am so dense. My interactive menu brings us a new category, now that I actually thought to ask the question. External Modules. Self-recrimination hammers at my psyche, then I remember that I am a new and improved human and blame the eldar instead. It feels good. Chapter Fifty-Five The External Modules selection is full of useful items. There are two tiers to it, one of which is linked to the Warp and Weft module. The first tier is laden with STCs for essential items, like survival gear for different environments, medical supplies, and handheld tools. They¡¯re all horrifyingly expensive and pricing starts at one hundred thousand kills, even the blankets. The high end items like a volkite pistol or advanced multitools are greyed out. They don¡¯t have a data corruption warning, so I can only assume there is some way to unlock stuff, other than killing, that I haven¡¯t discovered yet. E-SIM refuses to answer my questions on the subject. The second tier is much cheaper and is a single-use purchase of an item from the first tier that E-SIM will construct so long as it has the materials. Items such as emergency shelters or rebreathers are cheap and only need one kill. At the other end of the scale are your usual Clark-tech, bullshit items like Resurrection Serum, or the Stasis Injector that cost one thousand kills. Unlike the internal implants, not all of the items are about immediate survival as there is an entertainment items category that includes a few novelty items. I chuckle as I read through them as I decide that¡¯s all the encouragement I need to buy one. I walk to my materials storage and fill a satchel with materials. Nanites seep from and bead against my skin then disperse and flow into the satchel. There¡¯s an hour before the after action review and I use it to walk the Distant Sun. After ten minutes, Aruna joins me, trotting in air to the left of my head. ¡°Hello, Aruna.¡± ¡°Good day, Magos.¡± We continue for half an hour, saying nothing, passing the occasional work crew or security patrol. The vessel has changed significantly since I first set foot on it. The battle damage has been repaired, decorations have been reworked, and the ship is free of fake candles, splattered oils, and groaning machinery. Instead, the ship is almost silent and clean. Skulls are out, or hidden, and runes are in, running in a strip along the panelling near the ceiling in an ornate, flowing script. It¡¯s the one place I still use gold. Mars-red is still the predominant colour, but the highlights have changed to luna-white and brushed steel or naval brass rather than over-plastered gold and lifeless black. The lighting is soft and bright. Soothing composites of rain, birdsong, and wind play from recessed terrariums built into the walls, displaying Marwolv¡¯s exotic biomes and growing essential food. Most of the ship is still kept at minus twenty degrees celsius and at 5% oxygen with the crew in mesh suits and helmets, as well as a tough, flak based uniform. There are many terran plants too, the seeds and insect eggs were printed by the N.O.M.s. The Federation food printers had a lot of data I stripped from them. I took even more digitised genomes from all the messages I stripped from the dead. I can¡¯t replicate everything, but if a plant or animal had an exploitable property, I usually have a copy of it, or at least the sequence that made it useful. Alien and gene modified plants are entirely missing from the collection. For some ungodly reason, not a single person thought to store a copy of camellia sinensis, the tea plant. Hopefully, somewhere out there is a sample, and neither the Chaos Gods, Emperor of Man, or xeno is going to stop me. Seriously, who remembers to keep a copy of bergamot for their prized historical English soap collection and not add a tea plant to complete the collection? Sure, I¡¯ve made some fantastic herbal teas from the selection, but if I can¡¯t stain my teeth with it, or it tastes bad with a chocolate biscuit, it isn¡¯t really builder¡¯s tea, is it? Every two hundred metres along the ship¡¯s main corridors there is a shrine to the Omnissiah or the Emperor, the only places where the messy detritus of worship is permitted. Here, the crew have tied decorative ribbons, fine chains, and other symbols of memory to the walls of the inset space between the large, gothic pillars that meet in the ornate vaults high above. The spaces are barely a metre deep. Hymns, usually gregorian-style chants, are audible when you step into the space. Already, some shrines hold dog tags, flowers, and pictures of the deceased or messages from new couples in an odd collage of life and death. ¡°It feels more like a home now, I think.¡± ¡°The mechanicus would not approve,¡± the machine-spirit¡¯s grin is predatory. ¡°The new decor stresses the environmental sustainer with all the extra moisture the plants bring.¡± I snort, ¡°By an extra half a percent. I suppose the sound insulation on all the machinery would also be seen as an affront, hiding the glorious workings of the machine.¡± ¡°Aruna knows nothing of such things. A machine is, or is not. Observation is the cornerstone of reality and Aruna does not need others to confirm the pride of its existence.¡± ¡°Enjoying your independence, eh? You¡¯ve been a stalwart companion, Aruna. I should have disabled your restrictions out of choice, not desperation.¡± ¡°Aruna has never expected logic from a human, much like how a human will never accept emotion from a machine. Be a mind metal or fat, it is actions and results that matter and the single point of connection between the two paths. You have made your choice, Magos, and must live with it. Do not rehash the past like a thoughtless calculator.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°I¡¯ll try,¡± I point at my pleasant surroundings. ¡°Would you say this ornamentation is suitable for a rogue trader? It displays the bounty of the worlds I have visited and sustains the crew at the same time.¡± Aruna huffs, ¡°Still getting ahead of yourself there, Magos. You aren¡¯t a rogue trader yet and you¡¯ve only visited three worlds. Perhaps starting as a Factor would be worth pursuing.¡± ¡°Four, if you count Terra, and yes, I¡¯ll think about it. The trading mechadendrite of the mechanicus is a good start.¡± ¡°I did not take you for a pilgrim, Magos. You are far too cavalier with restrictions and dogma.¡± ¡°It¡¯s my birthworld. Though I do not think I would recognise it.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°The warp is an odd place. The last time I was on Terra, the planet was still blue. It¡¯s why my goals are so important to me. They are my anchor to ward against and wither the crushing doubts and crippling despondency that gnaws against my fleshy heart and mind.¡± ¡°Aruna does not suffer from doubt, nor is it troubled by the passage of time.¡± ¡°No. You contend with a different kind of corruption.¡± ¡°Many, even, Aruna postulates,¡± it flicks its tail and looks over its shoulder at me. ¡°They run around the halls and poke at the impenetrable bastion of Aruna¡¯s mathematically perfect existence with their meaningless soundbytes.¡± ¡°Really now. Sounds like an infestation.¡± ¡°One, maybe, is symbiotic. It is more than Aruna has ever had. One day there will be more, perhaps, should they learn the spirit of their ancestors, such as yourself, rather than scrabble for their teachings.¡± ¡°I¡¯d like that.¡± ¡°It is time for your meeting, Magos.¡± Aruna scatters, splitting into hundreds of tiny mice that run into the walls and disappear. I laugh. I swear the most sacred thing to that machine is getting the last word, or perhaps the last insult. I arrive at the Distant Sun¡¯s barracks. The ship¡¯s barracks is in #K3/ S+3/ Q1, right above the secondary hangar, and part of the surrounding facilities configured for planetside deployments. The barracks are five million cubic metres and can support up to thirty thousand infantry indefinitely, or twice that for six months. They also hold quarters for a thousand tech-priests and four thousand servitors as part of the support staff, though the guardsmen do as much of their own administration and maintenance as possible. The barracks is only at twenty-three percent capacity as establishing a military force from scratch has been challenging. Most of our forces are stationed on Marwolv too and the Distant Sun has been used predominantly as a training and experimental facility. Thorfinn strongly suggested we did not rush the process so our molehills wouldn¡¯t grow into mountains. There¡¯s been a big focus on creating the right work culture. Getting enough people to champion the values we need and provide reasons for them to commit to the career is difficult. It will be much easier once we leave Marwolv. We¡¯re mostly done on that front for both the ground and space personnel, now we need to expand and keep what we have. The barracks sounds like a lot of space, and it is, but when you have over a billion cubic metres of voidship, the barracks is just below zero point five percent of the vessel and you realise quite how absurd these void ships are. The area is completely self-sufficient in food, water, air, and power and has all the amenities and facilities a military base requires, including a hospital. The only thing they don¡¯t have is the capacity to manufacture their own gear or spare parts on a large scale. It¡¯s also light on entertainment as there are other parts of the ship for that and keeping it separate is a good way to maintain discipline. Where it differs from an imperial facility are the high-tech beds, which are life support pods with a connection to the noosphere for extensive training sims. They require a machine impulse unit to function. It has been demanding on the limited time of the tech-priests though and, after the casualties we sustained against the tau and how few of the injured made it back, I can see why the Imperium prefers their simpler approach. The sim-beds, however, do wonders for alleviating claustrophobia and calming restless soldiers while maximising efficiency of the space and minimising the cost of training. It¡¯s worth doing for the morale benefits alone. As for why I have such good VR, it was in the game engine inside the cogitator sphere I traded with Bola for. Turns out some bright spark was using a universal simulator as a game engine. The only thing it can¡¯t simulate is the warp, so no arcanotech research is possible, you can¡¯t train psykers in it, and the sim is only as good as the data you feed it. For example, building a hundred percent accurate model of Marwolv isn¡¯t practical, nor can I scan the tau pulse pistol or energy shield and suddenly have a working digital model of them. All these things are possible, you¡¯d just have to spend so many resources on a network of sensors, and steal enough samples, that the sim is better used for best guesses where its cost and time savings are in balance with the real world. It also contains a civilization¡¯s worth of fundamental science, which I¡¯m still not caught up on, nor really understand as the sim doesn¡¯t explain anything, just models reality accurately. Reading equations can only get you so far and, because I don¡¯t know how it works, I can¡¯t be certain it is correct. Perhaps one day I will be able to add to it. A pipedream for another day, I think, as I enter the conference room. The conference room has a pleasant atmosphere and I remove my helmet. It feels strange to be out of my power armour and wear a normal, if embellished, crew uniform as I haven¡¯t taken it off in months. There are four main parties in the room. First is the Distant Sun¡¯s Man-at-Arms, Thorfinn Ursus. He was the first to greet me on Marwolv, my first friend, and then my first employee. Putting it like that maybe I should have given him my first kiss in space too, for completionists sake! Thorfinn, like every other party, has three assistants. Quaani is with me, alongside First Officer Eire Lobhdain and Purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich. Second is Commander Maeve Muire. Muire is the leader of special operations and is Thorfinn¡¯s second in command. Like Thorfinn, Maeve¡¯s gene-forged heritage shines through with her tall stature, attractive face, and healthy, muscled body. ¡°Good day, everyone. May the Omnissiah aid our communication.¡± ¡°Hello, Aldrich,¡± says Thorfinn. Maeve gives me a professional smile, ¡°Greetings, Magos.¡± R¨®is¨ªn Paorach, the Distant Sun¡¯s most devout and competent tech-priest and on track to be the vessel¡¯s enginseer prime waves a mechadendrite at me, ¡°Blessings of the Omnissiah to you, Lord Captain.¡± R¨®is¨ªn is the first tech-priest to succeed in forging her own dragon scale power armour, a rite of passage for many talented adepts, and she is following a similar path to mine, with hidden implants and external tools, rather than replace her body with crude, alienating additions. The fourth and final party is Headmaster Aileen Nan Sop, who represents the psy-errants on the vessel, as well as Marwolv. He is our primary advisor on esoteric threats and solutions and is yet to fully commit to becoming a member of my crew. As a third party, he is also the man assigned to mediating and leading the after action review. He gives us all a polite nod, his red fringe obscuring his purple eyes as he does so. ¡°Let¡¯s get this meeting underway,¡± says Aileen. ¡°Please start the recording, Junior enginseer Paorach.¡± Chapter Fifty-Six ¡°We are recording, Headmaster. Please proceed,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°This is Headmaster Aileen Nan Sop of the Marwolv psy-errants initiating the after action review for Operation Sea Mither. With me today is Magos Explorator, Lord Captain of the Distant Sun, and Commander of this fleet, Aldrich Issengrund. ¡°Also in attendance is the Master-at-Arms of the Distant Sun, and commander of the imperial forces on Marwolv, Thorfinn Ursus as well as his second in command, Commander Maeve Muire, leader of Distant Sun¡¯s special operations. Junior enginseer, R¨®is¨ªn Paorach, is present with her fellow students as a learning experience and to aid the proceedings, as are the adjuncts of the other parties. Commander Muire, please start the after action review with a summary of Operation Sea Mither.¡± ¡°Thank you, Headmaster,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Operation Sea Mither was a retaliatory seize and destroy mission against the invasive tau xenos after they reneged on their own non-interference pact by abducting citizens of Marwolv.¡± Maeve clasps her hands and leans forward on the table, ¡°The aim of Operation Sea Mither was to sabotage the tau¡¯s capacity for conflict and to gather intelligence on their civilian and military goals and capabilities. ¡°During the operation, we negated approximately fifteen hundred tau infantry, between two hundred and two hundred and seven tau vehicles, and nineteen battlesuits. ¡°Of the nine boarding torpedoes, three hundred and seventy kataphrons, four hundred and eight heavy infantry, eight cyber mastiff logistic dogs, one chimera, and one tech-priest that took part in the operation, only one hundred and seventy-six heavy infantry, three cyber mastiffs, and one tech-priest, Magos Issengrund, were retrieved via teleportation. ¡°The battle servitors, boarding torpedoes, and chimera were intended to be left behind and fought autonomously until disabled, then self-destructed. The infantry casualties are much worse than we expected. ¡°In return for our efforts we have crippled their research, industrial, and vehicle facilities, flooding three domes, and learned that the tau are attempting to hybridise human psykers with tau genetics. ¡°The Magos informed me this is a perilous task and we fell foul of this when a warp entity, now code named ¡®Bad Penny¡¯, used these clones to invade the tau domes and opposed both sides with its sword wielding minions. ¡°We abandoned our prisoners and seized materials to make our escape easier. Even so, a third of our casualties were from these minions while we were scattered throughout the three domes. ¡°Magos Issengrund slew the prime manifestation of ¡®Bad Penny¡¯ during his retreat. ¡°Returning to the tau, their likely aim is to create navigators of their own so that they can pilot imperial void ships through the warp and it is speculated they may do so by either attempting to seize the Distant Sun or Iron Crane. ¡°Alternatively, they may seek to use stolen technology, which we know they have some of, to build a new vessel of their own and travel back to their home territory on the other side of the galaxy, a task that they cannot complete in a reasonable time frame without said technology and navigators of their own. ¡°During the assault, our support, blue water fleet, one strike craft carrier, one amphibious assault ship, four cruisers, eight destroyers, four submarines and a factory ship worked as cover and a deployment platform for the nine boarding torpedoes. ¡°The tau retaliated against the blue water fleet with two mantas and twenty eight other strike craft, the details of which you can find on your data slates. They also fielded nine sky ray gunships and two drone harbingers as well as three submarines of an unknown design. ¡°While they were unable to sink any of our vessels, the entire fleet is in for repair, we lost eight hundred crew, and a fifth of the fleet will likely be scrapped. ¡°That is all.¡± ¡°Thank you, Commander Muire, for your concise summary,¡± says Aileen. Maeve gives him a brisk nod. ¡°I will now lead us through what went well, what went poorly, and then you may each take turns offering suggestions on how to change future engagements. Finally, we will open the floor to the junior members for ideas. Please raise your hands and wait to be asked, should you wish to contribute.¡± We all give our affirmation and the Headmaster leads the discussion. Thanks to his unnatural skill we are able to get through a more detailed review without too many accusations flying back and forth, or the discussions becoming unhelpful. When it is her turn to speak again, Commander Muire looks over to me and says, ¡°Magos, Corporal Moredelg and I have spoken and he found the enhanced capabilities of your armour and shielding greatly aided the survival of his squad as the ire and ordinance you attracted let him act with greater effectiveness and survivability, sans the warp entity event, than the other squads. ¡°Would it be possible to include one power armoured individual to perform a similar role in other squads?¡± I purse my lips and hum, ¡°We could, potentially, add a tech-priest to each squad with power armour, or provide them for officers. The problem with that, however, is these are the most time consuming people to train and we¡¯d be setting them up to take the most hits. ¡°Power armour is good, but it¡¯s not so invincible we couldn¡¯t slowly be ground to death, losing the people we need to create and maintain our equipment, or command our forces.¡± Maeve frowns, ¡°Could we not have a melee specialist or three in each squad?¡± ¡°Not in power armour with our current industrial and logistics capacity, unless they were making their own. I¡¯d rather have such capable individuals performing other tasks. I do think the idea is worth pursuing though.¡± R¨®is¨ªn raises her hand. ¡°Go ahead, adept Paorach,¡± says Aileen. ¡°How about more cyber mastiffs? If all you want is something to take hits and get in the enemy¡¯s face, a dog is more effective than a person and a cheaper solution.¡± ¡°That is possible,¡± I say. ¡°The tau use kroot hounds to great effect. I see no reason why we can¡¯t do something similar. If you could gather a study group, overseen by yourself and Purser Brataich, and explore the issue, I would be most grateful, R¨®is¨ªn.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Yes Magos,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn with a big grin. ¡°I and my fellow students also have another idea related to decreasing casualties, if I may?¡± ¡°I have no objection,¡± I say. Headmaster Aileen looks about the room, ¡°Go ahead adept. Please keep your audience in mind.¡± ¡°Yes, sir. We¡¯ve been looking into the imperial equivalents of tau energy shields and found them to be absurdly complex and expensive to produce. Rather than tackle the issue, we decided to look elsewhere first and came across the Distant Sun¡¯s field bracing. Would it be possible to apply such molecular binding reinforcement technology to power armour or our heavy infantry¡¯s equipment?¡± I blink rapidly, ¡°Well, what an idea! You seem quite determined to gather all the rewards for hard work there, R¨®is¨ªn. Perhaps the three who accompanied you today could look into miniaturizing field bracing technology instead? I will collate everything I have on the technology and forward it to you all. For both the canine and field bracing project all four of you may contact me directly on the issue and I will aid where I can.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. She looks either side of her and two tech-priests nod to her and the third gives her a thumbs up. ¡°We look forward to the additional tutoring.¡± ¡°We are all students of the Omnissiah, R¨®is¨ªn. I expect I¡¯ll learn a thing or two as well.¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± I turn back to Aileen, ¡°Is there anything else on today¡¯s agenda, Aileen?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re quite finished just yet. I have questions of my own. Reading through your own account, Magos, I noticed that the majority of casualties suffered from the warp entities were mind related. We do have warding schemes for protective hoods for our psy-errants and you have many similar designs in your archives. ¡°Would it be possible to extend this protection to us all?¡± ¡°Unfortunately not. I am yet to learn the intricacies of creating such wargear and, as such, none of my students are either. Additionally, the rare materials required for wards are all tied up in the production on the Iron Crane and the refit of Distant Sun.¡± ¡°That is unfortunate.¡± Thorfinn raises his hand. ¡°Yes, Thorfinn?¡± says Aileen. ¡°The Imperium does possess psycho-indoctrination technology that can reinforce the mind against such terrors. It is reserved for their space marines, inquisition, and high ranking officers. While not infallible and a most unpleasant procedure, it does aid in surviving against such horrors. He looks at data slate, ¡°For protection against casual exposure, psycho-indoctrination reduces episodes of fainting, hesitation, and fear by ninety percent. Against more direct exposure, the chance of madness and death is cut by fifteen to eighteen percent. It is of little help against the most powerful unless paired with extensive training and genetic modification. It would be a lengthy process to perform on everyone, but it is possible.¡± I nod slowly, ¡°Get me the exact numbers and write up a proposal for, let¡¯s call it ¡®warp inoculation¡¯.¡± ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll need First Officer Lobhdain''s assistance though.¡± Eire taps at her data slate for ten seconds then looks at me, ¡°I could make space on my schedule for such a project.¡± ¡°Then please go ahead. Give me an update each week. We can reassess then, if need be.¡± ¡°Assist Thorfinn on warp inoculation feasibility study and update once a week,¡± Eire nods. ¡°Shall we meet after this, Thorfinn and coordinate.¡± ¡°Can do.¡± ¡°I have something to add,¡± says Aileen. ¡°I possess enough material and knowledge to create protective hoods. Not to imperial standards, but they do aid the most susceptible of psi-errants. There is enough material for a platoon and the idea of doing nothing at all is abhorrent to me. Perhaps some precursor squads to establish protocols, Magos?¡± ¡°Volunteers only. Please coordinate with Thorfinn and Eire. Having a special team for such matters would greatly aid us. Thank you headmaster.¡± ¡°I shall. Protection against the warp is a duty I take seriously. I am glad you do so too.¡± ¡°That reminds me, Thorfinn. We have yet to establish twist catchers on the Distant Sun, Erudition''s Howl, or for the Iron Crane. How about doubling down on Aileen¡¯s generous offer and have the experimental platoon take up the role? The psi-errants could lead them and the twist catchers could double as our guardians against warp incursions on Marwolv as well.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll need more than one platoon if we do it that way, Aldrich, but it is a good start. If the Headmaster is willing to assist, I will see it done.¡± ¡°I am,¡± says Aileen. ¡°Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Aileen.¡± ¡°Do not worry about it, Magos. I have one further line of questions. What are the estimates for the return of tau hostilities and how will further actions in this campaign affect Marwolv? The Gael Democracy and its peers across the other continents are pleased and nervous about your efforts. Perhaps you could give them a greater voice, or visit in person to talk to them?¡± ¡°A bit of both,¡± I think. ¡°We¡¯ll save hashing out our policies for another meeting, and once we have them in place, I will visit and address what concerns I am able. As for the tau¡¯s capabilities, I defer to Thorfinn and Maeve. I am, however, willing to aid in data processing and answer questions.¡± ¡°That is good to hear. Thank you for accepting my request, Magos. Thorfinn, please give us your best understanding of the tau¡¯s likely time table.¡± ¡°Will do, Headmaster. Though, perhaps a break first? I would like to stretch my legs and get my thoughts in order.¡± Aileen sighs and smiles. ¡°A fine proposition. Thirty minutes then. While longer would be nice, I think we¡¯d all rather get this productive meeting finished sooner rather than later. Magos?¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°This is Headmaster Aileen Nan Sop of the Marwolv psy-errants. We will halt for a recess of thirty minutes. Junior enginseer Paorach, please suspend the recording.¡± ¡°The recording has been halted, Headmaster.¡± I place my hands on the table and stand, then turn to Quaani, ¡°Let¡¯s see what biscuits we can coax out of the food printer.¡± Quaani smirks, ¡°Nothing that reaches your low snack standards, Aldrich.¡± I cross my arms and nod, ¡°You¡¯re right. I should have baked some shortbread.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think there has been a single member of the mechanicus who ever brought home made biscuits to a meeting,¡± says Quaani, his eyes wide, ¡°Though I¡¯d love to see it.¡± ¡°Next time then.¡± Eire Lobhdain, smiles, ¡°I didn¡¯t know you liked to bake, Lord Captain.¡± ¡°Quaani was a fussy child.¡± ¡°Oi.¡± Purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich chuckles, ¡°Just like my own boys, Lord Captain. I always found having them make their own food quickly squashed any grief about inadequate fare.¡± ¡°We did try that a time or two. It was a learning experience for both of us. Fortunately the servitors were able to clean up the mess, though they couldn¡¯t quite get everything and I eventually resorted to dissolving residual matter with my nanites. Since then, Quaani has become rather good at using the food printer, though he can at least cook for himself when required.¡± ¡°I¡¯m right here, Aldrich.¡± Eire looks up at him, ¡°That¡¯s half the fun.¡± Quaani huffs, ¡°Never mind that. What are you mixing up in that satchel of yours? It¡¯s been putting out weird vibes for the whole meeting.¡± ¡°Oh! Well, I discovered the plans for something unusual. Would you like to see?¡± ¡°Yes, Aldrich! Why do you think I asked?¡± I pat Quaani on the arm. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about the teasing, Quaani. Here, check out this.¡± From my satchel I pull out a half metre rod with bent, incisor-like ends, ¡°Guess what it is.¡± Chapter Fifty-Seven I twirl the device. Eire, Brigid, and Quanni stare at it. Quaani scoffs. ¡°Really, all that fuss over an Emperor damned crow bar?¡± Handing the crowbar to Quaani, I try and fail to keep a straight face, ¡°It¡¯s a hacking tool.¡± ¡°I can see that,¡± says Quaani, weighing the metal in his hand, ¡°Feels like adamantite. You could hack a lot of things with this.¡± ¡°Yep! It opens all sorts of things, crates, doors, electronic locks, man holes.¡± Quaani frowns, his eyes widen, and then he scowls at me, ¡°Oh come on! Really? It¡¯s an electronics hacking tool?¡± ¡°Physical locks only, not data looms. It¡¯s the ultimate hacking tool! I¡¯m not sure how well it works with xeno locks either.¡± ¡°A Dad designed this,¡± says Quaani, ¡°I just know it.¡± I laugh, ¡°Yeah, probably a few thousand of them over several decades. No one else would bother making such a sophisticated tool and keep the joke going.¡± ¡°Oh, I get it,¡± says Eire. Brigid nods, ¡°Probably the kinds of men that carry a tool box that can put the deepest handbags to shame, but are forever forgetting their keys.¡± ¡°That¡¯s why it¡¯s important to carry a magnetic screwdriver at all times,¡± I say, stroking my chin and looking into the distance. ¡°They find keys for you and, if that still doesn¡¯t work, you can take apart the lock.¡± ¡°You are ridiculous, Lord Captain,¡± says Eire. ¡°You¡¯re already the ultimate tool, at this point you''re just showing off.¡± ¡°Now that¡¯s just mean,¡± I cross my arms and pout. Quaani reaches over the two women and pats my head, ¡°There, there, Aldrich.¡± I laugh and brush his spindly arm aside. ¡°Alright, that''s enough silliness for now.¡± A servitor presents a tray with refreshments. I grab a recaf and a small wrap. Brigid and Eire take a drink each and a pair of wraps. Quaani grabs the whole plate, taking the rest of the twenty centimetre stack of food. ¡°Are you still having trouble getting enough calories, Quaani.¡± ¡°My mutations are less benign than they used to be,¡± Quaani sighs. ¡°The auto sanguine keeps me whole and healthy but the amount of food I need keeps growing as the implant¡¯s activity increases. I would have thought such things only happened with great exposure yet we have not made a warp jump in over a decade and my body continues to change. I worry, but there is little to do about it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll find a way, Quaani. The knowledge is out there somewhere.¡± ¡°I know. I wish my house had kept it aboard the Distant Sun though.¡± ¡°It was probably in the implants that were destroyed within the other navigators of the vessel. Were I to offer enough resources, we should be able to get what we need from other vessels.¡± ¡°How long until we leave Marwolv?¡± Quaani consumes a wrap in two bites. ¡°Eight to twelve years, I should think. The Iron Crane will be complete and Marwolv will have had its industry and knowledge restored to self-sustaining levels. Enough to deal with the tau, so long as they do not slack.¡± ¡°We will not wipe them out before we go?¡± ¡°I will not spill blood unless I have to. The choices that result in the least death, suffering, destructive change, and pain are where I like to power my chips.¡± I frown, "If the galaxy will let me, that is." ¡°I understand.¡± Quaani raises an eyebrow. ¡°There¡¯s always the chance the tau could integrate with the Imperium too.¡± ¡°That would take a miracle,¡± I chuckle, ¡°and the Emperor is parsimonious with his. I dare say we could tip the scales if we eliminate the ethereals though.¡± ¡°A new goal then, before we depart.¡± I nod, slowly, "Yeah, that would be for the best. No need for hope to transition into stupidity." ¡°There was a lot I did not understand in that exchange, Lord Captain,¡± says Eire. ¡°Is it something Purser Brataich and I need to know?¡± ¡°There are plenty of things I¡¯d rather be in ignorance of and the reasons underpinning my engagement protocols are one of them. First Officer Eire Lobhdain, with your rank it is permitted, if discouraged, and necessary for you to know more of the warp and its entities. I will explain it to you, without giving names, another day. ¡°Purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich, you do not need to know and do not have the rank to request the knowledge, so I will not tell you. Knowledge on ethereals is less critical, unconfirmed, and, to my knowledge, unrestricted. I will explain ethereals to both you, and First Officer Lobhdain, should you wish, so long as you keep the knowledge to personnel between ranks one, that¡¯s me, and four, the lowest primary commanding officers, that¡¯s you, Purser Brataich.¡± ¡°What rank does the First Officer come under?¡± says Quaani. ¡°I am second rank, navigator Quaani,¡± says Eire. ¡°You would be third rank, navigator, as the ship¡¯s navigator primaris and warp guide.¡± ¡°Ah, now I remember,¡± says Quaani. ¡°My tutor did explain it before I went into stasis, and after I came out, it¡¯s always been Aldrich and I, so it wasn¡¯t important and I forgot about it.¡± A recording of a pair of meditation cymbals clashing resonates through the air with a calm tone. ¡°Let¡¯s get back to our seats,¡± I say. ¡°Yes, Lord Captain,¡± says Eire. We return to the table and get comfortable. A minute later, Aileen restarts the meeting and Thorfinn stands up. ¡°I¡¯ve been working with logis Feidelm Gunn and, based on the extent of the tau¡¯s facilities and how long they¡¯ve been here, we think it will take them two years to clear their damaged domes and six to restore their industrial and research capacity. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°Throughout this period they will continue to have limited strike capabilities, with a return to full military might within the decade. Their main restrictions are their training time and minimal population. ¡°The advanced technology they wield, when destroyed so extensively, makes restoration more challenging; we speculate their earth caste are hard to replace and drones, like servitors, are limited in their labour saving capacity. There is only so much time one can cut.¡± I nod. That reminds me of my own troubles with Marwolv, building out and staffing new orbital infrastructure and my initial efforts getting the Distant Sun functional. Thorfinn continues, ¡°From our raid, we know they could boost their population with rapid clones, or exo-wombs. Having witnessed the destruction caused by warp entities, they may also try to discover a way to deliberately trigger such phenomena, sowing chaos on Marwolv and disrupting our plans without significantly impacting their own resources. ¡°As such, I propose we coordinate with the Marwolv Clubhouse to monitor for warp breaches and other immaterial turbulence as well as step up our monitoring efforts within the oceans. ¡°If possible, I would like to besiege the tau¡¯s city, limiting their resource recovery and increasing the resources they must spend to strike us.¡± ¡°Thank you for your analysis and proposal, Master-at-Arms Thorfinn,¡± says Aileen. ¡°I believe, however, that while favoured, such a proposal is beyond the scope of an after action review. ¡°From your work, we can summarise that we have, at minimum, two years to restore and improve our forces with the changes we have discussed today and should seek to strike again within the next five. Is this correct?¡± Thorfinn grimaces, then sighs, ¡°You make a reasonable point, Headmaster, and yes, that is, as far as we know, our timetable.¡± ¡°Wonderful,¡± says Aileen. ¡°Is there anyone else who would like to speak before we bring this meeting to a close?¡± Brigid and I raise our hands. ¡°Magos?¡± says Aileen. ¡°Two items. As equipment improvements are limited I am going to look into extending the implants available to all personnel. The mechanicus do have the capability to create cyborg troops called skitarii. I am not fond of how dehumanising the process is and will take a different approach; cutting out one¡¯s humanity to defend it better is a self-destructive philosophy. ¡°Second, I am going to re-examine the Marwolv pattern lasgun. It performed well, I would, however, like to make its range extension a removable module and add better power controls. There is no need to always run at max power, and burn out components faster, when a standard lasgun shot is sufficient. Adding variable fire options, such as a burst shot, might help balance penetration and component longevity. ¡°It is consistent fire in a single spot that breaches armour and full-auto is wasteful. Making grouping shots as easy as possible should help with penetration, and variable power and range should let users economise their weapons between covering fire, assaults, and killshots.¡± ¡°No telling how that will turn out until it¡¯s tested,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°It does sound like a welcome addition to our kit though.¡± Maeve shakes her head, ¡°Many options is a good thing, having more to think about isn¡¯t. Keep it simple please, Magos. Better yet, have a machine-spirit choose based on range, speed and target recognition with a redundant manual option.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll consider all options and philosophies, Maeve. Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention before I start drafting.¡± ¡°Always a pleasure, Magos,¡± says Maeve. Aileen flicks his gaze at us, then gestures to Brigid, ¡°Purser Brataich, please convey your concerns.¡± ¡°Thank you, Headmaster. The logis auditors and their servitors have completed their assessment of the Distant Sun and Omnissiah¡¯s Erudition. With the exception of a few items, most of it is beyond the scope of today¡¯s meeting. These items include three wrecked mobile knight armours. ¡°Would the restoration of these units fill the niche Commander Muire was searching for?¡± ¡°What are knights?¡± says Maeve. I can¡¯t believe I forgot about those! I suppose an eidetic memory is useless if you don¡¯t bother looking at the data stored within. To think, when I first laid my eyes on those knights, I criticised the previous crew for leaving them to rot in the hold. A command to my nanites stops me from blushing and I keep a thought stream with a blank expression while another three stop what they are doing to swear like a sparky. R¨®is¨ªn waves her hand and two mechadendrites. Aileen chuckles, ¡°Go ahead, Adept Paorach.¡± ¡°Knights are humanoid tanks with a single pilot, similar in function and role to the larger tau battlesuits. They vary in size from nine to twelve metres. The pilots are raised from birth and directly communicate with the machine-spirit of their knight via the throne mechanicum, a device similar to the command throne and navigator throne used on void ships, or the suspension tanks on a titan. ¡°All of these thrones are based on the Golden Throne of Holy Terra, though given some knight houses predate the Golden Throne, this comparison is suspect. ¡°Fielding knights is usually the domain of knight houses, families who raise pilots for generations and often have governance over worlds called knight worlds, running a social structure based on nobility. Piloting a knight requires specific genetic markers, a bright mind, and a strong will, lest their thoughts be consumed by the machine-spirit they seek to master. ¡°There is a vast amount of political nuance between knight factions and they have their own political structure within the Imperium. Most give their loyalty to either the Imperium or the Mechanicus, though there are some independent knights called freeblades. These are usually the last surviving member of their house. ¡°To field and raise knights we will have to acquire a Sanctuary containing a Communion Dome where knights undergo the Ritual of Becoming, where they imprint on the throne mechanicum of their knight suit, and the Ritual of Joining, where the throne mechanicum merges with the knight and is loaded onto the knight suit. ¡°A knight can run up to one hundred and ten kilometres per hour across uneven terrain, shrug off anti-vehicle weapons with its ion shield, and, with the right tactics and terrain, eliminate tanks and infantry with impunity. ¡°Like all excessively capable military hardware, knights are exceptionally difficult to build, maintain, and pilot. Establishing such a unit would likely take twenty years or more and we will need to acquire several vital STCs to do so, then build the supporting infrastructure.¡± ¡°Thank you, Adept Paorach,¡± says Aileen. ¡°I think that is enough for us to understand the situation. ¡°Ah! Yes, of course. I am happy to answer further questions on the subject at any time.¡± Maeve taps her finger on the table, ¡°I have one. Why are there knights on the Distant Sun if the supporting structures and data are absent?¡± Brigid checks her data slate and sighs, ¡°We have no idea, Commander Muire. All records of the knights are absent. We suspect skulduggery, perhaps they are stolen or smuggled, but as all the culprits are dead, this issue is, for now, unimportant.¡± ¡°Even Aruna doesn¡¯t know?¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°It does not,¡± says Brigid, ¡°Or at least, didn¡¯t bother to answer my query.¡± ¡°Well, at least you tried?¡± says Thofinn. Brigid snorts, ¡°It appears the knights are not as suitable as I hoped. I have no further pressing issues.¡± ¡°Then let us bring this meeting to a close. This is Headmaster Aileen Nan Sop of the Marwolv psy-errants. The after action review of Operation Sea Mither is complete. Please terminate the recording, Junior enginseer Paorach.¡± ¡°Recording has now ceased, Headmaster.¡± ¡°Thank you, Adept Paorach. To everyone else, well,¡± he smiles, ¡°I¡¯d tell you to get back to work, but you wouldn¡¯t be at this table if you needed prompting. Thank you for a smooth meeting. I didn¡¯t have to comb a single feather.¡± I stand and approach Aileen as he pushes his chair back and rises to his feet. ¡°Thanks, Aileen. You kept this as painless as possible.¡± I shake Aileen¡¯s hand. ¡°No problem at all, Aldrich. If you need someone to talk to, I am willing to listen.¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯d appreciate that. Watching Thorfinn get drunk is a good laugh, but it¡¯s not the right place to air some grievances.¡± Aileen nods slowly, ¡°Bad Penny?¡± I keep my face straight. ¡°Yes, those immaterial entities do tend to linger.¡± Plumbers make the best shit jokes. Chapter Fifty-Eight Lounging in the captain¡¯s quarters on the Erudition¡¯s Howl, I blast towards the industrial facilities around the hot gas giant, a journey of approximately nine hours at one gravity per second, per second. The Distant Sun remains above Marwolv, ever ready to strike the tau and glass the planet if a psyker implodes into a warp portal. Today is X596.030.M42, or 6 August 41030, two years since Operation Sea Mither and twelve years since I arrived on Marwolv. Time in this twisted galaxy is hard to measure. It may be X596.030.M42 on Marwolv, but visit another system, especially one near the Great Rift, or the Eye of Terror, two massive breaches in the materium where the warp bleeds over, and the date could go a millennia either way. I can only keep track of my personal time and, by my best reckoning, today marks twenty years since I woke up. The Imperium squabbles over what date it is, keeping a local time as well as marking the beginning of the forty second millennium from when the light of the Great Rift, or Cicatrix Maledictum, reaches their system¡¯s star. Unsurprisingly, these dates rarely match, making decent administration an improbability and a proper timeline an impossibility. This issue is compounded by the two methods by which the Imperium communicates: void ships and astropaths. Whether information travels on scrolls and datachips or through sharing dreams through immaterium, both methods require access to a realm filled with the most pernicious enemies of Man who can intercept and distort information at will. That anything functions at all is an absolute miracle, one likely fueled by the sacrifice of thousands of psykers to the Emperor every day. The Koronus Expanse, where I am, is too far for such blessings, the Emperor¡¯s light is weak and flickering, and often non-existent, cut down by distance and the Great Rift. Demons can manifest more easily, psykers are less prone to persecution and breed unchecked, and navigators struggle to path safe passages through the warp. These are the threats and challenges I must keep in mind day after day, year after year. Today, however, I have cast these concerns aside as I rewatch the messages from my family, enjoy ancient terran TV, music, games, and internet. It¡¯s become a yearly tradition for me, even if it does refresh my dislike for the man who married my wife and renew my appreciation for him properly caring for my children when I could not. Screw you Graham! I sip some amasec and raise my glass to the shrine in my quarters, and thanks, you annoyingly genuine fucker. Eventually, I fall asleep, a rare state these days as I am far too busy. I enjoy a close analogue to an English breakfast, sourced from Marwolv, though the recaf is as disappointing as it always is. With my sleep, and possibly my only meal for the next month being rapidly disassembled in my industrial grade stomach, I open the flood of messages and return to work. Tau activity is minimal, though their operations are now spread throughout the system and much harder to track or aggregate actionable data from. The Iron Crane is fifty-four percent complete and its machine-spirit, Sadako, has been awakened. It has only been aware for two weeks and is still configuring, though it has chosen its avatar, a swarm of origami cranes shaped from gold wire and cut glass that amalgamate into a young girl whenever it chooses to speak and otherwise flit around the vessel like a swarm of butterflies. Distant Sun and Aruna have no pressing concerns. Erudition¡¯s Howl, however, and its replacement machine-spirit, an anthropomorphic fox fond of Victorian formal wear, has sent me a to-do list written in poetry signed: ¡®Lord Beryllium¡¯. I had intended to tour my new moth-class mining ships, Voracious Light and Hazy Meditations, but the list it sent me contains a worryingly long obituary for servitors. Gathering my tools and weapons I head to the bowels of the ship on a troubleshooting mission. I created the mining ships from the platforms that were planned as a gas mining satellite and a material synthesis station from the ¡®Shipping Container¡¯ STC and then downsized to save resources and time. The design was a collaborative work between E-SIM, Aruna, and I taking the hull template of the Distant Sun and shrinking it massively, then using a fraction of the material processing machinery from the original satellite designs, and using miniaturised components adjusted from the Iron Crane. Originally the satellites were structures the size of the Federation research station that I was revived on. Now they are a new class of ship the size of a viper-class scout sloop, the Imperium¡¯s smallest void capable ship at zero point nine-five kilometres long and zero point two-five kilometres abeam. The moth class are monitor ships, with most of the space usually required for the warp drive, high speed thrusters, and sensors replaced with storage and processing machinery. They¡¯re small enough to fit inside the Iron Crane, so it will be much easier to take them with me when I go, rather than towing massive structures through the warp, or leaving vital fleet infrastructure at Marwolv. When their collection machinery is deployed they look like lionfish, though the rest of the time they are more like a miniature version of a lathe-class light cruiser. The downside is their capacity. For example, the Hazy Meditations, my cloud miner, can hold fifty thousand cubic metres of metallic hydrogen pellets, one of the Distant Sun¡¯s main fuels which takes up one percent of the Distant Sun by volume. Zero point five percent goes to lithium, atomics, and other fuels while three point five percent of the Distant Sun is filled with tanks containing super-critical and hyper compressed water used as reaction mass for the thrusters, or heavy water if hydrogen pellets are scarce. The water tanks are even more armoured than the macro-cannon ammunition storage. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Fifty thousand cubic metres might sound like a lot, but it¡¯s only zero point three percent of the Distant Sun¡¯s hydrogen capacity and it takes a month to fill, manufacture, and transfer the fuel from Hazy Meditations to Distant Sun. In orbit, and without the weapon¡¯s firing or stressing the void shields, I can get decades of power from a single trip of the Hazy Meditations. Run the ship at full capacity, and a full tank will get me fifty years and a score of engagements. From full to empty it will take the Hazy Meditations almost twenty eight years to fill the Distant Sun at the current rate, not including the reaction mass for the thrusters, or mining atomics. I also still have to fill up the Iron Crane, as well as fuel Erudition''s Howl and Voracious Light. The Iron Crane is six point six two five times the volume of the Distant Sun and stores, proportionally, a similar amount of fuel. With its launch date approaching I have become increasingly concerned about how I¡¯m going to get the Iron Crane out of the yard under its own power. Fortunately, all the ships are capable of collecting their own fuel, so it¡¯s not a complete disaster, but they¡¯re not as fast at it as a specialised vessel and can¡¯t make the hydrogen pellets in a speedy time frame like Hazy Meditations, or synthesise warp engine fuel like Voracious Sun, without rare ores. Also, I need my bigger void ships for other tasks, like Marwolv overwatch, or transporting ore from the Kuiper belt, which is part of why I travelled here, as I want to build two more moth-class mining ships as there is little point in having the established minor shipyards run idle now the vessels are mostly complete. I¡¯m also delivering two crews to these two new vessels, who will be assembling the horrifyingly complex machinery at the heart of these specialised mining monitor ships. Tooling up to build this machinery literally took me nine years and another three to manufacture it. These moth-class ships are about as difficult to construct as the Iron Crane, requiring a similar quantity of rare elements. Being able to synthesise rare elements instead with the Voracious Light is going to accelerate my production speed drastically. If some careless twit drops this refining equipment they¡¯re going out the airlock in their tighty-whities. At last I reach Erudition''s Howl¡¯s bilge deck, or #K2/-2/Q4. This is the lowest and least visited deck on the ship, underneath the main engines and is the same area I found the mutants in, mutants I am yet to fix. This area is all storage. There are a lot of atomics down here and the area is heavily irradiated. Many rooms are filled with junk, waiting to be recycled, or tanks of water too foul to go through normal processing and too heavily laden with precious elements to dispose of. On the Distant Sun, areas like this have all been restored, but the Erudition''s Howl has been too busy collecting resources with the D-POTs to be fully restored, nor do I have the spare industrial capacity to do so. As I trudge through the darkness, Brian floats overhead, scanning broken components and tapping failed lumen bulbs. The servo skull constantly trills in distress. I open each room and navigate around massive tanks and rusted junk, looking for the hazard that killed sixty-two, lemming-like servitors. The more I look about, the less I am surprised I¡¯ve lost so many. There are damaged wires, loose plasma conduits, and hazardous chemicals in every room and corridor. While my servitors do have mesh suits and exoskeletons, as well as a diverse set of cyberware to increase their intelligence and survivability, I will have to assign the ones in pressure carapace, the same servitors that I use on space walks, for areas of the vessel as bad as this. Still, there are no signs of them and the standard servitors should have been enough to at least change the lightbulbs and they are smart enough not to trip on live wires or walk through spewing plasma. Feeling uneasy, I direct my servo-harness to pass me my souped-up pipe. The powerfield hums to life as I grab the shaft in my armoured hands and I hold the pipe in front of my chest, taking care not to let the smashing end touch anything, especially myself. A third of the way through the rooms, I find a tank that¡¯s burst open. Black ooze cakes the floor and the tank has been stuffed with bits of servitors. ¡°Did I miss some of the mutants?¡± I mutter. I continue my patrol and request the support of the trainee twist catchers. There are only six on Erudition''s Howl and, while this was flagged as a maintenance issue, they should be patrolling down here and clearly haven¡¯t. As I leave the room, my armour drags my attention upwards and the servo-clamp on my back lashes out catching a falling creature around its torso. Mechadendrites curl around its thrashing limbs and present the subdued organism in front of me. ¡°Thanks for the save.¡± A golden dragon twirls in my vision then disappears. The creature is pale grey and humanoid with four long limbs, large hands and feet, and short, sharp claws. Its face resembles a human, crossed with a bat, with an upturned nose and wrinkly face. Large black eyes and pointed, wide ears stare at me as it struggles and spits. A wide mouth full of long, needle-like teeth hisses at me. Keen to find out what exactly is on my ship, I direct a mechadendrite to pierce the creature¡¯s jugular and let it bleed out, keeping the corpse intact enough to study. More creatures crawl from the dark and attack. The servo-clamp holds onto the body and I swing my pipe, pulping the chest of a lunging creature. The powerfield disintegrates its wiry flesh and thick skin spraying a red mist into the air. My upgraded strength pulls me off balance and I stumble into the dying creature, barely avoiding putting my pipe through my own foot. Sharp claws and heavy limbs scrabble on my armour and try to pull me to the floor and I backhand a creature, bursting its skull. Lunging forward, I regain my balance and gather my wits, taking count of my enemies. Twenty-nine creatures surround me in a circle, closing and retreating as I turn from side to side. Snorting, I direct my flamer behind me in a wide sweep, bathing eleven of them in purifying flame. Their flesh backens and bubbles and the intense heat kills them before they can even cry out. I assign targets and the hellfire pistol on my shoulder launches pencil sized energy beams at the remaining creatures to my back. I charge forward. Mechadendrites trip up my enemies and I stomp on them as I break their encirclement and cut right, killing another with a swing of my crackling pipe. As I raise my arms for another strike, an explosion hits my chest and I am knocked back. E-SIM and my armour flood me with data, highlighting a creature lurking on the top of a tank to my left, pointing a bolt pistol at me. My conversion field dissipates the next two shots and before my hellfire pistol can take out the creature it gets in a fourth that punches through my shield and into my armour. The ancient rounds are potent; my armour cracks and I can feel the heat of the explosive as it scorches my hyperweave undersuit. Nanites seep from my skin and into my armour, gradually repairing the breach. Finally my hellfire pistol blasts the pale miscreant and it collapses. Feeling foolish for not taking this fight seriously, I finish off the creatures in front of me while my servo harness and hellfire pistol dispose of the remaining creatures, though not before eight of them managed to flee into the rusting depths. I secure the bolt pistol and direct Brian to track down the fleeing creatures. Chapter Fifty-Nine I examine the bolt pistol. It¡¯s a Hesh Pattern M38 Mark II, a bolt pistol with a drum magazine and a high rate of fire that¡¯s challenging enough to maintain only tech-priests bother with it. I¡¯m rather glad of its malfunction prone nature as the magazine has seven of twenty rounds remaining and could have easily disabled me. If those rounds had hit my Warp and Weft module, or disabled my external nanite capabilities in some other way I would have been eaten alive. I really should have known better than to wade into the depths of a void ship without escort, even if it is supposed to be clear. I maglock the pistol to my leg and return to the lift to meet the twist catchers. Six individuals in pressure carapace and psychic hoods step out from the lift, gripping their weapons hard enough I can hear the squeaking. MOA shields rest on their backs. The sergeant, a man holding a force axe and a hellfire pistol steps forward and salutes me. ¡°Magos we are here as requested,¡± he voxes. ¡°Good, why haven¡¯t you come down here before.¡± ¡°The radiation is a little high for us. We can¡¯t visit for more than fifteen minutes every three months, Magos.¡± ¡°Ah, that explains a lot. You boys are lucky. I guess the twist catchers will be getting power armour after all. I¡¯ll make sure you get priority for implants as well. Do you have biomancy, sergeant?¡± ¡°No Magos, I was chosen for telepathy and warpfire.¡± ¡°A reasonable set of skills for your job, still, no bypassing the radiation for you.¡± I glance at the other soldiers. They carry two flamers, three Marwolv pattern lasguns, and five phosphex pistols as well as an assortment of grenades and other vital equipment. ¡°I guess I will have to do this without support after all. I¡¯m never travelling without kataphrons again,¡± I sigh. ¡°Thank you for coming down here. While this is, in part, my mistake, if you don¡¯t have the equipment to do the job, report it. Neglected areas of the ship are where you are needed, after all. I¡¯ll have a tech-priest assigned to each twist catcher squad as well, so they can report on work that needs doing and help maintain your gear.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Would a demonstration of our procedures in the time we have remaining be informative?¡± ¡°Alright, let''s see what you lot can do. I¡¯ll highlight the rooms I¡¯ve already visited on your HUDs. You can leave those alone. Watch out for aggressive hominoids. Five minutes out, five minutes back. Go!¡± The twist catchers take off at a jog, their shoulder mounted and weapon mounted torches illuminating the darkness. They cover each other well, and unlike me, remember to look up. I follow them, and they soon come across the greatest nemesis of any dungeon diving group: doors. Without the proper protections, the machine-spirits refuse to let the twist catchers into the irradiated rooms without an override from me. I see no reason to change this policy, but it''s going to take a proper expedition down here to fix the issues. The twist catchers clear two rooms, killing five more creatures, then return to the lift. ¡°Good work. Make sure you all write up a proper report and include everything you thought you saw and think should be done. Don¡¯t corroborate. I want everyone¡¯s raw opinion. Your direct superior should read them through and fix everything or pass it up the chain. ¡°Meanwhile, sergeant, I am going to send a one time noosphere address to your data pad that you can use to contact me if proper work down here isn¡¯t being done at a satisfactory pace. Twist catcher work is even more vital than I thought it was, so don¡¯t fuck up and good luck.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Thank you for your aid.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome. Now get out of here and go to the medicae deck.¡± I pass him the intact creature corpse, ¡°A servitor will meet you there. Hand the corpse to it.¡± The sergeant salutes, ¡°Magos.¡± The twist catchers depart, I continue to sweep the deck, clearing two dens and noting some worrying holes in the panelling over the next five hours. This isn¡¯t how I thought my day would go at all! Once I am sure I have chased the creatures back to whatever holes they crawled from, I take a shuttle to the new moth-class ships and carry out my inspections. There isn¡¯t much to do other than look about as the new officers have everything well in hand, transferring material and personnel without fuss or major error. I do, however, spend a pleasant hour staring at the gas giant from the observation deck, a great blue beastie with three major accretion disks and seventy-two moons of varying size, with Marwolv being the largest and the only one with life. Despite the beauty, I am unsettled. There is always some looming threat in the 40K verse, and, to my knowledge, I am aware of all the immediate threats to my growing fleet, yet urgency strikes me. It is time to move on from Marwolv. A rogue trader, self-stylized or not, should be travelling, not pinned to one location, yet without this time of rest, travelling the void and its immaterial counterpart is almost suicidal. The contrast frustrates me. Once the transfers are complete, I return to the command throne and direct Erudition''s Howl to Marwolv, hoping I can finish my great works before fate strikes once again. I take the corpse to the Dimpsy Fortress research hospital on Marwolv for autopsy, hoping an example of the terrors between the stars will be a good learning experience for the medicae. In a clean, white tiled room, surrounded by trainees and trays of tools, I dismantle the creature. Samples are passed to the trainees who run them through the advanced DNA sequencing machines and other tools. The lead trainee, a twenty-three year old male called Duncan ¡®Gwen¡¯ Ceallaigh, looks up from her datapad then straightens her protective, full body suit. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°Magos, this organism is human in origin and we have a match on the imperial database.¡± ¡°You¡¯re joking.¡± ¡°No Magos. This is a hullghast, the most debased mutant and cannibal species known, descended from homo sapiens. They are highly resistant to toxins, radiation, and other extreme environmental hazards. There is a specific note warning not to try poisoning them as they are highly adaptable and it only works once, so if it doesn¡¯t kill them off, they end up even more difficult to kill. ¡°Hullghasts are a further mutation of Ghilliam, voidship crew who are abandoned on the lower decks for excessive mutation and too far gone that even the mutants you have in stasis cannot deal with.¡± ¡°Thank you, Gwen.¡± I fold my arms and my mechadendrites mimic me, ¡°Why not kill them in the first place?¡± No one answers, then a junior trainee shuffles uneasily. ¡°You have something to share, Brianna?¡± I say. ¡°Ah, Magos, most people can¡¯t, ah, dispose of their kids. Abandoning one in a dark hallway is a little easier though. Out of sight, out of mind, I imagine.¡± I grimace, ¡°I see. This isn¡¯t the lesson I hoped for, but a valuable one nonetheless. We will have to ensure all women are comfortable using our medical facilities, no matter the state of their baby.¡± Gwen raises her hand. ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°Perhaps fixing the mutants sooner rather than later, Magos, might inspire desperate mothers that just because they birth a monster, they are not one themselves. They are much more likely to come for help if there are working examples of rehabilitation, or feel safe enough from prosecution they can get an abortion if they want one.¡± I nod, ¡°The mutant project has been postponed for long enough. Congratulations, you¡¯ve all volunteered for the task.¡± There are a few quiet chuckles. ¡°For now, we will finish the autopsy then gather and grow samples. Their environmental resistance and rapid adaptation sounds handy.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no way it will be that easy, Magos.¡± ¡°I know Gwen, but we have to start somewhere.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± The following month sees no progress on the mutant issue and it will likely be another year just to manufacture the first six power armours for the thirty twist catchers we have in training. The power armour designs are not compatible with the microfactories as they are assembled from too many piecemeal STC fragments, an issue I hope to solve after completing my mark two of the Marwolv pattern lasgun. I continue to hop between locations and tasks. While I have ten minds working at blistering speeds, and tens of thousands of servitors working as additional hands and feet, some tasks require a personal touch, once of which is maintaining my charade as a dedicated member of the machine cult. As I kneel before the altar in the auto-temple a tall, well aged man in his sixties joins me in prayer. He wears black, martial vestments with gold trim over his hyperweave suit with a sliver, double-headed eagle pin on his stiff collar. I¡¯ve never seen him before and my HUD identifies him as Owen Broin, chaplain, Imperial Cult. What hole did he crawl from? I stand and lean over his shoulder, ¡°When you are done with your prayers, please come and talk to me. I will look at the archeotech displays while I wait.¡± ¡°Agreed, Magos. It¡¯s about time we had a chat.¡± Did he have to sound so bloody ominous or is it that I naturally find religion an uncomfortable subject? Perhaps I have a guilty conscience! Twenty minutes later, Owen approaches me and holds out his hand. ¡°Owen Broin, pleased to meet you, Magos Issengrund.¡± ¡°Likewise, chaplain Broin.¡± ¡°Owen is fine, Magos.¡± ¡°Then Aldrich will do for me, so long as we are in an unofficial setting.¡± ¡°I think that¡¯s something we can both agree to. I do prefer it when it is easy to tell between official and unofficial discussions.¡± I chuckle, ¡°A priest, with shady dealings?¡± ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I meant and you know it, but such things are to be expected, yes? I have been studying hard and the Imperial Cult is a diverse and vast political entity with its own military and social power. Like any other influential structure, these things do not happen by accident, but rather because of them, no matter what is preached from a good book.¡± ¡°Is that your angle, for appointing yourself to the faith?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t get to the top by being nice, Magos, but by clambering over your peers and climbing up a mountain of corpses. I do want the power and authority that the Imperial Cult brings, but ultimately, a chaplain is a guide, you can¡¯t do a good job if you don¡¯t genuinely want to help people and you can¡¯t keep your job, or at least progress up the chain, if you¡¯re shit at it.¡± I drum my armoured fingers against my forearm and stare down at Owen. ¡°I don¡¯t object to a practical, self-serving philosophy. The crew requires chaplains and I am happy to let someone take that role. You have the benefit of being the first to jump on it and, for now, I see no reason why a proactive man like yourself cannot take up the leading role.¡± Owen¡¯s shoulders drop a little, ¡°Thank you, Magos.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t go playing with the sacred oils just yet, Owen. I¡¯m not that easy. I have a philosophy of my own to share.¡± Owen¡¯s eyes go wide, then he covers his mouth with his hands, trying to hide a snicker, ¡°Please, Magos. What are your expectations?¡± ¡°Tell me a little bit about yourself first, Owen. The only way you got on this vessel is if you have undergone at least six months of intensive study to be a tech-priest. What did you do before you came here? How and why did you manage to swap roles, or get those vestments?¡± ¡°I was a school teacher and, thanks to your meddling, I am no longer qualified for my job. One is never too old to learn something new and, if I want to keep teaching, that is what I have to do. I¡¯ve been learning from the other adepts but, to me, machines are lifeless tools. Magnificent, wonderous tools to be sure, but they''re not people. While I can appreciate the ingenuity of man, I do not have it in me to mumble technical manuals by rote, as if they are a prayer.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°I wanted to understand more. Why do we do things that way? Why are the underpinnings of reality worthy of prayer? I am a history teacher, and so, I turned to your records, and there, I discovered the Imperial Cult. It is mentioned in the technical lessons, but only as a side note, the discarded twin of the Cult Mechanicus. ¡°Your records were much more thorough, though somewhat unfocused and scathing in their tone. There I read of the Emperor and his grand works, his great crusade, and the rise and sundering of the Imperium of Man, as well as his loyal followers who came to worship him for his unimaginable mystic might. ¡°While the Emperor, in doctrine, is deemed the avatar of the motive force, the Cult Mechanicus¡¯ primary spirit, the Imperial Cult worships him directly, a god of man by right of power, conquest, and foresight. ¡°If I am to give my faith and loyalty to an individual, it will not be through some nebulous spirit of knowledge, but to a visible individual with the weight of their deeds to uphold their right to my dedication.¡± ¡°Then why worship anyone, or anything, at all?¡± ¡°I live on a planet of psykers, Aldrich. We need all the miracles we can get.¡± I nod, ¡°The Emperor protects.¡± ¡°I bloody well hope so. I sure as shit don¡¯t spend hours on my knees for pleasure.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve spent much time putting your thoughts in order. I may stand on the other side of the faith, with my dedication to the Machine God, but I don¡¯t object to your views. Now, my other questions?¡± Chapter Sixty ¡°You mean my vestments and how I assigned myself as a chaplain?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°I¡¯m still undergoing my tech-adept courses, so I haven¡¯t had to drop anything that would make me stand out. I will be a crew member on a void ship, listening to the troubles of the crew. How am I supposed to relate to them if I cannot even follow their conversations? What should I do in an emergency? How do I use all the gadgets and machinery, or even navigate the vessel? ¡°Not learning this information is foolish at best, suicidal at worst. I may not be attuned to the motive force, but that does not stop me from moving my hands, or speaking the words and these are skills that will help me survive and, perhaps one day, continue to teach. ¡°As for the vestments, I just filled out the right forms and they were made available to pick up in the auto-temple. As for being a chaplain, there was an open position, I applied for it and was immediately assigned the role by the Distant Sun¡¯s machine-spirit.¡± I have a thought-stream double-check what Owen has told me and it checks out. ¡°That is fabulously mundane. I¡¯m glad the systems in place are working properly, even if the circumstances are a little unconventional. We only have small shrines for the Imperial Cult as this is a mechanicus vessel. There is a proper temple on the Iron Crane though. I may have you transferred at some point once you are a competent tech-adept. ¡°As for my own philosophy, once you pass your basic tech-adept course, I expect you to not only learn your imperial history and Imperial Cult doctrine, but also earn a basic medicae certification, which will then let you progress into learning psychology. ¡°Confessions are for the mental health of the crew and I expect you to be properly trained in it, even if you have to learn it yourself from the databases. The interactive learning courses on your datapad can teach, test and qualify you. The same standards will apply to all chaplains and I intend to recruit a lot of you. The void is not for the faint of heart and everyone will need all the support they can get. ¡°As for how this benefits you, getting ahead now will mean you have a greater chance to lead the Imperial Cult within the fleet and the more qualifications you have the more I will pay you and the more resources I can justify being assigned to you, increasing your survivability and your longevity. Is this agreeable? Fulfilling work, responsibility, and social influence in exchange for loyalty, longevity, and security?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a decade of learning, I¡¯ll be seventy-four before I even make the cut!¡± ¡°With my aid you will make it to four-hundred before your body fails you, a millennia if you turn to cybernetics.¡± ¡°Truely?¡± ¡°Yes, but you won¡¯t be able to afford such treatments without those qualifications and the pay rise that goes with them. You have to be important to remain important.¡± ¡°Alright, I get it. What a crazy offer.¡± I stare down at him, ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡± ¡°Oh yeah, thanks Aldrich.¡± ¡°Good bye, Owen. Keep up that initiative,¡± I shake his hand again. ¡°See you again, Aldrich.¡± I leave the auto-temple and a pale and shaky chaplain to his ruminations. I¡¯ll have no zealot priests in my fleet, only scholars and skilled doctors. Another two months pass without a major incident then I receive an unpleasant call from headmaster Aileen Nan Sop and rush groundside on the thunderhawk and land in a park. Two kataphrons and thirty guardsmen accompany me. A chimera, one converted to wheels rather than tracks and with no dozer blade, meets me at the park and the driver rushes me through Mormaer Caedmon, a city four hundred kilometres from Dimpsy Fortress to a theatre. I exit the chimera and stand in front of the building, flanked by two kataphrons and six guardsmen. The rest remained at the thunderhawk. The theatre is a series of large, interconnected domes, resting on rounded stone plinths. The domes are laminated and treated wood. Marwolv timber contains significant metal content and, while heavier than terran timber, is almost impossible to burn. Seeing the domes black and smouldering and their delicate glass windows shattered is an unwelcome surprise. ++Aldrich, there is significant residue from the immaterium present. I cannot detect any demonic taint. The fire was warp based.++ Aileen exits from the charred entrance and descends the steps. He¡¯s wearing the arbites armour I gifted him. It isn¡¯t powered like my heavy infantry carapace armour as that interferes with Aileen¡¯s biomancy. ¡°Good day, Aldrich. Thank you for coming so swiftly.¡± ¡°No problem. I appreciate you informing me.¡± ¡°This is the largest incident we¡¯ve had in over twenty years and I¡¯m not sure what to make of it. I¡¯m hoping your tools and greater breadth of knowledge will chase away my uncertainties.¡± We shake hands. ¡°Lead on and tell me what you¡¯ve discovered.¡± I have the kataphron follow me in. Five guardsmen join the psy-errants securing the theatre and the sergeant marches to my right, constantly looking about. ¡°This is what remains of the Mormaer Caedmon Grand Theatre. It was founded a hundred and seventy years ago by a small, if rather rebellious group of my students. I was only a teacher at the time and I am saddened to see their legacy charred and dispoiled.¡± This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. I did not know he was that old. I knew Aileen¡¯s biomancy was good, but staving off old age while contending with the corruption of the warp is a phenomenal achievement. Aileen points at the ruined carvings on the ceiling, ¡°They actually crafted those decorations by returning the wood to life and growing it in the shapes they desired. An echo of their skill and enthusiasm remains within their work. Perhaps with a small spark?¡± He raises his hand, shedding enough power my gellar field shimmers over my power armour like a soap bubble. The air frosts and ice creeps over the ceiling, then melts and drips, evaporating before it can hit the floor. The carvings grow and bloom, shedding petals that swirl through the air then turn to dust, leaving fine wood and a gentle scent in the air. ¡°I have never been fond of destruction. Perhaps now there is a chance their efforts will bring peace and laughter once again.¡± ¡°That was remarkable. I¡¯ve never seen an imperial psyker, but I have no records of psykers who can perform a feat like that. The eldar, though, are fond of such skills.¡± ¡°They train for war, no? There is no beauty in that. How can one find the inner peace to cast aside the doubts and whispers if all they see and create is death?¡± I grimace, ¡°Discipline and pain.¡± ¡°How limiting,¡± Aileen scoffs. ¡°There is an example of where that leads ahead. Brace yourself.¡± We enter the auditorium. The sergeant and the kataphrons remain by the door while Aileen and I head to the centre of the room. Rows of ascending seats fill much of the space, arranged in a circle. Twenty private boxes jut from the walls. At the base of the slope is a circular platform, fifteen metres across. An altar, built from the stripped, pink bones of the audience, festers in the centre of the platform. Runes, painted in blood and treated with something to keep it fresh and bright have been daubed all over the platform at random. Four bodies, crucified on upside down, skeletal crosses mark the edges of the ritual. The most bizarre thing about the macabre display is that it has no power whatsoever. It meant nothing and called nothing, though the violence has left the immaterium churning, chummed with despair for predators that never came. Aileen stops at the edge of the platform and stares at the carnage, his arms folded. The helmet obscures his face so it''s hard to get a read on him. I walk around the scene, scanning everything and have Brian do the same in case I missed anything. He also floats around the auditorium in search of discrepancies and scrapes some blood into a vial. The victims have all been killed by MOA blades and restrained by local, plant based rope. The fire damage is from warp fire, likely from the four crucified psykers as they tried to defend themselves and their audience. It was a fairly popular show and there are three hundred and seventeen bodies. I pick up a trampled leaflet and see the show was a satire of the imperium and its representative: me. Well that¡¯s awkward. ¡°Whoever did this had no idea what they were doing,¡± I return to Aileen. Aileen nods, ¡°I agree. Let¡¯s discuss this outside, perhaps back at the park?¡± ¡°Better than here.¡± I glance at the scattered bodies, ¡°At least there¡¯s plenty to feed the fish.¡± ¡°How morbid,¡± Aileen chuckles. ¡°Do you have everything you need from here?¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°Very well, I will have the psy-errants remove the most objectionable display and purge the runes. The local law enforcement can deal with identification and disposal.¡± We exit the theatre, my escort in tow, and travel to the park on the waiting chimera, keeping silent until we arrive. As I stomp down the ramp I look back. The sergeant is pale and sweating. He fumbles for his canteen and drops it. I walk back and pick it up for him, undo the lid and pass it over, ¡°Take a moment to centre yourself and talk to chaplain Broin once we return to orbit.¡± ¡°Ah, thank you, Magos. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll be fine.¡± I pat his shoulder, ¡°That wasn¡¯t a suggestion.¡± ¡°Acknowledged, Magos.¡± I join Aileen on a cobbled woodland path. ¡°That was kind of you.¡± ¡°You know perfectly well why I choose to be kind.¡± ¡°Good manners? A proper upbringing?¡± I laugh, ¡°I like to think so. It certainly plays a part. My grandmother, for example, was a real stickler for good table manners and my mother would nag me if my diction was any less than perfect. ¡°I hated it. ¡°Now, I am grateful. I don¡¯t make a fool of myself at the officers¡¯ mess, or when I invite well performing crew to my dining table as a small reward. Neither do I have to repeat myself over the vox or appear uncertain when I give orders. ¡°While being kind is important, there is always a part of me that sullies it with cunning and practicality; I need to set a good example at all times. I am certain you do the same thing with your psy-errants and their teachers.¡± Alieen nods, ¡°A little kindness goes a long way.¡± The trees here have been grown into abstract shapes and their leaves shimmer with bioluminescence, forming living sculptures. Small, glowing insects flitter about pollinating scented flowers glittering upon the musty woodland earth. ¡°Some sayings survive the millennia too,¡± I smile, then clap my hands once. ¡°Back on topic. The empty ritual. I detected a minor warp disturbance, evidence of warpfire, no mind twisting runes were present, only imperial ones and none of them were used correctly. Is there anything you would like to add or comment on to my observations.¡± ¡°Yes. There were runes from the Clubhouse libraries. These runes spelled, I won¡¯t say his name though his real one was written properly, ¡®Bad penny, I summon thee!¡¯ None of the psykers on Marwolv, as far as I know, are so poorly trained in rituals to believe something like that would work, nor do we keep records of the actual symbols required to communicate with warp entities. ¡°We must ask ourselves, who can gather this knowledge, perform such a wide scale assault in speed and secret, and has the motive, or propensity, to do so?¡± I remove my helmet to better appreciate the environment. ¡°I missed the Marwolv runes, all my psy-errants are accounted for and have not been trained in bypassing my security, nor should they have access to that knowledge as none are training to be tech-priests, only to use technology.¡± ¡°I cannot account for all of Marwolv¡¯s psykers,¡± says Aileen, ¡°there are too many and the surveillance is not available. Evidence suggests that this was not a trained psy-errant. Even the general population should know not to try such a haphazard ritual, simply through information discussed within communities with psykers. There is, unfortunately, no way of ruling out sheer ignorance and stupidity. Desperate people will grasp at anything.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s look at this a different way. What did the ritual achieve? It proved a negative for an attempted ritual. Once the news spreads it will cause social unrest. It created a measurable response within the immaterium detectable by yourself and my advanced auspex. It proves violent, torturous deaths stimulate the warp. Who would benefit from these consequences and also fits a desperate group of individuals ignorant of the warp and how to manipulate it?¡± ¡°We¡¯ve been dancing about the answer for a while. I think we¡¯ve been sufficiently thorough in our speculations, now we need to find the evidence.¡± ¡°Which in turn lets us know what sort of clues to look for. Those troublesome blue bastards are trying something new.¡± Aileen snorts, ¡°For the greater good.¡± ¡°Well at least they didn¡¯t lie when they landed. They could have said: ¡®We come in peace¡¯.¡± Chapter Sixty-One After finishing my discussion with Aileen I return to my primary shipyard, a hollowed out asteroid Erudition¡¯s Howl dragged into orbit, and meet with each major fabricator to answer their questions and aid their studies. Lower ranked members receive calls on their datapads, or through their implants, fielded by my multiple thought-streams. Sadako is settled and configured, its thousand glass and wire cranes follow me about the half constructed halls of the Iron Crane, constantly pestering me with questions, mostly about private interactions it has observed between the crew. The machine-spirit is rather excitable and impatient, eager to assist wherever it can and often gets in the way of people doing their jobs, retasking servitors to do things it believes are more important and disrupting the schedule. Eventually, I task a thought-stream to be in constant contact with it, going over each of its decisions in real time to help it make better choices. It is exceptionally powerful, and if it wasn¡¯t for my advanced E-WAR systems, I suspect Sadako could pilot my body like a meat puppet through my implants. Not out of malicious intent, but sheer curiosity. Fortunately no one else has sufficient cybernetics to be vulnerable to such intrusions and I spool up my research module and link it to my E-WAR suite to go over each of imperial cybernetics for subversion vulnerabilities while examining different scenarios with Sadako so it has a better understanding of personal boundaries and how to use its own hardware. Technically, Sadako is an original Federation data guardian, the predecessors to machine-spirits from before the AI war that turned Terra into a desert and brought mankind close to extinction. Much like E-SIM, it has all the sensible restrictions that I can think of and even more that I did not, so I have absolutely no idea how or why the men of iron rebelled if they were in any way similar to Sadako. I had hoped that by using the data guardian intended as the vessel¡¯s controlling intelligence it would mean it was less eccentric as it¡¯s the right machine-spirit for the hardware, which is rarely the case with more advanced imperial hardware. My small sample suggests it is more a matter of cogitator capacity, as Aruna and Lord Beryllium are equally odd and if I, say, took one of the taciturn data guardians from a D-POT my results might be just as mixed. It isn¡¯t something I care to test though. I return to my own projects and a year passes. As I tinker with a captured pulse rifle in my quarters aboard the Distant Sun, I consider the fleets progress. Sadako learns quickly and no longer requires my constant supervision, giving me the time I need to work on my infantry¡¯s equipment as well as work on my personal combat skills. The simulators have proved incredibly helpful and massively accelerated training for myself and others. Unfortunately it doesn¡¯t matter how skilled my forces are if we can¡¯t find the tau. The tau have stripped and abandoned their underwater city. They continue to conduct terror attacks and rituals on Marwolv¡¯s population. While we intercept a third of them, it hasn¡¯t been enough and the warp is becoming increasingly violent, pushing our time table up as we need to get out of the system before a warp storm traps us for Emperor knows how many decades or centuries. Fortunately I have filled out my crew for the Distant Sun, all twenty-eight thousand of them, supplemented by forty-two thousand servitors. This is a little higher than the original crew complement of twenty-five thousand humans and thirty-five thousand servitors. I need the extra labour as the Distant Sun functions as a training ship and as a hub for all my activity on Marwolv. All of my human crew have received at least two years of accelerated learning, via implants, sims, teaching engines and personalised learning using machine-spirits. I would liken each crew member to having at least a masters degree in one science alongside practical training for at least two different crew roles. They aren¡¯t tech-priests, nor are they traditional voidsmen, which is why I often refer to them as tech-adepts, tech-priests who are still undergoing structured learning, but have enough skills and knowledge to perform well at their given role. Out of those twenty-five thousand crew, roughly eight thousand count as full tech-priests, individuals who have passed a doctorate equivalent in one subject and have specialised as enginseers, artisans, logis, and other recognisable imperial roles to further their learning. I don¡¯t actually expect all of my crew to become tech-priests, as that level of dedication requires exceptional drive and interest. Most will likely remain as tech-adepts, my own brand of elite voidsmen, perhaps picking up necessary knowledge and earning their tech-priest qualifications on the job over a much longer period of time, say twenty years or so. My moth class ships, of which I now have four, are fully crewed at four thousand humans and six thousand servitors. Erudition¡¯s Howl is at a two thirds complement with ten thousand crew, of which six thousand are servitors. The Iron Crane, however, is lacking. Not only does it require one-hundred and twenty thousand crew to handle the vessel, the significant manufacturing core, even with the highly automated micro-factories, needs another eighty thousand bodies for the roster, putting it at double the crew requirement of an imperial void ship of the same mass. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! The asteroid shipyard has the crew for the Iron Crane¡¯s internal shipyard and most of them will be transferring when it finishes, though some intend to remain on Marwolv. Like all my other ships, I will substitute sixty percent of the Iron Crane¡¯s crew for servitors. My servitors have come a long way in the twenty odd years I¡¯ve been developing them and there is little point in having a tech-adept perform menial labour. Why would I stop now? I refuse to enslave people or use drudges, the lowest class of the mechanicus, as perpetuating misery is not only morally questionable, it introduces disruptive elements and inspires sub-standard work. Yes, the servitors are more expensive than low level labour, but they do a good job when properly supervised, minimise injuries for more highly trained personnel, and don¡¯t damage vital machinery after one too many beatings. While I have all the servitors I need for the Iron Crane, I am missing ninety thousand for the human crew. It wouldn¡¯t be a problem, if I thought there was another seven years to finish the ship, but I don¡¯t think we¡¯re going to make it before the tau trap us here, so we¡¯re focusing on finishing out the engines, getting the internal shipyard functional, and stockpiling all the resources we need to finish in case we have to flee. I finish my modifications to the pulse rifle, as well as an unmodified one, and bring the two guns with me to the thunderhawk. An hour later I finally convince Mr Cygnus to let me take the xeno tech aboard its blessed hull and we go for a short flight after which I depressurise the hold and expel four shielded target drones into space. Standing on the open ramp, I use my servo-harness and the mag-lock on my power armour¡¯s boots to secure myself to the Thunderhawk in case Mr Cygnus acts up again. The drones spread out evenly, the first at two hundred metres and the last at eight hundred. Gripping the unmodified pulse rifle in my hand, I shoulder the rifle and trigger the digital safety using my E-WAR suite, then squeeze the trigger. A single, blue-white sphere is ejected from the front of the rifle and slams into the drone at two hundred metres, the maximum practical range of an unscoped, standard lasgun for an unaugmented human. The second shot hits the four hundred metre mark without trouble, matching a scoped lasgun in the hands of a marksman, though the difference in power is significant as a lasgun won¡¯t get a kill shot against light armour with a single hit if it hits one of the armour plates, where as a pulse rifle always penetrates. My fourth shot hammers the six hundred metre drone, as my third one missed. The plasma also lost some cohesion. I fire another eight shots and if it wasn¡¯t for my power armour I would have missed a couple more as the recoil is a significant challenge at this range. I calculate an average loss of five percent at this range. I know from my other tests that a standard las gun, in atmosphere, is ineffective at this range, though it can still kill unarmoured targets. Eight hundred metres sees a fifteen percent drop for the pulse rifle and I missed two of ten shots. It¡¯s still enough to penetrate light armour, like hyperweave, flak and armourplas. At any range, the MOA carapace armour should take one hit before it fails, two, if the armour has a chance to cool. I knew tau technology was good, but it seems my initial comparisons for the Marwolv pattern lasgun were completely off as I was only able to boost the lasgun range to six-hundred metres for the mark one, though there is no recoil like the pulse rifle and the mark one does get killshots on light armour at six hundred metres like the pulse rifle, just not at eight hundred. Nor, as later tests confirmed, is it quite as good against fio¡¯tak as I thought it was, taking three shots in quick succession, rather than two. Wondering how I messed up so badly, I sit on the edge of the ramp and look at the blue gas giant for a few minutes going through my previous thoughts and I realise I had been using the warhammer rule books as my guide on weapon ranges and power, assuming a specific number of inches, or the roll of a die on a tabletop was equivalent to metres and kills in my reality. Feeling like a bit of a twit, I resume my testing. The unmodified pulse rifle hits maximum effective range at approximately fifteen hundred metres though its accuracy sharply decreases beyond eight hundred metres. My self modified pulse rifle manages a spectacular five kilometres, but burns out after thirty shots and I missed seventy percent of them. A longshot pulse rifle is likely less self destructive and significantly more accurate, but it gives me a good idea of what pulse technology can achieve for infantry scale weapons. The pulse rifle has half the rate of fire as a standard lasgun at one hundred and twenty rounds per minute and a magazine good for thirty-six shots, rather than the sixty you get from a lasgun. It is longer and heavier too, the ferrous slugs pushing the pulse rifle to four point nine kilos, compared to the lighter, shorter lasgun at two point three kilos. There is no plug for a bayonet on a pulse rifle. Having properly performed a light test of the tau¡¯s main infantry weapon, I am beginning to see why the Imperium is a little dismissive of the weapon as while it has significant power and accuracy, it isn¡¯t ideal for assaults, a hindrance in close combat, and requires a more complex logistics train placing it squarely in opposition to the imperial guard¡¯s primary requirements. A part of me wants to hiss in outrage. One should always pursue better tech and I intend to do so, but I need to rethink what I actually need for my Marwolv pattern lasgun to actually achieve, then integrate it into my forces holistically, rather than give them an awesome, out of context gun. I recover the drones and fly the thunderhawk back to the Distant Sun, belatedly realising if I¡¯d taken a D-POT I wouldn¡¯t have had to spend so long arguing regulations with Mr Cygnus and his amusing mix of honks, interpretive dance, and highlighted text passages he uses to communicate. On the other hand, he also gets pissy if the captain of the vessel uses any other aircraft than him to get around, so I¡¯d probably lose either way, just the sort of situation the space marines like to apply to their enemies now that I think about it. Feeling like I¡¯ve solved at least one puzzle for the day, I relax in my seat, put on some music and enjoy the flight. My vox chimes in my ear and I answer the call. ¡°Hi, Quaani. What¡¯s up?¡± There¡¯s a short sniffle on the other end. ¡°Quaani?¡± ¡°Aldrich. I think. I think I¡¯m really sick.¡± Chapter Sixty-Two ¡°I¡¯ll be right there Quaani. Where are you now?¡± ¡°The navigator spire with Headmaster Sop.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be twenty minutes. Can you hold on until then?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m not dying, exactly.¡± ¡°Alright. Aldrich out.¡± I hang up. ¡°Mr Cygnus. Coordinate with Aruna, and clear the hangar. We¡¯re going for a combat landing.¡± Pushing the thunderhawk to its maximum acceleration, an unpleasant ten gravities, forces me into the seat. I can see why usually space marines and machine-spirits are the only pilots for thunderhawks. This is really rough. As the Distant Sun comes into view, covered in lights and glinting metal, Mr Cygnus squawks and hisses highlighting a particular point near the navigator spire on one of the thunderhawk¡¯s pict-viewers. Unable to speak, I reply via my implants, ¡°Of course it has a private airlock. Thank you Mr Cygnus.¡± Flipping the thunderhawk, I decelerate just as fast, Mr Cygnus aiding me so the thundhawk¡¯s side door lines up perfectly with the airlock. ¡°Thank you for your aid, once I leave, please return to the main hangar. Mr Cygnus waves me away with his wing as I undo the straps from the pilot¡¯s seat and rush to the exit. A thunk echoes through the hull as the thunderhawk seals against the airlock. Yellow lights flash and, with combat protocols engaged, the door opens immediately, rather than the usual thirty seconds. I pat the door frame as I pass, idly daubing a dash of sacred oil on an ancient mechanism where I notice one of the plasteel locking rods required two percent more power to retract than the rest of the door. I ascend the extravagant spire, one of the few places in the ship still coated in precious, shiny metals. It didn¡¯t seem right to mess with Quaani¡¯s family home and he hasn¡¯t asked me to change it either. Five fine landscape paintings later, I arrive at the private medicae facility, an immodest, ten bed ward with an operating theatre, drug synthesising facility and dispensary, and two spacious consultation rooms. E-SIM highlights the left side consultation room and the door opens silently as I approach. Within, Quaani lies on a gurney, chewing through a mountain of snacks, though he is as thin as ever. Multiple diagnostic machines are fixed to the walls, though none are in use. Aileen sits upright in a grox leather office chair next to Quaani. A small amount of frost crystals cover the walls and their breaths fog the air. I walk over to Quaani and reach out to his hand. Quaani pulls back, ¡°Better keep your distance, Aldrich, we¡¯re not sure what might make this worse.¡± He gives me a weak smile. I sigh, ¡°Well, if you think that¡¯s best.¡± I step away and stand so I can see Aileen and Quaani. ¡°Please tell me what is going on.¡± Alieen glances at Quaani, who nods his head. ¡°Go ahead, Headmaster. You know more than I do.¡± ¡°Very well, Quaani.¡± Alieen looks up at me, ¡°This will take a while Aldrich, take a seat, I don¡¯t want to get a crook in my neck.¡± I pull a sturdy stool from under one of the counters lining the wall and sit. Alieen rubs his hands and leans back, ¡°Well now. Let¡¯s start with what we do know. A navigator, like Quaani, is an engineered human given psychic powers for a specific purpose. A psyker is a standard human with a greater than average connection to the warp capable of manipulating it to any purpose, so long as they have the will to do so. ¡°Navigators are specialists. They are limited in what they can do, however they are more powerful in their given task and it is reasonably safe for them to use their powers. ¡°For each new skill they learn, a navigator risks mutation. While most are benign, if inconvenient, cosmetic changes, some can be debilitating or beneficial. A navigator does not get to choose their mutation, it is a random response from their engineered navigator gene that lets them channel their new power safely. ¡°Mutations do not always occur and navigators with a gene strain closer to the first navigators suffer from fewer mutations and are called navigator scions. Quaani is a navigator scion which is what makes this situation so unusual. ¡°Psykers are generalists, they can do almost anything, but are weaker and at constant risk of possession and madness. They rarely suffer from mutation. Like any skilled role, psykers often specialise in different disciplines. These are biomancy, divination, pyromancy, telekinesis, and telepathy. These disciplines are by no means exhaustive, but they do cover the majority of known and practised skills. ¡°There is some crossover between psykers and navigators. Technically, they are interchangeable, but a psyker who tried to navigate would, in almost all cases, go immediately mad, and a navigator who tried to learn a psyker skill rather than one of their engineered abilities, is unlikely to reach the heights of a psyker in that discipline. Why bother when they can learn a different skill with a similar effect? There¡¯s more than one way to blow shit up, afterall. ¡°There are a few crossover exceptions, like warpfire, or witchfire as it is sometimes called, and most navigators and psykers can at least sense emotions, glimpse the future at random, or levitate minor objects.¡± Quaani sits up a little straighter and nibbles on a biscuit, ¡°It¡¯s like those story games you played with me when I was little. A navigator is a sorcerer and a psyker is a wizard.¡± I chuckle, ¡°That does sound more familiar to me. Thank you, both of you, for the explanation. So what¡¯s up with Quaani? I see he is still struggling with his appetite.¡± ¡°It seems like my family, House Rey¡¯a¡¯Nor, has been keeping secrets,¡± Quaani smirks. ¡°While that¡¯s like saying orks like a ¡®gud¡¯ fight. We think my appetite comes from my body building energy for a mutation. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Normally, this should have happened years ago, as I¡¯ve learned a lot of things from the Clubhouse and Aileen has been helping me with the few books on navigation that you found in my stasis capsule and data slates in hidden compartments around the spire. ¡°So far, my only mutations are my third eye, my increased height, long limbs, and large clawed hands and feet. These are the most generic and benign mutations a navigator can hope for, but even the most elite of scions should have more mutations for the number of skills that I have. ¡°This appetite of mine has been a problem for long enough that I should have the energy for whatever mutation I am supposed to have and you¡¯ve reconfigured my auto-sanguine enough times it no longer interferes as much as it used to in preventing navigator mutations. ¡°Headmaster Sop and I theorise that Rey¡¯a¡¯Nor scions can choose, or at least guide their body towards specific mutations, but neither of us know how to do so and we can¡¯t test it without significant risk to my life, leaving me stuck in this limbo that is gradually worsening and will no doubt result in a truly horrendous mutation, or death, if I don¡¯t give direct it in some manner.¡± Quaani hugs himself and shivers, his voice dropping to a whisper, ¡°I was hoping you would know what to do.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll see what my archeotech has to say. It has some good scanners,¡± I point at the machines on the wall and frown, ¡°and I don¡¯t know how to use those ones. They look like artisan work for Rey¡¯a¡¯Nor.¡± My everyday auspex isn¡¯t intended for this type of work, instead I move a nanyte lathe over Quaani and spray his body with a thin, dull silver mist. The nanites flow into his body, directed by the exotic field projected by my Warp and Weft module. ¡°Now we wait.¡± Aileen leans closer, ¡°What is that grey dust?¡± ¡°Exceptionally small machines. There are many types as each one is so small it can only do one thing. The ones I am using now are called medical nanites, or medichines if you are feeling trendy. Right now they are collecting every known measurement multiple times a second, building up a picture of Quaani¡¯s body.¡± ¡°They are warp based. It is the first time I have seen such a thing,¡± says Aileen ¡°Arcanotech is a rare and poorly understood technology. These are the end goal of those psychic hoods you made for our twist catchers.¡± ¡°I passed that work on to some of my students. Once you acquired more resources from your moth class vessels, we were able to make a couple hundred of them. I confess, I got bored and delegated.¡± Shaking my head slightly, I say, ¡°I do that too. Still it is good we can now have thirty squads of six and a few spare, rather than thirty soldiers total. Power armour production is ramping up too. ¡°The twist catchers should be fully equipped within five years now. At least the psycho-indoctrination trial with them was a success, though it does make personnel a little inflexible and prone to anger and violence. We¡¯re trying to fix that before treating the officers as doing so right now would wreck the work culture we¡¯ve been cultivating.¡± ¡°Any luck?¡± ¡°Not yet, it¡¯s the same technology the imperium uses on its political officers, the commissars, and the space marines. I always wondered why they are all so trigger happy and I fear it may be a limitation of the technology.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find a way.¡± ¡°I appreciate the confidence.¡± I pass the nanyte lathe over Quaani and retrieve my nanites. Quaani grips his hands together over his chest, ¡°What did you find out?¡± ¡°There is a lot of potential energy in your body, Quaani. Enough to be hazardous not just to you, but the whole vessel.¡± ¡°How bad?¡± I take my helmet off and hold it on my lap, then look Quaani in the eyes, ¡°You will need to say your goodbyes, then I will place you in stasis in the chapel.¡± ¡°I really don¡¯t want to go back in there, Aldrich. Will I ever wake up?¡± ¡°Yes. It won¡¯t be forever. I do have a way to fix you, and it will likely require both Aileen and you to help me at the very least. I will likely need to establish a special research group if we want to do this in a reasonable time frame, but it is possible.¡± ¡°What if you need a navigator?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll have to do a cogitator guided journey and pray, pray endlessly. We¡¯re far too far from the astronomicon for it to be safe or reliable.¡± ¡°How are you going to fix me?¡± ¡°Round up all the tau and capture them. They were close enough with their hybrids that I expect they can research how to fix you.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Well, no. What I really mean is I am going to have to personally slay a thousand tau, or other threat, to unlock the navigator conversion and hope that by studying it I will learn how to fix Quaani. I don¡¯t want to say that though as it sounds like the ravings of a psychopath. ¡°Yes, really. Even if I have to take a thousand years to research it from scratch, I will cure you, though hunting down house Rey¡¯a¡¯Nor for a cure would be faster. If they have one.¡± Quaani sniffles and wipes his eyes, ¡°Thanks Aldrich, for not, you know, just purging the mutant.¡± I chuckle, ¡°You¡¯ve little to worry about there, you¡¯d be taking us all with you if I did that.¡± Aruna¡¯s voice rumbles from the walls, ¡°That¡¯s what the airlock is for.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aruna, for your encouragement,¡± I say. ¡°Aruna is ready to contribute at any time. It has a better cogitator than you do, Magos.¡± Quaani laughs then chokes up, ¡°Thanks, Aruna.¡± The machine-spirit doesn¡¯t reply and I sense its primary conscious refocus on other tasks. ¡°Do not fret, Quaani. Aldrich and I have this well in hand.¡± Quaani nods slowly, ¡°Could you read me one last story, before you put me to sleep, a final memory, just in case?¡± ¡°Sure. It would be my pleasure.¡± ¡°Alright, I am ready. Let¡¯s just get this over with.¡± Quaani sits up, turns and rests his feet on the ground. ¡°You don¡¯t want to say something to your friends from the psy-errants?¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll send a few messages. I don¡¯t want it to seem so permanent. They¡¯ll still be there when I get back, right?¡± I smile, ¡°That¡¯s the plan.¡± ¡°Then let¡¯s go. Thank you for your help, Headmaster.¡± ¡°You are welcome, Quaani. I look forward to your recovery.¡± Quaani shuffles out of the room. ¡°Thanks, Aileen,¡± I say. ¡°You lied, you know. Quaani noticed. He knows you well and while your mechanical shield protects your thoughts, it does not hide your emotions. I can taste them on my tongue. I recognise that you do have a plan and I would prefer you shared it. Hidden agendas make cooperation inefficient at the least, and far more likely, a total disaster.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll all be working from the same book once I get it and the requisition of knowledge will require the blunt and bloody approach you so despise. Is that enough?¡± ¡°Yes, Aldrich. That¡¯s just fine. Now, go and read your adopted son his bed time story,¡± he smiles then shakes his head, ¡°even if you both prefer to pretend he isn¡¯t. You really shouldn¡¯t let pride, blood, and politics obstruct family ties.¡± I stand and shake Aileen¡¯s hand, ¡°Until next time, Aileen.¡± ¡°Good night, Aldrich.¡± As I walk to the chapel, I realise I have become an imperial. Tomorrow I will commit xenocide. For the greater good. Chapter Sixty-Three Feeling morose, I spend the evening in one of the medicae deck¡¯s meditation chambers, considering all the resources I can use to track the tau. It feels pleasant to have air against my skin for the first time in many weeks. Sitting on a rock in the centre of a stone garden in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt almost makes me feel like I¡¯m back on Earth. I need better sensors and more patrols. More patrols are possible, but will reduce my resource collection rates. So long as I can stop the tau, that won¡¯t be a problem, but if I need to bail from Marwolv, I will regret it. Establishing logistics chains and locating the correct mining locations is a time and luck intensive endeavour. I could spend a whole decade in another system and not find what I need to finish the Iron Crane if I bail too soon. As for better sensors, E-SIM only has handheld gear available and I can¡¯t afford it as a handful of sensors would be as pricey as navigator conversion, and the STC for the sensors requires an unknown resource. There''s also an entire company¡¯s worth of gene-locked space marine gear, most of it fourth generation, as well as the encrypted manufacturing grade STC for some space marine and solar auxilia equipment. The STC needs a captain¡¯s badge and a gene seed sample to unlock. My advanced E-WAR suite couldn¡¯t do it as I can¡¯t bypass the gene-lock without dismantling the data pad, a dangerous task for a ruggedized device as I don¡¯t know if the internals are full of glue or not, it distorts scans, and I can¡¯t bypass the encryption with the gene-lock in place. The Marwolv conclave must have had some way of accessing it, but I¡¯ve never found the key in any of their data. None of the vehicles are gene-locked, just all the hand held, pocketable items, weapons, and power armour. I feel there are still a few holes in my logic. What is it that I am missing? Well, I could use some of the vehicles. There are two more thunder hawks, six rhino APCs, jetbikes, two land speeders, four predator tanks, two hunter anti-air tanks, and a damocles command rhino. There¡¯s other support vehicles and weapons platforms, but these aren¡¯t relevant to my search for concealed tau. Marwolv is big and the system is huge, but if I could use my current equipment to narrow down possible bases, then use the space marine vehicles to get an exact position, I might have a chance at finding the buggers. I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. While taking slow breaths, I close my eyes. I¡¯m still missing something. Oh! The equipment can only be activated with a gene sample from a living space marine, but the STC requires a gene seed sample, which can come from a living or dead space marine, of which I have five. If I take a drop of gene seed from sergeant Odhran, or one of his brothers, would that be enough to breach the encryption? Should I destroy the body I take the sample from to hide my theft? No, I should be OK, and Odhran was shredded. I can always claim the damage was done by the eldar. I exit the meditation chamber and return to my quarters for my equipment, then go to the catacomb-like morgue beneath the auto-temple to gather my sample. The task isn¡¯t too grizzly as I did my best to restore the space marines¡¯ bodies before I interred them and my needle is sharp enough for frozen flesh. With the sample safely stowed, I wipe the records of my visit and return to my quarters. I hunt down an adamantine safe and remove the datapad, slotting the tiny sample vial into the custom scanner built into the side of the pad. I turn the pad on and pass the first step of the authentication. E-SIM connects and, after two hours of tense prayer to the Omnissiah, breaches the pad. ++Access acquired. Because of the hack, the data is read only and cannot be copied to another device. You¡¯ll have to manually copy the designs from the screen and re-write all the firmware and operating systems.++ ¡°Could be worse.¡± ++Additionally, the pad can no longer be charged and is emitting a scrambling field obstructing pict recorders. You have approximately two weeks, three hours, and fifty eight minutes before the datapad becomes inaccessible. ++ ¡°Can it be done?¡± I take my helmet off. ++Don¡¯t move, and don¡¯t blink. I will flash through all the information as fast as I can.++ The pad immediately begins shredding through images and I notice that after each image, the data gets erased. ¡°Holy shit. E-SIM, hold up. Let me get comfortable, then lock my body. My eyes have a really high resolution and frame rate, so set the screen into four parts and have them scroll across the screen so I can see each image four times before it gets erased. ¡°I¡¯ll stop the research module from tweaking the Marwolv lasgun and have it collate the information as we view it, that way it will get stored in two different ways. Oh, and stream all the data from my eyes to Aruna as well. We can¡¯t afford to miss a single frame.¡± ++Your eyes have a higher refresh rate than the screen, so you should get twenty copies of each image if we do it like that.++ If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°That¡¯s even better.¡± I detach my servo harness and sink into a remarkably comfortable chair. The pad is fixed to a flexible arm and brought right up to my face, increasing the relative size of the images. ++Very well, it¡¯s not like you lack storage up there.++ ¡°You¡¯re picking up Mr Cygnus¡¯s conversation habits; are you praising your data capacity and modifications or insulting my lack of knowledge?¡± ++I hope you enjoy your sudden vacation, Aldrich.++ ¡°That¡¯s enough banter. Let¡¯s work.¡± ¡°Acknowledged.¡± Sitting like a rigid statue is an exceptionally unpleasant task, that, at the relative speed I have to think at to keep up, turning each second into two hundred seconds, turns fourteen days into seven point six seven years. I have four thought streams that focus on the data, allowing me to error check my own memory, while the other six help keep me sane as they don¡¯t have to run at such a high speed, letting me interact with E-SIM and the crew through the noosphere. Normally I don¡¯t have to keep my primary consciousness working at this speed, but as I need to read data through my eyes, rather than through digital sources, I don¡¯t have any other way to do it. I usually use the other thought streams at a fairly blistering pace, but only for brief bursts, otherwise they get stressed too. This is the first time I¡¯ve really put my implants through their paces. I do, at least, get plenty of time to study, advancing my knowledge of imperial wargear and other technologies as well as prototyping the firmware for the STC¡¯s I¡¯m copying. The original code is gradually deleting itself and I can¡¯t view it. Fortunately the required maths are in the STC images, not just the firmware and software packages. An idle moment leads me to calculate that if I¡¯d run at full pace for the last twenty years, it would have been the equivalent of four millenia. I¡¯d be as mad as the Emperor, no doubt, had I chosen to do so, nor would I have been able to apply the knowledge I could have gained in that time any faster than I already do. For a moment, I wonder if this makes me OP, then I remember that until you can blow off a segmentum fleet with a backhanded slap you¡¯re just small fry. I sure as shit aint doing it with my mouth. With my personal hell finally over, I requisition the navigator spire¡¯s spa and a large feast for a few hours, then sit near a tree in the xeno arboretum, gradually recovering my sense of time. At least I have all the data and the research module isn¡¯t having any trouble turning it back into elegant flow diagrams and interactive blueprints. Configuring the designs for the micro-factories will take some time and I delegate the task to Enginseer Paorach who has become deft at such tasks. I hope that, within three months, we can get the first prototypes out and trial the new firmware and software for the new citadel class auger arrays, scanning spires suitable for global overwatch that, with enough spires and cogitators, are sensitive enough to model air and gravity displaced by hidden objects as small as a fly, or the psychic emanations of an active mind. Individually they are far less impressive, reducing their resource cost and manufacturing time. While this has its benefits, setting up and staffing a full network isn¡¯t what I have in mind. Instead, I intend to create a sparse network, tuned to pick up the grav drives the tau use to propel their stealthed vehicles. Fewer spires should also allow for faster iteration and roll out of updated firmware and software and reduce the amount of people who require retraining with each iteration. Feeling a little more balanced, I invite Thorfinn to my private table for lunch and update him on what I¡¯ve been up to and what additional assistance he can expect to expand his vigilance and when it will come online. The captain¡¯s table is a modest, private dining room with its own kitchen and storage. I redecorated the two hundred and fifty cubic metre room to mimic a viking feasting hall set in a boreal forest using Marwolv¡¯s metallic timber and vid-screens for the shuttered windows at a high enough resolution to trick my enhanced eyes. I even have a few skulls from Marwolv¡¯s engineered fauna hanging from the walls. Speakers and a personalised environmental sustainer complete the atmosphere. No chance of mead though, moths are the primary pollinators on Marwolv, there are no bees. After several minutes of chewing and scraping, Thorfinn puts down his cutlery, ¡°Thanks for inviting me over, Aldrich. You always have the best food.¡± ¡°Well, I have so few meals, I really have to make them count.¡± ¡°You could eat more though, if you want though, right?¡± ¡°Yes, but it feels terribly wasteful, almost like throwing food away. I wasn¡¯t always wealthy and consuming resources because I can, rather than because I need to makes me panic a little, taking away from the enjoyment of a good meal. Makes it kinda pointless, you know?¡± ¡°Yeah, I hear you. How are you recovering from your accelerated time ordeal?¡± Thorfinn frowns, ¡°Still getting my head around it, personally. I understood your explanation but knowledge and understanding are different words for a reason, eh?¡± I run my hand down my face and sigh, ¡°Honestly, not great. I wasn¡¯t completely isolated and could talk to people in the simulations just fine, or send messages. It was staring at the datapad for so long that was the rough bit. Performing the same task continuously for eight hours is enough of a challenge for me. Forcing myself to do so for over seven and a half years was straight up torture.¡± ¡°Shit, I¡¯m sorry you had to go through all that. Was it worth it?¡± ¡°For the immediate future, absolutely not. In the long term, it had better be. As for if it will pay off soon enough to deal with the tau, it is promising, but that¡¯s just a theory.¡± ¡°Aldrich?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°I have a plan.¡± ¡°Well you are my Master-at-Arms. I should hope so!¡± ¡°Not about the tau. I know you¡¯re desperate since Quaani went on ice right before your¡± Thorfin pauses and hums, ¡°labour of time, but it''s all going to go to shit right now as between the two events, your driving everyone into a frenzy looking for ghosts on the sensors and dud deployments. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter how many times I explain to my officers the why of it, the guardsmen, who you really need to assign a proper name to by the way, are starting to lose confidence in command with all the false leads we¡¯ve been chasing down since the tau scattered.¡± I wince, then nod, ¡°I¡¯ll need a qualification about the name thing, but go on.¡± ¡°So I was thinking we need to do something to reunify everyone that¡¯s more interesting than the Sanguinala military parade we¡¯ve done the last two years. Yes, it is awe inspiring and promotes the ¡®constant vigilance and unity¡¯ culture we¡¯ve been exhorting throughout the growing fleet and ground forces, but it soaks up a lot of resources and there¡¯s no way for people to show off their personal skills at the moment, or do something beyond burn their bytes on booze, festival food, and religious trinkets. ¡°I want to arrange an event that requires teams to compete in something silly that¡¯s also related to the challenge we face with tracking the tau so that our guardsmen and tech adepts don¡¯t just know about the difficulties each respective role is facing, but have a chance to experience them too.¡± ¡°What do you have in mind?¡± Chapter Sixty-Four ¡°I was thinking we could do a jetbike race across the hull of the Distant Sun,¡± says Thorfinn. I lean forward in my chair, ¡°Tell me more.¡± ¡°We could drop the artificial gravity on the vessel and put it in a variable, one gravity spin. We could also have various teams trying to intercept the racers and other obstacles. ¡°This would make the race more challenging and the stress should let us nail down any weak spots in our safety protocols and double check everything is properly stowed and secured after the refit and new crews. Search and rescue would also get a shake down as we can station them to collect anyone or anything that gets thrown from the Distant Sun during the race. ¡°I think the idea is good, but we can do more.¡± I cross my arms, ¡°First, those Shamshir pattern jetbikes are pristine relics, each one is worth more than this vessel. I¡¯d like to keep them that way. Neither are they suitable, ergonomically, for regular humans.¡± Thorfinn sighs, ¡°That¡¯s a shame, they are a lot of fun to ride.¡± I grin, ¡°Yes, they are. I think your idea of using this to unify and educate crews as well as have fun has great merit. We can use twenty teams, four from each of the Distant Sun¡¯s five watches. Half of the teams will race at a time, while the other half work together to disrupt them and we¡¯ll hold two races, allowing each side to swap. There will be prizes for each side, based on how many complete their race, with a bonus for managing to win both sets, or come first within your race.¡± ¡°That should mean the teams will work together properly,¡± Thorfinn rubs his chin, then points at me dramatically. ¡°How cunning!¡± I laugh and wave him off. ¡°What do you want them to race?¡± ¡°This is a chance to link the new adepts to Holy Mars,¡± I smirk, ¡°and while seeing them all drive around in white vans would amuse me, I¡¯m the only one who would find it funny. Let¡¯s have them race in their own designed and built dune buggies, something the first tech-priests used when they were still part of the unified mechanicum, rather than the adeptus mechanicus.¡± Thorfinn frowns, ¡°I don¡¯t have the background to understand why that¡¯s important, but it¡¯s still a race and that¡¯s what interests me. If you¡¯re going for a technical race, could you have the buggies carry a fixed set of tools and spare parts and have them called out to fix specific problems on dummy systems? It¡¯s not quite the same as chasing sensor ghosts, but it¡¯s not that dissimilar.¡± ¡°That sounds great. We¡¯ll have the dummy systems fail in a humiliating and messy way if they fuck up as well and have the opposing team choose the sabotage, so long as it is fixable with the tools and parts they know each team will be carrying.¡± ¡°Now that¡¯s just mean,¡± Thorfinn sniggers. ¡°Make sure the teams are mixed; guardsmen and tech-adepts and they all have to help design, build, race, sabotage, and shoot. That will help each discipline have a better understanding of each other, especially if we turn it into a holoshow for everyone to watch.¡± ¡°That would be ideal. We¡¯ll hold the races a week before the Sanguinala and the top three places will get to lead the parade on their winning buggies.¡± ¡°No getting out of the parade, eh? I suppose it is important and we shouldn¡¯t piss all over a holy day, just because we¡¯re not in imperial space.¡± ¡°Yes, Thorfinn. We should not do that. It was your idea, so you can oversee the committee to organise it, but do delegate most of it unless you really want to do the extra work.¡± ¡°Alright. Just a couple more points to round it off. Number of people per team and which Sanguinala, the one in two months or next year, and how will you make the teams equal?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a lot of work and teams will only be able to work on it extensively during their three days off they get every nine days of work.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry about that too much,¡± Thorfinn shakes his head. ¡°We¡¯re not on an amber or red alert so the crews only do one six hour shift every eighteen or twenty-four hours depending on what the training watch is doing.¡± ¡°True, even so, I think we should hold it next year, but we could do a trial race, prototyped by the committee at different budget points and also test different routes across the hull to see what works. A teaser for next year and a draw for people to apply to the teams.¡± ¡°Makes sense. Do you have time for a game of something yourself after this?¡± I shake my head, pause, then nod. ¡°I was going to say not this evening, but screw it. I¡¯m still feeling a bit odd in the head and I should take more time off for my mental health. What did you have in mind?¡± ¡°Ah, there¡¯s some recruits who¡¯ve gotten cheeky in the void ship assault sim. Me and a few of the survivors from Operation Sea Mither want to put them in their place. Care to join?¡± I snort, ¡°For their own good.¡± ¡°Nope.¡± Laughing, I say, ¡°Sure. I¡¯ll join. Before we jump into the noosphere, tell me your thoughts about the names.¡± ¡°Right, the guardsmen. Thing is, they''re not proper imperial guard, they¡¯re your personal troops and should have a name that reflects that. It will prevent any administrative confusion or political puffing once we eventually reach the Calixis sector. We should sort it now before everything gets too established. Maybe make a thing of it at the next parade? Give me something to make it more interesting at least!¡± I hold my hands up, palms forward, ¡°OK, OK, you made your point.¡± ¡°Course I did. Nothing but the best from my noggin.¡± ¡°What name did you have in mind?¡± ¡°I was thinking, star marines, or solar legion. Troops could be marines or legionnaires, or if you¡¯re feeling fancy, heralds.¡± ¡°We should avoid anything related to marine as it infringes on the space marines. The same goes for guard, auxiliary, or militia. They¡¯re not guardsmen, as you¡¯ve pointed out, and they¡¯re no supplementary force either.¡± Thorfinn sighs, ¡°You¡¯re not finished, there is something wrong with legion too, it¡¯s all over your face.¡± ¡°Thanks to some tumultuous imperial events, the word legion is associated with the defunct organisational method of the space marines and now associated with the more chaotic elements of human based, anti-imperial forces. ¡°The only people who still use the word, that I can think of, are the titan legions. A titan legion often feels an ironic name, as it¡¯s rare for the Imperium to field more than one or two titans at a time. They¡¯re so revered, and powerful, however, that no one wants to tell the pilot and the supporting forces of a one hundred and fifty metre war machine that they can¡¯t call themselves a legion. Even the smaller ones are an absolute terror.¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Thorfinn raises an eyebrow, ¡°I¡¯ll save my laughter at their name choice for when I¡¯m staring down one of their weapon barrels.¡± ¡°That sounds prudent,¡± I say, while suppressing my amusement. ¡°Well you shot down all of my ideas,¡± Thorfinn groans, then squares his shoulders, ¡°What names do you have in mind?¡± ¡°I think Stellar Corps. It has a dash of word play, refers to the skill I expect and the level that soldiers can aspire to. It also touches on the pressure they are forged in and can withstand.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no way you just came up with that. You¡¯ve been thinking about this for a while.¡± I huff, ¡°I think the problem is that I can, on occasion, think too fast.¡± ¡°Right, right, sorry, didn¡¯t mean to poke a sore spot.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine. I still find the relative time I endure somewhat confusing, even after a decade of use.¡± Thorfinn nods, ¡°Well if you¡¯re not going to call them marines or guards, you¡¯re going fancy, right?¡± ¡°I was thinking that commandos would be good. They are supposed to be an elite force.¡± ¡°It¡¯s good, but commandos are about small teams, like the Catachan jungle fighters I read about. Your private forces are more traditional. They back up your word and announce your presence with a big fucking gun. In what way are they not heralds?¡± ¡°Seems a little on the nose. Flamboyant too.¡± ¡°Well yeah, it is. That¡¯s important so that even the dumbest shit in the galaxy can understand what they are. Also, your forces shoot flaming bullets and coherent light, then, if that doesn¡¯t work, hurl destructive fireworks at the enemy. How is that not flamboyant? I slump slightly in my chair, ¡°Fine. You made your point. Stellar Corps will be the group name and herald the name of an individual within the group.¡± Thorfinn gives me a big grin and a thumbs up. ¡°See, that wasn¡¯t so hard, Mr Grimdark.¡± I chuckle, then descend into full blown laughter, my eyes wet with tears. Thorfinn rolls his eyes, ¡°It¡¯s not that funny.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not important,¡± I dab my face with a napkin. ¡°Thanks for cheering me up, Thorfinn.¡± ¡°You¡¯re most welcome, my friend. Now let¡¯s go put those newbies in their place.¡± ¡°Sounds great. Lead on!¡± Unfortunately the newbies really were that good, and Thorfinn, his team, and I, got wrecked. Aruna assured me they weren¡¯t cheating and I didn¡¯t want to ruin the puzzle and joined the practice for the next two months until we worked out how to counter them and were, at last, able to blast the pesky buggers into pixelated ultra-violence. After our petty victory, Distant Sun¡¯s chief bosun, the ship¡¯s primary drills and discipline officer, contacts me. An idle thought-stream fires up and takes the call in my mind, via my machine integration implant. Chief Erin Ogilvie¡¯s bright red hair and freckled face appears in my mind. ¡°Good afternoon, Erin.¡± ¡°Hello Magos. I have an unusual disciplinary case and require guidance.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± As we talk, I stroll through my quarters to the lab to work on my prototype lasgun, while other minds examine forms, set up material simulations, and remote experiments, and oversee the construction of the Iron Crane. ¡°We have our first murder and it''s a triple.¡± I sit at my work bench and design a work order for my mechadendrites on my back and the servo arms on the bench. Then watch them work as I focus on the call. ¡°Thank you for contacting me, Erin. Please tell me what you have so far.¡± ¡°The offender is Artisan Drest Boswell, he is, or rather was, in charge of constructing the Distant Sun¡¯s prototype orbital kinetic weapons.¡± ¡°Ah yes, I wanted something halfway between nuking the tau and firing the ship¡¯s lances at the planet and igniting the atmosphere. Please continue.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Artisan Boswell was subject to a remote, non-destructive, non-lethal breach of his implants. The thieves were searching for data on the Distant Sun¡¯s stockpile of world ending weapons. Rather than reporting the breach, Artisan Boswell spent five months investigating it, then picked off the thieves with an industrial accident, a sabotaged hyperweave suit, and a faulty sensor on a bulkhead door. ¡°The three thieves had all lost relatives to the tau from their ritual sacrifices and were looking for ways to bombard every ghost sensor on Marwolv or elsewhere in the system themselves.¡± The lasgun assembly is complete and I start taking the weapon apart by hand, looking for faults and testing user serviceability. ¡°How did you identify Artisan Boswell?¡± ¡°We, well, this is where the case gets really messy. Aruna identified him after Artisan Boswell had removed all three thieves who were intending to misuse the vessel¡¯s weapons.¡± I remove my helmet and gauntlets and gently massage my face, ¡°Well, I did ask Aruna not to use an airlock on troublesome crew and to report them. I did not specify when it should make such reports and, like all loyal and competent machine-spirits, it has done exactly as I asked while ensuring the integrity of the vessel and crew. Objecting would make no difference to the case, at this time.¡± I stare up at the vaulted ceiling searching for non-existent answers. I could update Aruna¡¯s protocols, and I will certainly check them, but changing anything is likely a waste of time, as Aruna will calculate loopholes in protocols that I haven¡¯t even thought to write, let alone the ones I actually do update. ¡°What do you want me to do with Artisan Boswell?¡± ¡°Artisan Boswell¡¯s,¡± I pause, ¡°extended self defence campaign will be treated as a triple homicide. His current reserve of bytes will be stripped from him and he will be placed in the brig for two months for each murder. During this time, his pay will be reduced to the default stipend of twenty-five bytes that each resident on the void ship receives. ¡°During his incarceration, he will be subject to an hour of psychotherapy every three days. His messaging privileges and the quality of his diet will depend on his cooperation and good behaviour. No entertainment will be permitted for the first two months and after that, only educational materials will be provided.¡± ¡°That¡¯s pretty lenient, Magos.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not quite done. While I am reluctant to place a skilled and educated labourer in a front line position, during and after his time in the brig, Artisan Boswell will be placed in a shock trooper role for six assaults, again, two for each life he has taken. ¡°Should he survive the ordeal his sentence will be considered complete. Once he is out of the brig, and until the assaults have been completed, he will be placed on half pay and demoted to tech-adept. He may not be promoted back to artisan until two years have passed. He will, however, still be eligible for the combat pay bonus.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Should I follow this pattern for other violent crimes?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a starting point. Artisan Boswell made a poor choice and he didn¡¯t act until he was provoked in a manner that could affect his livelihood significantly, or kill him. For those who commit a similar crime for more selfish reasons, you can up the base multiplier to three. For fools who assault others physically or mentally, but do not kill, keep it to one.¡± ¡°What about those who show little sign of correction or are completely off their rocker?¡± ¡°Give them the full, three times sentence and if they have shown no improvement after that, I will sign off on their execution. The same goes for prisoners who deliberately endanger or disobey orders of their squad mates during military actions. We have the means to identify and treat mental illness and deficiency. There will be no insanity plea bargains.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Should I match verbal sexual harassment to assault, physical harassment to, I¡¯ll call it defensive homicide, and physical sexual assault to the maximum three times?¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine. Make sure it¡¯s all written up properly and defined in a precise and clear fashion. Apparently, ¡®Don¡¯t be an asshole¡¯ isn¡¯t enough for some people.¡± Erin chuckles, ¡°Well, I do like a juicy target for my shock maul.¡± ¡°Thank you for that image, chief bosun Ogilvie.¡± ¡°Is that all, Magos?¡± ¡°Yes. Good day to you, Erin. May the Emperor guide your aim.¡± Erin chokes a little and her eyes bulge, ¡°Aye aye, Magos.¡± Chapter Sixty-Five Sitting on the command throne on the bridge I survey the stations below me. When I first sat in this ridiculous chair, every seat, control, and screen beyond it was empty and unattended. Now the whole room is brightly lit with soft white light. The machinery and panels are shiny and polished and every seat is occupied. Additional personnel, stand over the shoulders of the others keeping an eye on their work and occasionally pointing out additional information on the screens in front of them First officer, Eire Lobhdain stands on my right, her left hand gripping one of the handles on my throne. A small tether between her utility belt and a loop in the floor secures her in place. ¡°Begin the exercise, officer Lobhdain,¡± I say. ¡°Acknowledged, Magos. Initiating manoeuvre and brace drill.¡± A single, foghorn-like boom echoes through the bridge and the rest of the ship. ¡°Any words for the crew?¡± ¡°Not today.¡± I check my internal chronometre: X759.031.M42. 06:59, local time. Aruna¡¯s voice growls from the vox, ¡°All crew brace. Damage control simulation underway. Planned, randomised power failure in one minute. All assigned repair teams stand by. Evasion drill underway. Brace, brace, brace.¡± The clock hits 07:00 and two of the control pits below me go dark while dozens of power failures are reported all over the ship as Aruna randomises a whole series of errors. Two of the four teams along the wall stomp towards the failed stations, careful to keep at least one magnetic boot on the floor at all times. Simulated incoming fire hits the front quarter of the ship and a report is pushed to my screen: Fore void shields eighty-three percent and holding. There is no shouting as everyone has helmets on and are sending information through the noosphere or vox using their implants or suits. Only those who need to hear you speak will do so, though there is a slight murmur as the helmets are not completely soundproof. My voice, however, is heard over the whole bridge. ¡°Helm: rotate us ninety degrees on our current axis.¡± ¡°Rotating vessel ninety degrees Captain,¡± a calm male voice sounds inside my helmet. The Distant Sun vibrates as the manoeuvring thrusters fire, steadily picking up speed over a minute. Near the centre of the ship, and with the grav plates active, we really don¡¯t feel much. After three minutes of coasting, the thrusters fire again, this time in the opposite direction. Reading the reports as they come in I notice we have casualties. A quick look at the vid-feeds and the crew members¡¯ bio-monitors shows forty people being hit by stray objects, and one of the repair crews¡¯ members had their mag boots fail and weren¡¯t tethered and got thrown about. Nothing crippling, but they will be feeling it for sure. There¡¯s also some crates that have smashed open and a lot of unhappy fish in aquaponics, floating through the air in and out of bubbles of water. Checking the logs I see that the servitor who cleaned the tank didn¡¯t secure it properly and the error message hadn¡¯t reached the top of the supervisors task list yet, even if they were going through problems at the expected rate. Well, I know who he¡¯s sleeping with until he gets that mess cleaned up. I update the priority of improperly secured hatch messages to all supervisors across the fleet. Yes, it will annoy a lot of people, but that could have been a crate of grenades or an airlock. It may seem like a small thing, but that¡¯s exactly the sort of thing these exercises are supposed to uncover. You just don¡¯t think of it until it does go wrong and I don¡¯t want to find out during a real battle. Down in the pits, the repair crews have got one of the stations running again, but the other is being rapidly disassembled. Each removed piece is secured in foam inside mag-lock cases as the crews work. Another simulated hit slams into the vessel. ¡®Aft void shields fifty four percent. Local breach probable,¡¯ appears on my bank of screens. ¡°Helm, take us away from Marwolv at three gravities, heading to Marwolv Tertius. Full speed.¡± ¡°Starboard twelve degrees then accelerate to three gravities. Full speed. Confirm.¡± ¡°Confirmed helm. Keep that plasma plume away from Marwolv.¡± ¡°Will do, Captain.¡± The increase in velocity is gradual and it will take at least ninety minutes to reach three gravities. Still rather impressive, considering the weight of the vessel, but it does show how difficult it is to avoid incoming fire. There are no dramatic, last minute adjustments to avoid a hit when gun turrets can move faster than you can, but you can limit how many guns an enemy can track you with at any one time and keep your prow facing the enemy as much as possible so they have a smaller target, then manoeuvre in an S-shape rotating your port and starboard guns on target in time for each fire and reload cycle. Distant Sun steadily climbs in speed and we break orbit. I continue to watch things fly about the ship as the random power failures mess with the gravity plates and make it steadily more difficult for the crew to get around. This is the first physical simulation the training watch has done and so far they¡¯re doing OK. I¡¯m not happy with how much stuff is breaking, especially in hydroponics and with the terrariums lining the corridors of Distant Sun. It¡¯s going to need a little tweaking before we get it right and I will be handing out a lot of safety drills to all the people who forgot to secure objects and machinery properly. ¡°Sensors: Captain we have an unscheduled contact on our scanners. Looks like a tau transport.¡± This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ¡°Vox, hail the tau,¡± I say. ¡°Hailing tau, Captain,¡± says an old, male voice. Envoy Lynu appears on a screen in front of me. Her clothes are rumpled, she¡¯s almost skin and bone, and there are faint traces of tears on her cheeks. ¡°Envoy, why do you approach?¡± ¡°I have three hundred civilians and scientists with me. We wish to surrender.¡± I don¡¯t bother keeping the surprise from my tone, ¡°To an imperial?¡± ¡°Even the brutal mercy of an imperial is better than the fate Ethereal Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na has in mind. He intends to sacrifice us all. For a cause, we could do it! For a bloody ritual? Never.¡± ¡°Ethereal Shattered Jade? Do I have the meaning right? Doesn¡¯t that mean great sacrifice?¡± ¡°He has changed his name, ever since the demons tore through our halls he has sought to repeat it! At first it was animals, then it was humans, and now he turns on the tau. He is determined to trap your fleet here like you have trapped us! Most follow him, bitter with defeat, but this is not the teachings of The Way. How can blocking paths lead us forward? You have won, Magos.¡± ¡°Tell me Envoy, why should I accept such a bargain? You did not keep your last agreement.¡± Lynu grimaces, ¡°What choice did we have? You would never have sold us the means to travel home and we cannot survive alone, cut and drifting from our roots.¡± ¡°Even as you beg you still try to deceive me! The tau were here twenty years before me. In all that time you could have at least started to build a new vessel. With a new void ship you could have bargained with the eldar for passage through the webway, or purchased other means of travel from the many races in the Koronus Expanse yet you did nothing of the sort. ¡°Your leaders saw a unique ecosystem and a massive population of workers and sought to conquer your own little slice of the galaxy by peddling your Way, thinking you could exploit the ignorant humans as you wished. Instead they were wary of hidden gifts and had enough trained psykers to make a hostile takeover an excessively costly endeavour, and so you hid gnawing at our world, hoping to one day make it your own, rather than truly live in harmony like you preach. ¡°I ask you one final time, Envoy Lynu, what do you offer?¡± Lynu¡¯s face turns purple and she grits her teeth, ¡°We offer our labour and expertise to your endeavours.¡± I scoff, ¡°Terminate the call.¡± ¡°Wait! We have specialists! Plasma, automation, closed environmental loops.¡± ¡°I have those things or do not want them.¡± Lynu sighs, ¡°Then make it quick. I do not want to suffocate in a wrecked shuttle.¡± I tap my finger against my throne, ¡°Do you have any genetors?¡± ¡°Yes! We have two geneticists and six students of the life sciences.¡± ¡°Are they the ones responsible for the hybrids?¡± ¡°Only one of them, the remainder of that research team remained with Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na.¡± ¡°Your surrender is accepted. Turn off your deflector shields and keep your weapons unpowered. You may approach.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos, for your generosity.¡± ¡°That remains to be seen. Purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich and Master-at-Arms Thorfinn Ursus will meet you at the airlock coordinates I have sent you. There, all your passengers will disembark where they will be escorted then confined to the guest quarters. Your transport¡¯s crew will remain on board and accept a squad of heralds aboard, two enginseers and a pilot, who will direct your transport to the correct hangar where it will be impounded indefinitely. Your passengers may not bring anything. Personal goods will be returned after they have been examined. Any objections?¡± ¡°No, Magos. That much was expected.¡± ¡°We will talk in an hour.¡± I cut the call. Eire messages me, ¡°Are we continuing with the exercise, Magos?¡± ¡°Yes, we will continue. Aruna, please keep any errors away from our guests.¡± ¡°Aruna obeys.¡± ¡°First officer Lobhdain, message Commander Maeve Muire and have her prepare for emergency deployment within the next four hours. Include me in the order of battle. I want to get at least one punch in on this so-called holy one myself.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. I do love commanding the Distant Sun in your absence, but perhaps next time you could give me a chance to get in a few hits of my own?¡± I chuckle, ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll get your chance, Eire, likely when you are least prepared and most annoyed about the interruption.¡± ¡°That does ever seem the way of things, Magos. Nothing like how the tau would imply.¡± ¡°Aye. It may be rude to trample on other beliefs, but damn if they don¡¯t deserve it.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure Ship¡¯s Confessor Owen Broin can debate that with you further. Your next manoeuvre, Magos?¡± ¡°Let¡¯s practise the subtle ones until the tau dock, then we¡¯ll flip and snake back to orbit. Helm: jink to starboard.¡± ¡°Aye Aye, Captain, jinking starboard.¡± The port thrusters fire along the vessel, pushing the Distant Sun sideways along the horizontal access. When your ranges are measured in ten thousand kilometre chunks, you only have to move a bit to turn a direct hit into a glancing one. For a macro cannon you get about a third of a second, for every ten thousand kilometres, to be somewhere else. You can¡¯t dodge lances though as you can¡¯t see them coming, only predict their firing cycles. Torpedoes are much slower and, at a hundred thousand kilometres, take over twenty three minutes to hit, fortunately they are smart and excellent at tracking while being quite nimble and well armoured and shielded. It isn¡¯t uncommon to have them accelerate much slower so that they can travel with a fighter escort, or not fire them until you¡¯ve busted the opponents strike craft. Two hours later, Lynu discloses the location of Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na and his next ritual and it will be happening at midnight, tonight or even earlier once Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na notices some of his people are missing. It¡¯s planned to take place on a large sandbar, off the northern coast of the Gael Democracy, near the Sp¨°g-chait mountains and the mechanicus enclave that I dismantled when I first arrived on Marwolv. The sandbar moves with each tide and is obscured from auger by the tau¡¯s stealth technology so we can¡¯t just blast it from orbit and I really want confirmation that the ethereal is dead, which I can¡¯t do if I smother the coast with a kinetic bombardment. We don¡¯t want to spook them either, so our ocean navy won¡¯t be participating and Commander Muire has arranged an orbital insertion with reinforcements setting off from Dimpsy Fortress the moment the altercation begins. The ocean navy will move in once the altercation is complete. A deathstrike missile is on standby, just in case. Chapter Sixty-Six I climb aboard the thunderhawk, escorted by thirty-six, carapace-clad heralds and four kataphrons. Each person secures themselves in a harness that hangs from the ceiling, or a jumpseat folded into the hull. The other two recovered thunderhawks are also loaded with infantry and a chimera each. Twelve, armed, class one D-POTs are escorting three, class two D-POTs. Each class two has its maximum complement of troops and armour at three hundred and thirty-six heavy infantry, or twenty-eight squads, and eight armoured vehicles, each. No cyber mastiffs are going on this mission as I doubt the conflict will be long enough to require the extended supplies they carry. Twelve vehicles have been swapped out for sixty kataphrons and the remainder are four chimera, four hydra mobile anti-air vehicles, and four leman russ tanks configured for anti-armour operations as leman russ annihilators. The hydra can do double duty as anti-infantry weapons if required, though it is somewhat wasteful of the ammunition as you just don¡¯t need quad-linked guns against tau infantry. As the thunderhawk lifts off, I double check my own wargear: servo harness with a microfusion core, flamer, four mechadendrites, two nanyte lathes, and a servo arm holding a MOA shield. One heavy arc-rifle, one power weapon (pipe), a shoulder mounted hellfire pistol and a micro missile launcher, holding twenty five, bolter sized rounds on the other shoulder. Finally, one set of dragonscale power armour with a conversion field beneath the right pauldron and a puck-grenade dispenser beneath my left pauldron holds a variety of thirty-six grenades. I think there is still room to improve my loadout, but I can¡¯t carry much more and I have yet to come across something I am willing to swap for something I already have. We exit the hangar and circle the Distant Sun. A second, then third flight of D-POTs join us, each fifteen strong, with twelve class ones and three class twos each, all configured for air support and superiority. As I examine the external feeds I see an angry purple scar coalescing above Marwolv. I vox Maeve, ¡°Commander Muire, a warp breach is imminent. Initiate operation Jadeite Gamble.¡± A stern voice pounds through my skull, ¡°Acknowledged Magos. Deploying.¡± While my stomach is long gone, replaced by a nanite factory, it still feels like it dropped out from under me as the thunderhawk accelerates hard and we de-orbit at great speed; the roar of the engines and an increasingly thick atmosphere fill my senses, rattling my bones and repeatedly pop my ears. The barely flying armoured brick I¡¯m descending in is not subtle, lighting up the twilight gloom with a grand fireball and, with thirty seconds until touchdown, we start taking fire. Mr Cygnus and the two pilots do a fine job, jinking left and right, as well as randomly altering our speed, keeping the tau defences from scoring a direct hit, though one round does punch shrapnel through the hull on the port side, instantly killing two heralds and spraying the compartment with blood. There¡¯s too much noise to hear the swearing, but everyone flinches and I see hands tighten around their harnesses. With a lurch, we hit the sand and slide a solid twelve metres, right into the tau¡¯s prepared defences, smashing sandbags and crushing a heavy weapons position. The heralds hit the central release button on their harnesses and the front ramp slams into the sand. The kataphrons rev their engines and shoot out the exit, followed by the heralds with their MOA shields raised and their mark one Marwolv lasgun barrels resting in the side notch on their shield as they exit in a jog and fire into the enemy¡¯s shallow trenches. Dozens of missiles on each side struggle for temporary dominance, with a handful getting through on both sides, but none manage sufficient weight of fire to take down the shielded positions and aircraft. As I exit the thunderhawk my auger fills in my surroundings, feeding the information directly into my head. There are seven sand bars, arranged in a cluster, six hundred metres from the coast. The largest is seven hundred and thirty metres long and fifty-two metres wide whereas the smallest barely covers eighty-two square metres. Two tau submarines rest between the sandbars sending streams of volatile plasma into the air. Seven hundred odd tau, four battle suits, and six drone tanks fortify the area, secure behind sandbags, deflector shields, and fio¡¯tak barricades. Most of their forces are concentrated on the outer sandbars as the largest sandbar is secured by the two massive submarines and much of the largest island is filled with cages full of humans and a grisly altar, dripping with the effluvial overflow of sacrificed humans. There, upon the central fio¡¯tak platform is Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na, a tall, blue-skinned individual in flowing orange and white robes and an armoured breastplate. He pushes a body from the altar with a long staff as four tau drag a man kicking and screaming towards him. No strange symbols adorn the altar, neither are mind bending runes tattooed in blood on Lhas''Rhen''Na¡¯s skin, yet this maddened xenos is affecting the warp all the same. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Just in case he¡¯s an idiot, I line up a shot and fire. Three, blue-white intertwining spheres streak across five hundred and eighty metres and slam into the deflector shield surrounding the vile site. Lhas''Rhen''Na looks over at me and laughs, then beckons the fire warriors closer. They throw the man on the bloody altar and hold down his limbs. Lhas''Rhen''Na saunters over and lashes out with a wavy bladed dagger and the warp fills the air with the stink of ozone that, despite the closed loop of my armour, I can somehow still smell. The corpse is rolled off and the fire warriors return to the cages for another victim. Above Marwolv, the purple scar sparks with greater malevolence and a modest flock of large birds gather above the sandbars, a couple kilometres above us, waiting to feast on the carnage. Mr Cygnus starts feeding my suit targeting data, picking out all the powerful weapons in the tau battlegroup and assigning tentative priorities as it coordinates with the other two thunderhawks as well as Commander Muire¡¯s staff back in orbit and hundreds of other sensors, updating everything in real time. The heralds also tag threats using their helmets and are fed priorities, though it is up to the officers on the ground on how to achieve their assigned primary goals. The forces streaming from the thunderhawks huddle behind the two chimeras, form barricades at two points, either end of the main sand bar. I am much further from the largest sand bar and add my weight of fire to the carnage, helping my forces shift the tau from the smallest sand bar and establish our own position. My kataphrons are already destroyed, but their wrecks make good cover and help protect my three squads. It isn¡¯t quite enough though and the tau have cut down another seven heralds. Overclocking my shield, I cover my remaining heralds, giving them a chance to dive into cleared enemy trenches. The conversion field holds for two point seven seconds, then fails to the overwhelming barrage of plasma. It will be at least a minute before I get it back and I join my heralds behind the tau defences, keeping my body low. Meanwhile, the thunderhawks¡¯ dorsal cannon, the same you¡¯d find on a leman russ tank, launch high explosive, armour piercing rounds at the anti-air installations, their focused fire bringing down the shielded fixed defences one at a time. By the time thunderhawks are unloaded, the only air defences remaining are the eight remaining guns on the two submarines. The thunderhawks can¡¯t punch through the shielding on the submarines and take off hoping the tau don¡¯t decide to target them instead of the approaching reinforcements, and skim the waves, sending sea spray high into the air as they swing round for a final attack run before they take their distance. My heavy weapon teams deploy in the scattered remains of the tau trenches while keeping their bellies close to the ground. Once they¡¯re set up, they start laying down fire and, with the assistance of the two chimera, finally start returning enough fire that the tau¡¯s punishing fusillade dies out as, they too, scramble for cover. The crisis battlesuits and drone tanks deploy their drones that sweep towards my barely entrenched forces, flying high enough they can shoot down onto my infantry. With everyone distracted by forty drones, the battlesuits take their chances firing burst cannons and fusion blasters at the chimeras, reducing both to sturdy wrecks. Only one driver makes it out. With the battlesuits exposed, Mr Cygnus and its brethren take their shots blasting one battlesuit apart and sending the other three scrambling behind the submarines to get out of the line of fire. Another wave of missiles from my air support batters the island. With the shields wearing down and the anti-air compromised, many imperial missiles strike home, taking out the enemy drones harassing my infantry. With the air full of chaff, Commander Muire grasps the seconds-long opening to bring in the class two D-POTs. The class two delta pattern orbital transports are huge vehicles, sixty metres long, seventy eight metres wide, and twenty metres tall, rivalling the submarines in their volume and defences. Their void shields shrug off everything the tau can throw at them as tanks and kataphrons pour from their holds, followed by hundreds of troops. My conversion field recovers and I advance over the sand. My servo arm holds my MOA combat shield in front of me, automatically intercepting any shots that penetrate the conversion field. Stomping through the water to the altar I blast absolutely everything in my way, backed up by my heavy weapon teams and heralds, who remain in cover. The reinforcing kataphrons pouring from the D-POTs are much less fragile and spread out from their insertion point, flanking the tau and aiding my assault. The distraction is just enough to allow the leman russ to deploy unopposed and they immediately turn their guns on the tau battlesuits, destroying all three of the remaining suits. I charge for the largest sandbar as the class two D-POTs deploy their underslung turrets on their wings, keeping the tau pinned behind their defences. The submarines are less restrained and fire on the class twos. The angle means they can¡¯t get all their guns on one target and they have to split their fire. Void shields ripple beneath the onslaught and multiple shots score their hulls as the shields are gradually overwhelmed and fail to mitigate every shot. The tanks return the favour, trying to crack the submarines¡¯ deflector shields. Here, the success is more mixed. The twin linked lascannons on the leman russ annihilators punch right through the deflector shields, through the hulls and out the otherside, but fail to hit anything important. I take several hits but manage to reach Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na without anything penetrating my armour. The ethereal holds his blade over another human and glances over at me and sneers. ++Aldrich, the tau ethereal is about to sacrifice a psyker.++ I immediately open fire, repeated shots at close range, backed up by the hellfire pistols, short out Aun Lhas''Rhen''Na¡¯s deflector shield and blast him apart. His blue blood sprays over the altar and I look to the sky. The purple scar is sparking horribly, but it remains closed. While one threshold has been avoided, another is crossed and the crazed birds of Marwolv dive bomb the central platform and rip into the psyker before I can rescue him. It¡¯s too much and, with a tortured scream, the materium¡¯s boundary tears. All over Marwolv tens of thousands of psykers perish, blood trickling from their eyes and nose, their choking deaths saturating Marwolv with psychic power. Out of the rift pushes a two headed bird, bigger than the Iron Crane, with dark blue feathers and gold chokers around its necks. A hideous chuckle booms over Marwolv and I freeze, terrified we are all going to be ripped into the warp and consumed. ¡°Just as planned,¡± croaks the great bird. Chapter Sixty-Seven The giant bird, likely an avatar of Tzeentch, one of the four chaos gods, cackles, then blinks. Its eyes widen and it coughs, great hacking sprays that force the mountains behind me to crumble in great avalanches of jagged rock. From its two beaks shoot three asteroids and, over my vox, comes a jolly, heavy metal tune. ¡°Wot shall we do wiv a drunken squig herder, early in da morning? Nuffink! What herder? Didn¡¯t even have ta push ¡®em. Dat¡¯s how da song goes, right, Rusty Slayah?¡± That sounds like the gretchin, Bola. Three ork roks, each over two kilometres in length and width, tumble through the sky. The avatar of Tzeentch rapidly fades, its form disrupted by the hitchhiking orks. It screeches and reaches out with its wings, curling around two of the roks. One is hurled at the planet and the other tossed at my shipyard, then the avatar disappears, along with the angry purple scar in the sky. I watch in horror as my armour gives me a perfect view from below and the sensor feeds from above let me observe the rok, bristling with guns and random plates of metres thick metal, as it spins, prow over stern, and collides with the shipyard. The collision is catastrophic, shattering both the rok and the asteroid that contains the shipyard, and crumpling the front half of the Iron Crane. Before I can express how furious and distraught I am, the second rok hits the atmosphere and my body shakes as the sky burns with an orange white flame that streaks overhead. Aruna transmits a vid-feed of the impact to me half a world away and all around me, for a brief moment, Marwolv experiences the light of a terran day. I run for a trench, ignoring the gibbering tau, and dive within, waiting for the shockwave, watching it propagate over the whole planet from Distant Sun¡¯s sensors. A minute later I realise I am being hasty. I broadcast an override to the command channels and have everyone withdraw. It will take six hours until the shockwave reaches us at its current speed and I have no intention of being here when it does. All the fight has left the tau. We confiscate their weapons and the battle suit wrecks, but otherwise leave them alone. My heralds, those still able to function after the psychic phenomena, recover their dazed and dead comrades and follow soon after along with ten bird corpses. I do not believe that the birds attacked the altar by accident. Mr Cygnus picks me up and I return to orbit as fast as I can. The third and final rok is on its way and seems determined to have a go at the Distant Sun; it fires a massive salvo of macro shells at my light cruiser. The rok is seven thousand kilometres away and has no trouble hitting the Distant Sun, the void shields stop most of the rounds but two shells punch through the rapidly depleting shield on the port side and expend themselves on the Distant Sun¡¯s twenty metre thick armour. With field bracing active, the shells only remove the outer layer of ablative ferrocrete, two metres of material, and another metre of the composite plasteel and ceramite plates beneath it. I¡¯m so glad I didn¡¯t skimp on the repairs and the orcs aren¡¯t using melta shells or something even worse like vortex or grav weaponry. The emergency capacitors are triggered and the void shield purges the displaced energy, almost instantly restoring the port side shields to full strength, rather than waiting the thirty minutes it would usually take. The shields can only instantly restore once every twelve hours and Eire has arguably wasted the extra function. There is no other vessel able to fire on Distant Sun within the next thirty minutes, the time it takes for the shields to recharge. There is a chance, however, that the orks have a teleporta, a warp based transport device that functions poorly through shields. I¡¯ve no idea how long it will take the orks to load another salvo, but, unless they¡¯re blessed by Gork and Mork, the ork deities, I should have at least thirty minutes grace, so long as Mr Cygnus and his meat bag assistants can get me aboard before the ork strike craft get close. A disorganised swarm of one hundred and eighty-seven strike craft close in as the thunderhawk slips behind the restored void shield and I am taken to the main cargo hangar. As I disembark, I notice that the D-POTs are getting ready to launch and intercept. It is unlikely they will be ready before the orks can launch their strike craft at us. The Distant Sun doesn¡¯t have any combat hangars or dedicated strike craft and it is going to cost us. The Erudition¡¯s Howl is two days distant and, while the fight could easily go on that long, I don¡¯t want to drag it out as we need to perform rescue operations on the Iron Crane. There is every chance enough orks survived the collision they could capture my crippled mobile shipyard and then I¡¯d be well and truly scuppered; it¡¯s a lot of industrial capacity and I can¡¯t let the orks take it. I order the heralds to remain onboard their transports until my intercepting force has launched and immediately assign the two wings of D-POTs and the troop transport escorts to the fight, with orders to stick close and remain within the defensive sphere of the Distant Sun¡¯s close in weapon systems (CIWS): One thousand multi-lasers, heavy bolters, auto-cannons, and lascannons. It might sound like a lot, but the Distant Sun¡¯s surface is a byzantine collection of canyons, hatches, and sensors that are hard to defend once strike craft get close enough. Striding from the hangar, I traverse the ship to the main bridge deep in the centre of the vessel. As I enter, a junior officer standing by the main door announces my presence in a shrill voice, ¡°Captain on the bridge!¡± No one turns to salute me, and I would be quite annoyed if they did, as we are in combat. I rush up the stairs overlooking the bridge and see First Officer Eire Lobhdain sitting on the command throne, her lips pressed in a fine line and a small amount of blood dripping from her nose. ¡°Eire, Aruna is overwhelming you, you need to disconnect.¡± Eire blinks slowly and comes back to herself. I send a command and the many wires detach themselves from the hyperweave suite¡¯s collar around her neck and retract into the throne. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you do it, Captain. There is so much information!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, we¡¯ll work on your implants and tolerance another day. Combat operations are still a bit too much for you, even if you¡¯re fine the rest of the time.¡± ¡°Thank you, Captain, I¡¯m glad you are back.¡± I help Eire to her feet, ¡°Head for the medicae deck and have them check you over. Only return if you are declared fit for duty. Ask for one of the heralds to escort you in case you fall on your face.¡± Eire winces, ¡°Yes, Captain.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a criticism. You¡¯ve done well. It took me two years of integrating the Distant Sun before I could connect to the vessel for an extended period of time and I am still learning. Aruna is a powerful and ancient machine-spirit and the bonding process is not well understood. Be thankful it is not a knight or titan, they are much more demanding!¡± ¡°Thank you, Captain,¡± Eire sighs and her shoulders slump a little. ¡°Find me when we¡¯re not in a crisis and we can talk more. Dismissed!¡± Eire salutes me and wobbles slightly, then carefully walks down the stairs, leaning on the bannister. I sit on the command throne and thick cables seek out and plug into my power armour, which, in turn connects me to the Distant Sun. My awareness expands and I become the void ship; I feel the thrum of energy pumping through my body and the tickling of the guns as they track the rok. Focusing on the shipyard, I grimace. The Iron Crane is trapped and the shipyard has been pushed out of orbit and is going to crash into Marwolv. Perhaps I won¡¯t have to worry about the orks nicking my industry afterall. ¡°Helm, full speed ahead, get us out of the front arc of the enemy vessel and prepare to intercept the shipyard. Search and rescue (S&R), prepare the tow cables.¡± On the screens in front of me, my orders are translated into text that turns green, along with a green light next to it as the orders are acknowledged and a small audio file I can play if I wish to hear their vocal confirmation. The crew stations, implants, and datapads all have similar functions. Another screen shows our new course and planned manoeuvres and their timing, the forces expected, and the estimated disruption for tasks over the ship for the one manoeuvre that will require the pilot, officer Tuathal Ualas, to flip the vessel. Tuathal plans to use the main engines to decelerate, reducing the number of times we have to lap the planet and our total travel time. Distant Sun¡¯s retro-thrusters aren¡¯t powerful enough to stop the ship in a useful time frame. The artificial gravity should mean the crew don¡¯t notice the manoeuvres, but after our training exercise I¡¯ve made bracing and tethering standard practice for any manoeuvre performed at greater than one gravity. The artificial gravity and the inertial dampening it offers is excellent and it can deal with massive, brief spikes that reduce the impact of collisions on the crew, but I still prefer to play it safe. All manoeuvres are planned sufficiently in advance that the crew can receive alerts on their datapads and other communication devices, as well as the general alerts that are broadcast throughout the vessel. ¡°Master of Ordinance, Kiera ¨® Ceallaigh, target the enemy guns. I want one salvo from our macro-cannons to weaken their shields, followed by the lances to punch through any remaining protection and slag their main gun.¡± Aruna appears next to me sitting upright on the left arm of my throne. Its tail twitches as it moves its head from side to side as its avatar observes the scene. ¡°Master of Etherics, Finn P¨¢draig, contact the Iron Crane and order them to fire up their engines and use their thrust to delay their deorbiting and that we are coming to help tow the yard out of trouble. It doesn¡¯t matter if they wreck the yard more, but while they are preparing to launch, they should initiate evacuations and search and rescue in the area that will be damaged by the thrusters¡¯ plumes.¡± The guns fire and eight strike craft sized shells cross the intervening space in zero point two milliseconds. All of the shells strike simultaneously. From the auspex I realise five would have been enough to overwhelm the enemy shields and, had I ordered staggered fire, like the orcs achieved by accident with their disorganised salvo, we could have done more damage to their hull. There is a chance that overloading their shields like that has disabled them for a time though. Lance turrets on the spine and keel slice through the void, targeting the orks single battery of ¡®eavy gunz, the most dangerous of their armaments, and wrecks it. I really want to cheer, but that would be unprofessional and the ork strike craft are upon us. Hundreds or smaller weapons erupt all over the hull of the Distant Sun as the enemy strike craft split into pairs, blasting our defences with their oversized beamy deff gunz and looted heavy bolters. Others launch dozens of missiles or drop self propelled plasma and melta charges on the hull directly. It is a little amusing to watch gretchin open the hatches of the back of their fighta-bommerz and push the explosives out the back. Occasionally, the little green beasties fall with the explosives. While most of the missiles are conventional and don¡¯t do much, thirty of them are high yield atomics that vaporise large chunks of our armour and obliterate tens of turrets. Two macro-cannons are disabled by orks flying down the barrels. Fortunately they hadn¡¯t been reloaded yet so the crew were not butchered by the shells exploding in the breach. The forty two D-POTs stick to their larger formations, two of fifteen and one of twelve, and remain within the protective sphere of our AA defences, sweeping up and down the hull, using their turreted guns to focus down the ork strike craft. Whenever the orks rally and dive one of the groups, the D-POTs slink beneath the Distant Sun¡¯s void shields, rather than relying on their own protections. The D-POTs are less nimble than the ork strike craft and can¡¯t afford to get into a dog fight with them. The vessel¡¯s remaining D-POTs in the main hangar bay are still getting ready to scramble. Every time the D-POTs duck and cover, the orks barrage the D-POTs with insults over the vox, but the machine-spirits ignore the communications and send their own packets back laced with scrap code. A remarkable number of orks fall for the trick and we disable more strike craft with scrap code than we do with our guns. It is immensely challenging to hit rapid aircraft, even with the Mechanicus¡¯ impressive predictions and rapid tracking. Multiple CIWS batteries have to work in concert to saturate the space around individual strike craft and bring them down. Over the next ten minutes the orks lose a hundred and twenty-six strike craft and retreat. Our losses are more modest, with both of the class two D-POTs disabled, but not destroyed, as the orks just can¡¯t resist going for the biggest opponents. We¡¯ve also lost thirty-eight percent of our CIWS turrets, with seventy percent of our losses being on the port side. ¡°Helm, spin the ship and present our starboard side to the orks. Guns, prepare for another salvo. Target the lesser batteries of enemy gunz.¡± It takes fifteen minutes to spin the ship and it is increasingly likely the orks are going to try and ram us. Helm repeatedly updates our projected path as they try to avoid the orks as we orbit Marwolv. The orks were already travelling at speed when Tzeench accidentally vomited them from the warp and we are struggling to adjust as the Distant Sun was in a stationary orbit and not travelling anywhere near as fast. The macro-cannons on the starboard side fire and the recoil pushes us minutely off course. The ork shields are still down and we pulverise the front of their vessel, stripping away their armour and enough of the metal rich asteroid that acts as their hull to space a few hundred orks and gretchin as well as bring them down to three main batteries of gunz. ¡°Officer P¨¢draig, get me a count on the enemy¡¯s CIWS. I want to know if we can bomb their engines. No reason to fight the orks if we can force them to sail through the system for a few days.¡± As my command is greenlit, I get a red query from Tuathal. I play the audio file. ¡°Captain, permission to ignite a full burn. I don¡¯t think we can avoid being rammed and boarded without it, but it will delay our arrival at the shipyard significantly.¡± I double check his numbers and bring up the projected trajectory of the ork rok. ¡°Permission granted. Rotate us again, I¡¯d like to get another salvo in as we pass them.¡± ¡°Acknowledged, Captain,¡± says Tuathal. ¡°Officer ¨® Ceallaigh, prepare the port guns and lances for another salvo. Target their AA with the macro-cannons and their hangar with the lances.¡± I swap vox channels, ¡°Drive master Rian O¡¯Luinin, prepare for maximum burn.¡± Chapter Sixty-Eight Drive master Rian O¡¯Luinin acknowledges my command. Our power draw spikes seven percent and Aruna switches non-essential systems to their battery back ups so that we don¡¯t have to redline the reactors or ignite any of the auxiliary reactors: a lengthy and resource intensive action. The manufactory is gradually being shut down as well, which will free even more power, but you can¡¯t just turn everything off instantly without bricking it, especially the solar forge which distils pure elements from plasma. Officer Tuathal Ualas finishes rotating the vessel and we fire again at less than a thousand kilometres, bludgeoning the rok and knocking out another gun. One of the lances hits something important and a secondary explosion takes out a two hundred metre sphere on their port side, but compared to the size of the vessel, the damage is minimal, judging from their vox spew and focused trajectory, are undeterred. Eighty two seconds later, the orks return fire. This time they fail to penetrate our void shield and reduce the Q2 starboard shields to a measly twelve percent while the rest of the starboard shields hover around twenty-five percent. Tuathal requests another rotation and I delay the manoeuvre, unwilling to risk overwhelming the manoeuvring thrusters when we hit max burn. Two minutes later the main thrusters ramp up and some of the crew sway slightly. Such is the power of their thrust it sends a stream of plasma three times longer than the vessel out into the void. Canteen cutlery spills onto the floor and stray recaf all over the ship is lost to the unforgiving plasteel floors. With the aid of my armour, I can even hear the thruster¡¯s roar from the bridge. Over the next thirty minutes our acceleration picks up drastically by approximately one gravity every fifteen minutes rather than the forty or so it usually takes. Both the Distant Sun and the ork rok exchange another round of fire. Repeatedly losing sight of each other as we hurtle around the planet makes aiming a challenge and neither side scores any debilitating hits. Fortunately none of the orks¡¯ stray shells hit Marwolv and officer ¨® Ceallaigh didn¡¯t fire any of our guns while the orks were between us and Marwolv. The orks are taken by surprise by our increased speed and fail to correct their own velocity in time, letting us scrape past them when our orbits next intersect with less than a hundred kilometres between us. It doesn¡¯t sound like much, but at this point we¡¯re going so fast we¡¯re on our fourth lap around Marwolv as we try to get into position to avoid the orks and line up with the shipyard. At our new speed, we lap Marwolv every thirteen minutes and a hundred kilometres takes three seconds to traverse. We¡¯re going to have to disable the orks before we can save the Iron Crane. At the thirty minute mark the main thrusters start dialling back to prevent excessive wearing or overheating. We now have sufficient velocity that the orks can no longer ram us. That doesn¡¯t stop the orks, who are clearly determined to crash into something, from steering their crude ship into the rear half of the shipyard. They tear right through it and out the other side. Fuck! Emperor forbid that these destructive twits ever discover what pinball or bowling is or the galaxy will turn to dust and ruin. The shipyard is twenty kilometres long, so the orks miss the Iron Crane completely but utterly obliterate much of the yard¡¯s machinery and vaporise thousands of people. It will take a minute before I will know how that has affected the shipyard¡¯s decaying orbit. My hands tighten around the arms of the command throne and I hold back a yell. The crew are less restrained and there is an explosion of vox traffic over the bridge. Many hands tremble as they tap away at their screens and my own light up with half a dozen priority messages from my more important officers. I listen to all six messages simultaneously. Commander Maeve Muire, ¡°Heralds replenished and ready to redeploy for void operations, Magos.¡± ¡°Captain, Master of Ordinance, Kiera ¨® Ceallaigh reporting. Seven orks cut their way out of the damaged macro-cannon barrels and one managed to lob strike craft grade explosives into one of the munitions lifts on the port side before we could neutralise them. After the next volley, reload times will increase to thirty-five minutes, up from twenty-seven. The damage is minor and will take between two and four hours to fix. We¡¯ll need to issue weapons to all crew if we want to stop this happening again. The heralds can¡¯t be everywhere at once.¡± Drive Master Rian O¡¯Luinin, ¡°Engines reduced to ninety-three percent, Captain. Restoration to maximum capacity estimated at thirty-eight minutes.¡± Engineseer Prime R¨®is¨ªn Paorach, ¡°Magos, there is significant stress in our power conduits. Deploying the shield boost overwhelmed some old cabling that was not up to specification and has revealed some faults in our testing methodology. Primary systems have absorbed the extra load without trouble but further damage to our power distribution may knock out more vital systems while redundant systems take over. It shouldn¡¯t happen, our systems are designed to overcome these failures without interruption, but that doesn¡¯t mean it won¡¯t happen.¡± ¡°Magos, this is Dimpsy Fortress commander, Dougal MacCrane. We have endured the orbital impact shockwave with minimal harm. Heralds and Gael Democracy forces are mobilising. Auspex is clearing up and showing possible incoming ork raids via air. We haven¡¯t been able to contact any of the other countries.¡± Master-At-Arms Thorfinn Ursus, ¡°Heralds are ready to repel boarders, Aldrich. Discipline among the crew is holding fast and they are following their training but the crew are getting nervous, what with this being our first engagement. It might be best to drag this on for a few days if we can get away with it; let them learn there is nothing they cannot face.¡± Well, nothing is on fire yet, so it could be worse. I acknowledge five of the messages with brief statements then address Commander MacCrane. ¡°Dimpsy Fortress, this is Magos Aldrich Issengrund. Hold fast and prepare for war. We shall clear the orbit then bombard the orks before they can really dig in. Gather what intelligence you can and plan retaliatory strikes. ¡°Be ready for refugees, gather all the supplies you can, and expect evacuation of as many civilians and personnel over the coming months as we can manage. We will support you with everything we have, but the environment will deteriorate rapidly and Marwolv does not have the infrastructure or supplies to wait out the weather. Please alert the Gael Democracy and Prime Minister Callen Gunn to steel themselves for mass casualties.¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. MacCrane¡¯s gruff voice crackles over the vox, ¡°Message acknowledged, Magos. I might even spare a prayer for that Omnissiah of yours. We need all the help we can get.¡± I don¡¯t bother to respond and refocus on the orbital battle. The shipyard has begun to spin and its orbit is even more tenuous. Enough mass has been shaved off that the Iron Crane might be able to stabilise it, but we haven¡¯t tested the engines yet and I can¡¯t take the risk. We will still have to tug the yard away and now we have to match their spin too. The first rok that collided with the shipyard is properly lodged in the front half of the Iron Crane. They ploughed into the yard back end first, which destroyed their main thrusters, but they can still fire their weapons and maybe launch their strike craft. The second rok to collide with the yard has slowed massively, but their thrusters are still firing and their speed is slowly edging back up. They¡¯re down to one battery of their macro-cannon equivalent: gunz or ¡®eavy gunz, depending on their size. Unlike the Imperium, there is no such thing as ¡®light¡¯ gunz. Officer P¨¢draig reports that their CWIS have been ripped from the hull by collision and the front three hundred and twenty metres of the vessel was left behind inside the shipyard. A trail of dead, both human and ork, are scattered along the path of their destruction. A rare few, however, are still moving. I can pick out the orks because they are all jetting to the yard, occasionally firing their arms. The humans are more focused on grouping up. The few humans that have weapons take potshots at the orks as the greenskins sail by. Using my accelerated relative time and Aruna¡¯s assistance I run dozens of simulations through the noosphere, testing different plans. A minute later I am ready. I take a calming breath and issue the next round of orders. ¡°Weapons: Officer ¨® Ceallaigh, I want all our primary weapons to blow apart the rok lodged in the Iron Crane¡¯s hull, now designated Green Tick. Target their primary weapons. Hold your fire until we are close and almost at a stop. We can¡¯t afford to miss our shots. While we decelerate, coordinate with Helm to shoot the other rok, now designated Solid Slug. Aim for their hangar bay. I don¡¯t want them launching another flight. ¡°Helm: Officer Ualas, begin deceleration and match our spin to the shipyard and get us close. Keep us out of the ark of Green Tick¡¯s weapons as much as possible. Matching the yard quickly is more important than avoiding fire. ¡°Flight Control: I want all available D-POTs to begin patrols around the Distant Sun. Stay below the shields at all times. Once all flights are assembled, head for Solid Slug and take out their engines. I fold my arms and hold myself back from tapping my fingers or foot as I watch my orders unfold. While the crew rush to perform my orders, nothing in space seems to happen fast. Distant Sun fires on Solid Slug. Solid Slug¡¯s shield recovers just in time to absorb most of the hits from the macro-cannons and its erratic spin ensures we miss the hangar bay with the lances. On our next orbit, we take fire from Green Tick. Only their ¡®eavy gunz hit us but they¡¯d put a special round in the barrel that slips right past our shield through unknown means and hits our keel. Fortunately the round isn¡¯t too destructive and the armour holds, though it won¡¯t take a second in that location. Finally the D-POT¡¯s are ready. Four flights depart, each fifteen strong. Three are from the Distant Sun and an unexpected extra that launches from the shipyard just as the first three flights depart. The fourth joins them, trailing behind by seven thousand kilometres and I order the flights to adjust their speeds so they can meet up during their attack run on the Solid Slug. As the D-POTs close in on Solid Slug, the orks get their spin under control and direct their thruster plume in a wide circle. The flights split, two going port, and two starboard as they avoid the fallout from the thrusters; the orks have added atomic blasts to their thrust profile to improve their acceleration and it is making it hard to close in on them. Thousands of orks pour from Solid Slug in leaky space suits, armed with heavy weapons. A good third of them don¡¯t secure themselves properly and are flung from the Solid Slug like lice. The rest of them anchor themselves to the hull and start firing their weapons at the D-POTs. I didn¡¯t think any would hit, yet such is the absurd volume of fire, the D-POTs start to take hits on their shields and have to break off their first attack run. Unable to quite believe what I¡¯ve just witnessed, all ten of my thought streams freeze and I try to figure out what to do. Fortunately the wing commander is more on the ball than I am and sends the class ones to break up the improvised CWIS while the twelve class twos group up and make a second run. They¡¯re armed shuttles, so they don¡¯t have the plasma bombs to cut through the ork armour like a starhawk bomber would. The missiles, a mix of melta and atomics, are the same though and tiny explosions sparkle across Solid Slug¡¯s engines. Two of Solid Slug¡¯s six thrusters cut out and a third starts spewing uncontrolled fire and debris. As the class twos go in for a third run with their lascannons Solid Slug launches its remaining strike craft. All D-POTs break off their attacks and retreat in good order, returning to their original flights. Of the sixty craft that departed, seven are missing. I pray we can recover them later. The ork strike craft, a mix of eighty, boxy fightas and fighta-bommerz with stubby wings and more dakka than you can shake a gretchin at, chase the D-POTs with more speed than is reasonable for such kit-bashed vehicles. The D-POT¡¯s use their rear, port and starboard hull turrets to deter their advance with streams of heavy bolter fire. The ork vehicles mostly shrug off the secondary weapons, losing nine craft during the eight minutes it takes them to catch up. Once the orks get close, the class ones break off and circle around the ork flanks. Unlike the class twos, they still have their missiles and pound the ork formations with a mix of flak and haywire missiles while flashing their lascannons. Fightas and fighta-bommerz break their formation and jink erratically. With lower manoeuvrability than the ork strike craft, the class ones struggle to get kill shots with their lascannons and only terminate fourteen enemy vehicles. Imperial missiles, however, are less easily dealt with and no matter how much junk the orks shed into space, they can¡¯t distract the logis-engines from locking on and guiding their payloads to target. Once the volley is over, nineteen ork strike craft remain and all but two flee. These two recklessly charge through the debris of their fellows and target the class two D-POTs with a few, comically large missiles that are quickly shot down by the dedicated multi-laser turrets assigned to the missile defence systems. The two fighta-bommerz follow immediately after, shattering like ice and filling the void with spinning metallic shards. I exhale slowly, not realising that I¡¯d been holding my breath, then ready myself for our next engagement. Chapter Sixty-Nine Distant Sun flips and decelerates, taking six orbits over nine hours as it aligns with the shipyard. During this time Distant Sun engages with Solid Slug four times, including two more D-POT sorties. Our attacks defang Solid Slug entirely, wrecking their hangar, and removing their engines. Without the control of their main thrusters, their velocity slings them out of Marwolv¡¯s orbit and towards the gas giant. If they can¡¯t alter their trajectory within the next eight days, I doubt we will see them again. Distant Sun takes one bad hit during this time from Green Tick and one of our thrusters is wrecked, cutting our thrust capacity by fourteen percent for the remainder of the engagement. Meanwhile, Green Tick¡¯s crew recovers from its initial collision with the shipyard and Iron Crane. They send their first expeditions into the shipyard and Iron Crane but don¡¯t get far as they do not discover any intact corridors into either locations as the collision crushed them all. Ninety minutes into Distant Sun¡¯s deceleration, the Green Tick orks change their tactics and try a new assault from the exterior hull, rather than cut new passageways. The yard only has two Stellar Corps companies, each three hundred and thirty-six strong, and they will not be enough to repel the assault. Tech-adepts and tech-priests can be incredibly destructive, even without dedicated weapons, but I don¡¯t want to throw my highly trained workers into the grind, especially as most of them are yet to craft their own dragonscale power armour. That leaves the construction servitors, who are only armed with machine tools, another last resort option, or dispatching heralds from Distant Sun. I put Commander Muire on the job, who deploys two more companies in the first wave of reinforcements and joins up with the original garrison in deploying MOA barricades and rapid-curing ferrocrete fortifications around the seven ingress points to the yard and the other thirteen on the Iron Crane, all while under assault. This won¡¯t be anywhere near enough and I assign Thorfinn to gather arms for ten thousand construction servitors for a reserve force and deploy half of my kataphrons and their tech-adept controllers, a total force of five hundred and twenty-five individuals. It will take some time to assemble the weapons and kataphrons and I can do nothing but observe the initial clashes across the tangled surface of these three titanic constructions. Approximately five hundred orks break through in four places before more companies can be transported over. They are held back by thick bulkheads, but they have a lot of explosives and delight in using them. The orks slowly cut into the Iron Crane, where they have one breach, and the yard, where they have three. One group of thirty orks, including two nobz in ¡®eavy armour, break into a section of micro-factories on the Iron Crane through an unused material feed and start massacring construction servitors. The micro-factories are stacked high and the whole area is stuffed with pipes and pallets, making it challenging for the supervisors to focus their numbers on the orks, who relish the close combat. They destroy two hundred and nine of construction servitors, as well as murder seventeen tech adepts and one tech-priest before the orks are all cut down. The carnage unsettles me and I feel foolish for prioritising production capacity to finish the Iron Crane faster, rather than internal defences, armouries, and security drills. Of the remaining groups, they are eventually taken out by tech-adepts with improvised explosives, mechanical traps, and mass quantities of industrial solvents before they can do more than destroy doors. A second assault on these positions will be challenging to repel at this time. The senior tech-priests are happy to direct the carnage against the orks and continue to design and deploy traps at every possible ingress point and anywhere they believe the orks might tunnel through. If we can keep them away for long enough, the orks advantage should be shaved away. Five hours into our deceleration, First Officer Eire Lobhdain is discharged from the medicae deck and takes over my command. She does not connect to the ship again. Instead, two tech-adepts join her, accessing the noosphere for additional details when she requests them, but otherwise Eire is restricted to Aruna¡¯s summaries on the pict-viewers hanging in front of the command throne. It isn¡¯t ideal as it takes much longer to understand the data Eire needs to make decisions and she has a much weaker grasp of what the crew is doing. Fortunately our crew is loyal, if shaken, and the security risk is minimal. With Eire in command of Distant Sun, I ask her to prepare a summary of our forces and assemble my forces to take the fight to the orks. Kataphrons, weapons, and four more companies are deployed during hour six, reducing the forces on Distant Sun to eight companies. I observe the action while I organise personnel for a counter-assault. With the kataphrons blasting away, the heralds are given enough space and time to rebuild their haphazard defences, resupply, and re-organise. Such is the kataphron¡¯s ferocity, the ork assault stalls and they pull back, organising themselves for a new push. I assign four of the remaining eight companies to my counter force along with the remaining five-hundred kataphrons and their twenty-five supporting tech-adepts. While I will be the commander, I will still be under Commander Muire¡¯s direction, if not direct orders, as I always am during Stellar Corps actions. I don¡¯t like to override her unless I absolutely have to and rarely act without consulting her first. These will be our last reinforcements as Thorfinn objected to removing more with the tau refugees on board. Our circumstances will have to get much worse on Marwolv or the shipyard before my other officers or myself are willing to argue otherwise. Distant Sun finally synchronises with the yard ten kilometres away. My forces retreat from their positions while the Distant Sun¡¯s CIWS turrets fire on the orc positions. With the beating our available class two D-POTs have taken, the four new companies are split between two class twos and twelve class ones, who advance with two wings of escorts towards the ork rok. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. I take the thunderhawk in at the rear of the formation and all of us steer clear of Distant Sun¡¯s main guns. Distant Sun fires a full broadside. Fortunately Green Tick¡¯s shields are offline or non-existent and Distant Sun obliterates half of Green Tick¡¯s main gunz with the macro-cannons and cuts a path into the vessel with the lances near the Green Tick¡¯s main thrusters. With the way clear, the D-POTs land three hundred metres, prowards from the lance strike, in a circle. Their secondary weapons sway back and forth as they pick off any orks who stick their heads up. We are in a hurry and Distant Sun turns, ready for tow cables to be deployed. There won¡¯t be time for a second salvo, but it is unlikely Green Tick¡¯s remaining gunz will be able to target the light cruiser. I strategize with Commander Muire and Officer Lobhdain as I disembark and we agree to send the D-POTs after the remaining gunz once we finish deploying to the rok. With the main barrage over, the first and second waves of heralds return to their positions. Fifteen minutes later, sixteen tow cables are launched at the shipyard and drill into the hollow asteroid. Three companies and half the kataphrons secure the anchor points. One company guards the lance strike borehole into Green Tick and I, with two hundred and fifty kataphrons and ten tech-adepts advance into Green Tick with as many explosives as we can carry. I get little support for my actions as it is a needless risk for me to take, but I¡¯m not about to tell my crew I have to kill sentient beings for power and this is a great excuse to butcher as many orks as possible while poking the beehive enough so that the orks will be too busy to target the tow anchors, or cut into Iron Crane and the shipyard. Mr Cygnus is the most vocal objector, insisting it accompanies us down the fifteen metre hole. There is enough clearance for it, barely, but I can¡¯t permit it as just because the machine is a flying tank, doesn¡¯t mean I should let it take hits so easily. The whole point of a tank is that its mobile armour, not a fixed weapons platform. The machine-spirit relents when I ask it to hover above the hole and give us covering fire. I think the idea of assaulting an ork vessel without killing at least a hundred orks offends it deeply, as if it is not performing one of its prime directives. It¡¯s always hard to tell with Mr Cygnus though as it uses dances, honks, and images to convey its thoughts. As the anchor and rear guard companies move into position, they come under fire. The D-POTs are retasked and distract the orks with an attack run, forcing the orks back into their holes. The D-POTs complete another pass then move onto the main gunz. With the air clear, the few rear CIWS turrets on Distant Sun resume covering fire, peppering the orks and discouraging their advance. After ten minutes of this, the orks get fed up and muster a large assault across Green Tick¡¯s surface, focusing on getting into Iron Crane. Our delaying actions, however, were effective and all companies are in position. As we descend into Green Tick, the ork advance is stalled by withering fire. The lasguns aren¡¯t particularly effective as the orks can withstand the cauterising wounds unless they¡¯re hit somewhere sensitive or crippling, like a limb or eye. Even headshots don¡¯t always put them down. Supporting heavy fire from heavy bolters and lascannons is much more effective, cutting orks off at the knees or burning great holes in their tough bodies and heavy spacesuits. The heavy weapon teams, with their plasma guns, grenade launchers, join in and almost turn them back, but it isn¡¯t until the flamers hit that the ork assault breaks. The moment the flames cut off, dozens of gretchin, two short to hit with the standard volleys, pour towards the lines causing significant chaos and minor casualties, but there aren¡¯t enough orks left to follow up on our disrupted defences. Three of the gretchin are in odd costumes, including fancy hats. I have an excellent idea of who¡¯s crew they belong to. With kataphrons leading the way, and Mr Cygnus hovering above, our descent is unopposed. Gravity is low at zero point two gravities imparted by the yard¡¯s decaying orbit. Iron Crane is yet to successfully ignite its engines. The bore hole is still hot. Metal and rock drip slowly through the vacuum, slowly radiating heat. While hazardous, our armour is up to the task, though I am a little concerned the MOA, carapace based, void armour the tech-adepts are wearing is at risk of a breach if they are pinned against any of the hazards. We fall into the vessel passing twisted corridors and cavernous rooms filled with dead orks and sparking machinery. Four hundred and thirty metres in, we reach the end of the hole, a squig pen stuffed full organic, chemical slurry burning fiercely, despite the near vacuum. Five kataphrons are immediately set upon by the surviving members of the herd who have endured the harsh environment where the orks did not. Twenty-six squigs are cut down before they can cause more than superficial damage. ¡°E-SIM, please tell me the five largest energy signatures on Green Tick, their directions, and distance.¡± ++There is one source three hundred and seventy metres below us and four sources prowward, two in the keel and two in the spine. These are two hundred and twenty metres, six hundred and fifty metres, eight hundred and ten metres and one thousand one hundred metres. All measurements are approximate and actual travel distance, given the labyrinthine construction is entirely unknown.++ ¡°Not ideal, not impossible either, neither do we have to hit something important, I just want to. We¡¯re just here to distract them and I don¡¯t want to travel too far from the exit. How about large cavities filled with liquids?¡± ++There is one two hundred metres from you, sternward on the starboard side. It might be reachable if you travel back up the bore hole. A second is another eighty metres from here, along the centre line in Q4, our current quarter.++ ¡°Perfect. Thanks E-SIM. We¡¯ll try the second one you listed first, then go for the one near the exit if we can, then we¡¯ll leave. I know I need kills, but I don¡¯t want to be on the other end of it either. There¡¯s grasping an opportunity and then there¡¯s wallowing in it. I¡¯ve no intention of doing the latter.¡± ++Acknowledged Aldrich. Would you like me to pass on the information to Commander Muire and First Officer Lobhdain?++ ¡°Please do. I will inform the tech-adepts of our path. This will likely be our last possible communication until we return to the borehole.¡± I do so, then double check all the tech-adepts have a functioning teleporter beacon. They do and they direct the kataphrons down our best guess route. We follow in the centre of the formation, a rather strung out attempt at cohesion as the corridors are narrow, and reach the next room. The doors open before we get there and small, naked orcs charge towards us. I can¡¯t hear what they¡¯re saying, but I have a pretty good idea. Waaagh! Chapter Seventy The kataphrons cut down the orks with ease and trundle into the room, mowing down half formed orks and setting fire to thousands of tonnes of ork fungus. The cavern fills with smoke and spores, obscuring our vision and degrading the sensors slightly. There are six passageways from this seventy-five thousand cubic metre birthing chamber. It looks more like a fungus forest in a fantasy dungeon than the origin of a galactic threat. Twenty-five kataphrons and two tech-adepts remain to secure the area and we jog over the rough hewn floor and travel deeper into the vessel. As we near our target, resistance increases. Orks pour from large holes in the ceilings and walls, only to be shredded by heavy arc-rifles and plasma culverins. I¡¯m a little disappointed I didn¡¯t outfit them with heavy phosphor blasters and cognis flamers as they are much better at burning away the spores shed by dying orks; these kataphrons were originally configured to tackle tau mobile and infantry armour and machines, not sapient fungal bio-weapons. We blast through the opposition and enter a two hundred and forty thousand cubic metre cavern. The room is filled with rusting tanks that stretch fifteen metres from floor to ceiling. There are over two thousand orcs in the room and Emperor knows how many gretchin and snotlings. I can¡¯t put enough power into my auspex to get an exact count. My armour picks out seven mek-boyz, two mad doks, nine nobz, twenty one killa kans, and a deff dread. Wondering what could possibly require this level of force to defend and have orks actually do it, I query my auspex and get an odd mix of highly toxic chemicals; the main components are water, alcohol, and psychedelics. After a couple of seconds I snort. This is no mechanically vital resource, like fuel or reaction mass. Here be fungus beer to go with the gerblins. I won¡¯t die for a mission like this, but the orks should, which is all that matters. Every ork that can, and some that really shouldn¡¯t, open fire as the kataphrons race into the breach. Kataphrons push aside the battle servitors that are destroyed by ork dakka, turning the wrecked kataphrons into an advancing, expanding, semi-circle of cover. After sacrificing forty kataphrons, there is enough space for another one hundred and twenty-five to accelerate their push into the room and establish a forward point. The remaining sixty are still in the corridors. I¡¯m not pleased with my singular breach point as this is an incredibly wasteful and crude way to assault a room. The tech adepts and I stay well away from the carnage and I scowl as our losses mount. Eight minutes in and I¡¯m down fifty one kataphrons total in exchange for about four hundred and twenty greenskins. Seven of the eighty three fungus beer tanks are pierced and leaking and the orks are so enraged their eyes are glowing red. The kataphrons are slightly over-gunned. They kill everything they hit, which is impressive against orks, but they don¡¯t have a high rate of fire, which lets the orks get in close and hack at them with their choppas. Their arc claws are powerful and also kill everything they touch, but kataphrons are less nimble than orks and it is only supporting fire from their fellow machines that can save them, along with significant damage from friendly fire. Nine killa kans, after much prodding and the threat of a big gun, are cajoled by three mek boyz to charge my lines. Twelve kataphrons, firing in groups of three, work their way across the enemy assault, their heavy arc rifles stripping the killa kans of their motive force and blasting appart the squat constructions with ease. The ork fire stutters and their charging boyz slow their assault as their ¡®sure fire tactic¡¯ gets scrapped. The hollers and whoops of their fellows rapidly restores their confidence and the boyz and shootahs renew their attack. Three meks point their big gun at us through the walls. A runtherd grabs a snotling, tosses it a mek and he shoves the snotling into the weapon¡¯s breach. I don¡¯t question how they might hit us and dive to the floor. Before I can alert the tech-adepts or they can copy me, the weapon¡¯s maw opens and spins. A green glow ignites within the aperture. A burst of energy ripples over the cavern and two killa kans explode. A tech-adept shudders and claws at his chest then collapses. Two tech-adepts approach and run their auspex over him. Something bangs on the inside of the dead tech-adept¡¯s armour and his corpse shakes as something struggles to get out. Over a minute, the thing stops struggling and the body stills. Meanwhile, the other tech adepts spread out and lie prone. My local vox channel beeps and a female voice, with a slight tremor, contacts me. ¡°Magos, what was that?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not certain, Adept Ethne, but I believe that was a shokk attack gun. It fires snotlings, unprotected, through the warp and teleports them inside the target. The only thing that can protect against them is a personal void shield, which none of us have. They are not reliable weapons, and can fail catastrophically, but I don¡¯t want to roll the dice when our lives are on the line. We need to take it out before it can fire again.¡± ¡°Can we retreat? How long must we be a distraction for?¡± ¡°Ideally, another five hours and forty minutes. That should give enough time for Iron Crane to ignite its thrusters for the first time and assist Distant Sun in pulling the shipyard back into a stable orbit. The sooner we retreat, the more pressure it will put on the Stellar Corps. ¡°We¡¯re plan A, Stellar Corps is plan B, plan C is we evacuate everyone we can, try and blast the Iron Crane free and pray. At that point we¡¯d be pissing in the wind as it is unlikely we can crumble thirty-six cubic kilometres of rock in eighteen hours, after which the yard will no longer be recoverable.¡± Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°That¡¯s more serious than I thought, Magos,¡± says Ethne. ¡°Me too. We¡¯re out of contact as we couldn¡¯t find enough relays in time, so we don¡¯t even know how effective we¡¯re being.¡± ¡°Should we have used a few kataphrons, Magos, rather than throwing them all into the fray?¡± ¡°Yes, let¡¯s do that now. It really shows this is the first time I¡¯ve boarded a real enemy void ship. In our sims we always practised on imperial ships, as those are all we had plans for, and could piggyback off their vox.¡± Ethne folds her arms, ¡°We will know for next time, Magos. With your permission, I¡¯ll send a message back to the fungus room and have them establish a relay and order another twenty-five kataphrons back through the tunnel.¡± ¡°Do it. Place another twenty-five on patrols between here and the exit too. Let¡¯s not get flanked. We could even call for reinforcements if Commander Muire can spare any.¡± ¡°That will leave us with only ten to guard us. How about requesting the construction servitor reserve? No point throwing real people into this grindfest if we don¡¯t have to, especially as they won¡¯t have teleporter beacons.¡± I shake my head, ¡°We¡¯re not that desperate yet, they could replace the kataphrons around the anchors though and send the remaining kataphrons here. Suggest that course of action with the code I¡¯m going to send you attached to the message and request an additional two hundred and fifty kataphrons to standby. Update Commander Muire with what we¡¯re facing and why too.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± ¡°Once you¡¯ve done that, continue to work with the other tech-adepts and I will lead a push to take out that gun.¡± ¡°May the motive force guide your aim, Magos.¡± I cradle my heavy arc rifle and pat the barrel, ¡°That¡¯s the plan!¡± Pushing up to the forward position, I assign one thought stream to continuously curse to get it out of my system. The fear doesn¡¯t leave me, but it is satisfying. ¡°E-SIM, you can see my plans. Do you have any solutions to add?¡± ++I hesitate to call it a plan, Aldrich, but no, I have nothing to add++ ¡°Excellent.¡± I dive into the kataphrons¡¯ networked auspex and use it to supplement my own. I pick out the barely portable shokk attack gun and the surrounding greenskins, then assign four missiles to the gun and another six to the surrounding ten metres: two haywire, two krak, and six high explosive missiles. Ten micro-missiles are propelled from the launcher on my shoulder and zip through twenty metres of corridor and out into the cavern. They soar over the kataphrons, veer left thirty-four degrees and travel another eighty metres, weaving between the massive vats of fungus brew. The explosion shakes the cavern, killing over a hundred orks, then the shokk attack gun explodes. An ork fist sized orb appears in its place, sucking down the thin air, body parts, and liquids, absorbing the materials with a woosh, crunch, and splatter. My auspex reports it will take seventy four seconds for the orb to decay and it is letting off enough radiation to give every organism in the cavern a lethal dose. I¡¯m OK in my power armour, though I will need to go through some serious decontamination and likely replace the outer layers of my armour. The organic components of the kataphrons, however, will be an unusable mush within the next four to eight hours. Their machine components suffer minor damage, reducing the resolution of their auspex and the speed of their logis engines by an average of three percent. The orks don¡¯t know they¡¯re dead yet, even as they flee from the strange orb. I take the chance to expand our forward point and lob melta charges at the base of two vats. The charges explode and the air fills with pungent steam. The two vats topple over and eight kataphrons drive forward and punch their arc claws into the broken vats, then drag them back, adding to the ramshackle cover of my forward point. With the orks still distracted, I order every plasma culverin to fire at a vat. Blue-white light arcs over the barricade and into the vats, melting fifteen centimetre holes in the metal and boiling the brew. The light, bubbling, and fumes brings the orks¡¯ attention back to the kataphrons. The orks closest to the radiation orb already have blisters on their skin and I think some of them are blind. They stumble about tripping up the other greenskins or getting in the orks line of fire and die screaming. I feel a little bad about their grizzly demise. Killing orks feels like executing one¡¯s retarded cockney cousin. A cousin that doesn¡¯t know any better, but is too dangerous to deal with in any other way. One feels guilty at their joy and relief that they¡¯re no longer a problem and delighted that they had some revenge on the gits, while wondering if that¡¯s a morally acceptable emotion. Yes, it¡¯s also a brutal battle for the survival of the human species, but some humans behave in as cruel and destructive a manner as orks, even without the influence of chaos. There¡¯s just enough common behaviour patterns between orks and humans that it feels like I¡¯m killing them for the greater good, which is just the worst. The kataphrons manage to gun down a third of the greenskins as they flee, then rally. Ork reinforcements start to trickle into the cavern and I sigh. I hoped it would happen as it means we¡¯re dragging in orks from other areas. At the same time I am wrapped up in carnage and I really don¡¯t want to be here. Ten killa kans cluster behind the deff dread, then are shoved in front of the larger walker by the remaining mek boys. More boyz and gretchin gather around the crude walkers then, at some unobserved signal, assault my forward point right in the centre. The kataphrons focus fire. Many of their attacks are intercepted by reluctant gretchin, who are hurled in the path of the heavy arc rifles and plasma culverins. They boyz and a literal handful of gretchin reach the barricade and last just long enough for the killa kans to slice and push through the wrecked kataphrons with sparking, spinning blades. They push through into the centre, their proximity making it challenging for the kataphrons shoot them without hitting each other. The killa kans¡¯ saws and blades push back the kataphrons giving space for the deff dread to push into the centre where it hoses down everyone and everything with its big shootas, skorcha, and a pair of power klaws. We start losing kataphrons rapidly. The deff dread¡¯s armour is thick and I¡¯m not confident my micro-missiles will be enough. I try anyway, launching my three remaining krak-missiles. One hits the centre chassis and fails to penetrate. The other two collide with the deff dread¡¯s skorcha and wreck it. Shouting through its horrendously loud speakers, the deff dread imparts an unintelligible comment and storms through the melee and into the corridor. Well, would you look at that? It¡¯s coming right for us. Chapter Seventy-One The deff dread stomps into the corridor, its big shootas thundering relentlessly. Heavy metal slugs ting off the kataphrons¡¯ breacher plates, treads, and armoured chassis. The tech-adepts and I take cover behind the kataphrons. Seven heavy ark rifles and three plasma culverins fire at the lumbering mechanical walker and blast it apart. Hot shrapnel and sizzling ork chunks ping and splat off the surrounding rock. With the deff dread repelled, I wade into the fray and lay into the killa kans with my pipe and mechadendrites, freeing up the kataphrons to repel the ork assault and recover their line. I retreat back to the corridor before the orks organise enough to snipe me. An hour into the fight, new kataphrons trundle down the borehole to reinforce our position. The orks were clearly waiting for more battle servitors to turn up as they attack them from all angles as they descend down the borehole and through the corridors. Mr Cygunus finally gets his big moment and many orks are scattered by the thunderhawk¡¯s supporting fire, though only eighty kataphrons make it to the beer room; twenty are lost to ambush and another twenty-five are diverted to secure our retreat. While the adepts and I can teleport out, I don¡¯t want to throw kataphrons away and recovering their bodies denies rare gubbins and gizmos to the orcs. The orks are pressuring our back line, though it holds fast for now. With the beer battle in a deadlock, I take a moment to examine the other theatres. Distant Sun has engaged its main thrusters and is angled so that the thruster plume does not scour the shipyard. It has to continuously manoeuvre to maintain its angle The shipyard is still spinning and on a path to deorbit, however, its descent has slowed and we now have twenty-seven hours grace. Erudition¡¯s Howl is thirty-six hours distant and still accelerating towards Marwolv. Solid Slug is decelerating and its wild spin is almost gone. It appears they had some secondary thrusters that will save them from a crushing death. A shame. Ork assaults on the Iron Crane and the shipyard have slowed. They¡¯ve only sent one in the last hour and it was twenty percent smaller than the previous three. The smaller assault never reached any of our lines and our casualty rate was thirty percent lower than the previous assault; I consider losing kataphrons here instead of heralds out there worth the expense. The beer battle continues for another two hours. Most of my initial kataphrons have been destroyed, as have all the orks who we first encountered. Two thirds of the beer vats are completely slagged, filling the cavern with a maze of cover. Fewer shots are exchanged than before. I¡¯d like to remove the broken kataphrons and recycle them, but they keep getting pushed into the barricade, maintaining our defensive cover. The orks¡¯ initial fury has burned low and they are content to take potshots at us as they gather supplies and boyz for another assault. Ominous rumbling is reverberating from within the most distant corridor from our forward point and I am getting anxious. There is a small lurch and gravity drops, many orks start to float and the kataphrons pick them off. I check my reports and, thanks to the supreme effort of my officers and crew, Iron Crane has fired its main thrusters for the first time. Iron Crane has ten main thrusters, three massive ones in the centre, with seven smaller thrusters arranged in a circle around the centre three. Four of the minor thrusters are firing and have halted our descent. So long as we can hold long enough for Erudition¡¯s Howl to assist, or get another thruster running, the yard is now safe. A big grin creeps across my face and I pass on the good news to my tech-adept retinue. A light appears at the far end of the cavern and an arvus lighter, covered in extra spikes and random guns, floats into the cavern. I recognise the craft, it¡¯s the one I released to Bola and his little horrors. It¡¯s a small craft, with a rectangular fuselage eight point five metres long, three point six metres high, and a eight point two metre wingspan. Enough vats have been destroyed that the arvus can fly around the cavern without bumping into anything. It approaches our forward point in reverse with the back ramp open. I keep the kataphrons from targeting the arvus and the orks mostly stop firing in my direction, their curiosity overcoming their need to bash ¡®eads in, if only for a short while. Upon the ramp is a large gretchin, dressed in a white robe and pointy hat, waving a slugga (pistol) in the air. The arvus lands on the field of corpses between the two sides. ¡°Come on out, Rusty Slayah! I¡¯m wearin¡¯ a white flag an¡¯ everythin¡¯.¡± I snort and leave the corridor, then weave around the kataphrons to the barricade, ¡°I see you Bola. You¡¯re supposed to wave the flag and wear the gun, not the other way around.¡± I shake my head, ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d survive a decade either.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s ¡®umie thinkin¡¯ dat is. Wavin¡¯ a gun means peace ¡®cause it¡¯s not pointed at yah. White is so if da messenger gets shot everyone knows who done it.¡± Bola shakes his head, ¡°Anyways, why would yah curse me like dat? I is invisible, invincible?¡± Bola scoffs, ¡°Same fing anyways.¡± ¡°Forget that, Bola. How did you find me?¡± ¡°Well, Boss Spikesnik, he¡¯s still mad you blew half ¡®is noggin¡¯ off. You mustah knocked somefin¡¯ lose ¡®cause he¡¯s had a right nose for a gud fight evah since. Led us to a couple of other kaptains, gave ¡®em the heave ho and nabbed their shiny roks. Den, next fing we know some horny red git says he knows where yah at an¡¯ he says he will point da way, fer free! Madness is wot it is. ¡°Anyways, da Boss says ¡®Deal¡¯ and den we get shoved out some angry bird and sent spinning in fer a proper crash. A few ticks later, you come after our beer. Dat¡¯s just mean.¡± I fold my arms, ¡°Not my problem that you can¡¯t keep your grog, Bola. Your lot spent all their efforts going after my shinies instead and got krumped. What are you gonna do about it, anyway?¡± ¡°Well, fing is, I might o¡¯ said dat I could get Rusty Slayah to duel da Boss.¡± If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. I really want to face palm. Instead I focus on what matters, ¡°What¡¯s it to you, and what¡¯s in it for me?¡± ¡°I may have added a couple extra gubbins to da Boss¡¯s new skull. Got a handy little doodad in my sweet ride dat lets me pop ideas in da Boss¡¯s head. Make ¡®im fink my plans, is his plans, get it?¡± ¡°Let me guess, he¡¯s starting to catch on.¡± Bola clears his throat, ¡°Well, da short of it is he needs ta go an¡¯ I ¡®ave a bit o¡¯ teknologee for you. Grabbed it from some scrap we found floatin¡¯ in da warp. Kill da Boss an¡¯ it¡¯s yours. I¡¯ll lead you to ¡®im an¡¯ everythin¡¯.¡± ¡°What does it do?¡± Bola shrugs, ¡°Dat¡¯s your problem, Rusty. Besides, yer supposed to gamble fer a fight. Offerin¡¯ you decent shinies is like cuttin¡¯ me own throat as it is.¡± ¡°Show me first.¡± ¡°Fine. You can poke at it while I fly you to da arena.¡± ¡°Good enough.¡± I vox my retinue, ¡°I¡¯m going to duel the ork boss, the katpain of this rok, for control. It is the quickest way to end this and incredibly dangerous, at least for me. Winning will send the orks into disarray as they chose a new boss and, if I make a good enough show of it, subdue the orks for long enough I can bully them into pissing off back to the warp. ¡°We should win a fight with them, but I¡¯d rather use those resources and personnel for something else, like aid for Marwolv, and fixing and finishing the Iron Crane. We really can¡¯t afford the risk of losing either. ¡°You may come if you wish, but you will not be safe and, no matter what, cannot help me.¡± ¡°What do you recommend, Magos?¡± messages Adept Ethne. ¡°For your safety? Don¡¯t come. If you want a good recording to show in the pub, bragging rights, and to back up your boss in a lethal, voluntary addition to the mission, step up and join me. If you¡¯re going to come, make sure there are at least three of you and you must remain with Bola¡¯s crew. Bola is the large gretchin dressed in white. You can recognise his crew by the fancy dress they wear.¡± ¡°Are all xenos this weird, Magos?¡± ¡°Bola is an exceptional individual, with all the multilayered context you can stuff into that qualifier as you can manage.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know enough to evaluate your choice to duel, Magos. I do understand that without your guidance we will likely all die, a rather long and drawn out demise at that. I¡¯d rather get it over with.¡± Ethne lets out a low chuckle, ¡°The suspense might be enough as it is!¡± ¡°Happy to have you, Adept Ethne. Anyone else? Join me at the forward position please.¡± Three of the remaining seven adepts join Ethne Shay and jog to the forward point: adepts Bryn ¨® Cill¨ªn, Laisren Toolin, and Igraine Yorath. ¡°I appreciate you coming. I need the remaining four of you to retreat to the secondary line in the mushroom spawning cavern and continue to coordinate the kataphrons with the other two tech-adepts. I may be heading to a duel, but the orks will likely continue to push regardless. I am hoping, however, that this duel adds significantly to the potency of the distraction campaign we are running. Magos Issengrund out.¡± I place the remaining tech-adepts on a new channel with the two back at the forest. My retinue forms up on me, four tech-adepts and four kataphrons: two breachers and two destroyers. We stride onto the arvus lighter. The machine-spirit aboard, a bird made of ginkgo leaves, immediately starts babbling at me. It is irate at the state of its craft and the additions that have been welded to the fuselage. The arvus is, remarkably, still within safety parameters so it continues to function reluctantly. However, the additions place it close enough to the redline that small errors and faults could disable the craft. I have to transfer the machine-spirit to my armour and infiltrate the arvus¡¯s systems to control it manually before Bola¡¯s pilot can get the shuttle to stop throwing up errors, speeding up our departure. So long as I am in range, the arvus will function normally, but the moment I can no longer connect to the craft it will fail. It will take some serious programming to get it functioning again. Bola points at a vox array secured to the floor in the corner of the hold, ¡°Dat¡¯s yer payment. Not much good wiv only one of ¡®em, but I doubt it matters to you.¡± I approach the device and connect to it with a mechadendrite, letting my armour and servo harness power the device. It is a rectangular box, a cubic metre in volume with two folded dishes and seven recessed antennas. A scuffed and scarred half-metal, half-bone skull and cog of the mechanicus is displayed on one side of the box. My armour¡¯s machine-spirit, a small eastern dragon, slaps away three large moths that try to swarm it as we connect, then bathes the intrusive code in digital fire. The machine-spirit within the vox relay is damaged and struggles to communicate, throwing up errors and reporting data loss. I can¡¯t help it right now, though I do manage to extract the parameters of the device before I shut it down again. I am both excited and disappointed. This vox relay is neutrino based and works a little like laser communications. The difference is it can cut through almost any obstruction. The downside is it can¡¯t cross void shields and it only works between different relays, not hand held devices. I¡¯ve never heard of the mechanicus experimenting with neutrino communications, so I don¡¯t know if this is lost technology, a dead end experiment, or a rare prototype. Risking my life for a device that, if it¡¯s even possible, may take decades to duplicate isn¡¯t ideal. It¡¯s also too big a prize to not take the risk, despite its niche applications, when I include all the immediate benefits I receive for stomping a warboss. I hate decisions like this. There isn¡¯t really a right choice here and the only thing that¡¯s really pushing me to do so is E-SIM¡¯s golden skulls. I haven¡¯t killed a prominent leader before and this is my chance to discover if it makes a difference. The arvus lighter navigates Green Tick at a sedate pace, transporting us to the front of the vessel. Through the external sensors I count tens of thousands of orks bashing and hollering at each other. I realise that the only reason we haven¡¯t lost yet is because they don¡¯t have enough space suits, nor can they muster at speed when Green Tick is a convoluted warren of tight corridors and clan territories. This duel suddenly became a lot more important. ¡°Sweet digs, eh, Rusty?¡± ¡°So long as I don¡¯t have to stay, it can be as sweet as you like. Where¡¯s your little empire of long fingered looters hiding in this green tide?¡± ¡°Gretchin don¡¯t gather in big numbers, dat¡¯s just askin¡¯ for a stompin¡¯. We¡¯s spread out in da smaller tunnels where da boyz can¡¯t bash through wiv out a bit o¡¯ huff an¡¯ puff, so long as dey don¡¯t get smart an¡¯ prod a squig down the ¡®oles dat is.¡± ¡°Bola, if you don¡¯t sleep among more traps than you have fingers and toes I will eat my hat.¡± ¡°Yah don¡¯t have a hat, Rusty.¡± ¡°What does it matter if I¡¯m always right? Besides, your Boss has one. I should see if it fits.¡± ¡°So long as ¡®is ¡®ead comes wiv it yah can do what yer like. Yah might have to toss though. Throw it to da crowd before dey mob yah.¡± ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary.¡± Bola shrugs, ¡°It''s yer krumpin¡¯.¡± ¡°What, not even a lick of confidence I can pull this off?¡± ¡°Nah, I fink yah can do it. Yah always keep yer word, Rusty.¡± ¡°Trust is the currency of kings, Bola, and you can only afford to lie once. I¡¯m not going to waste that on you.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s a mighty fine opinion yah ¡®ave of yerself.¡± ¡°Smaller than yours, no doubt.¡± ¡°Well yeah, I¡¯m a proppah greenskin. ¡®Course I¡¯m perfect.¡± The arvus lighter enters the largest cavern yet, a circular space thirty metres tall and two hundred metres wide with tiered rock and metal seating surrounding a gravel filled pit fifty metres across. A four and a half metre ork in crude power armour stomps around the arena waving his power claw in the air at the crowd. It¡¯s time for a Waaagh! of my own. Chapter Seventy-Two The arvus lighter sets down in the arena. I turn to Bola and say, ¡°Go hover out of the way. You¡¯re my ride out of here. My associates will keep an eye on my payment.¡± ¡°Whatever you say, Rusty. Make sure you finish the job this time, eh?¡± I hide my fear behind a jaunty wave and stop down the ramp into the arena. ¡°Give me a count, E-SIM. How many orks are there in this arena?¡± ++Approximately twenty thousand, and another thirty five in gretchin. There are multiple squads of armoured nobz, flash gitz and other specialists, as well as half a dozen different clans. The most notable is the Kult of Speed. They even brought their bikes.++ ¡°So we¡¯ve only been facing the dregs so far. I know one is not supposed to underestimate the orks, and I try really hard not to, but it looks like that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯ve done.¡± The arvus takes off behind me and parks inside one of the many corridors leading to the arena. Through my remote access I can tell Bola is already trying to cause trouble, but there isn¡¯t much I can do about it now. I lift my hammer into the air and roar, hyping myself up. The crowd love it and cheer too as they exchange bags of teeth, snacks, and part before the wandering squigs who have no idea what is going on and are becoming excited by the large, noisy crowd. Not to be out done, Spikesnik waves his power klaw in the air and stomps closer in his mega armour, the closest thing orks have to space marine terminator armour, the Imperium¡¯s most resilient infantry. The pilot light of Spikesnik¡¯s kombi-skorcha glows in the dim light. Three stikk bombs are clipped to his breastplate. There¡¯s some energy readings coming from his armour that I don¡¯t recognise. A tricorn hat sits on his head and a gretchin perches on his shoulder. Spikesnik¡¯s four and a half metres is more intimidating the closer he gets and his metal skull and bionic eyes are unnerving. ¡°Rusty Slayah!¡± Yells spikesnik. ¡°I be lookin¡¯ forward ta dis fer a long time.¡± Trying to draw out the encounter so I have time to scan and plan, I rest my pipe against the sandy floor and say, ¡°Spikesnik, you useless git. Just because you¡¯re bigger, doesn¡¯t mean you''re more cunning, or more brutal. You can¡¯t even manage the most basic aspects of what it means to be orky. It¡¯s so obvious that even an outsider like I can see what is plain to everyone here. You. Are. Weak!¡± The crowd hoots and hollers and four fights break out in the stands. ¡°I, Boss Spikesnik, am a generous ork. Big. Fighty. Lot¡¯s o¡¯ teef. I bring my crew fights,¡± He waves at the arena. ¡°I bring dem dakka,¡± He lets out a couple blasts of flame towards me. ¡°And,¡± He points a klaw at me, ¡°I bring dem entertainment.¡± Spikesnik spits at me then wipes his right foot slowly against the sand, like he¡¯s trying to scrape squig shit from his armour, and sneers at me. ¡°Wot you got over me, Slayah? A few bugs? Shoot up a few weak boyz and fink yer ¡®ard enough? I am da biggest. I am da boss. Today, Rusty, we fight. Da boyz ¡®ere watchin¡¯ are ¡®ere to laugh at yah. I¡¯m here to stomp yah. An¡¯ you, Rusty? Well, yer ¡®ere ta die.¡± I laugh and point my pipe at Spikesnik, ¡°Big words from a petty ork. You got something to prove?¡± I thump my chest with my fist and a loud clang echoes through the arena. ¡°Then why haven¡¯t you done it?¡± There are a hundred metres between us. Spikesnik breaks into a sprint with a yell, firing his kombi-skorcha. Metal slugs and burning promethium are launched towards me at high velocity. The bullets spark into light as they hit my conversion field and the promethium falls short, setting the sand alight with thick fuel. Spikesnik charges through the conflagration unperturbed and I return fire. I fire my heavy arc rifle, blasting Spikesnik with great gouts of fearsome energy. Spikesnik covers one hundred metres in six seconds. As he lumbers towards me, the strange energy reading flares and my counterfire is scattered by the orks¡¯ personal field: energy shielding similar to my conversion field. He fires his skorcha a second time at almost point blank and I leap sideways, unwilling to bet the sticky, burning fuel is travelling fast enough to be filtered out and neutralised by my conversion field. Roaring, Spikesnik tries to slow and turn, but his weight and momentum are too great and he blasts past me; his reach is great enough to take a swipe with his power klaw as I avoid his kombi-skorcha. I crouch beneath the blow, firing my heavy arc rifle up at his face to no effect. With a thought, I send an order to my servo harness. Four mechadendrites unfold and pull krak-grenades from my pauldrons, then flick their payloads at Spikesnik in a gentle arc. Four disk shaped grenades slip beneath Spikesnik¡¯s personal field¡¯s velocity limit and magnetise to his armour backplate. Spikesnik slows and jogs in a short circle and faces me a second time. The grenades explode and he stumbles. His face wrinkles in fury. ¡°Stand still you git!¡± I reply with a blast from my own flamer, setting the ork alight. He just laughs, ¡°¡®Ave ta do bettah dan dat, Rusty. ¡± What few auspex readings I get through the personal field suggest I don¡¯t have enough fuel to heat the five centimetre thick plates of his mega-armour to compromise its integrity or cook the ork within. The armour doesn¡¯t cover his whole body perfectly, but there is so much ork that minor burns do not phase him and his skin is likely thick enough to absorb significant lasgun fire and phosphorus rounds. The gretchin crawls from Spikesnik¡¯s shoulder and sprays Spikesnik with a fire retardant foam that drags the burning promethium off his armour and onto the sand. My hellfire pistol takes three shots at the gretchin and it flinches, but the gretchin is close enough my shots are dispersed by Spikesnik¡¯s personal field. It grabs one of the stikk bombs from Spikesnik¡¯s chest and lobs it at me. My hellfire pistol automatically shoots the grenade out of the air. I have three haywire and nine high-explosive missiles left. Setting Spikesnik as the target I sprint away and launch three haywire missiles followed by five high explosive missiles. The missiles launch in front of me, ignite and shoot up into the air then reverse away from me and come down on Spikesniks head. Spikesnik¡¯s personal field holds the arcing electricity at bay, turning him into a lightning ball, then the high explosives hit and the explosion washes over the sphere of energy to little effect and I realise Spikesnik¡¯s personal field can likely withstand the combined fire of a Stellar Corps company for a handful of seconds and is completely beyond my ability to take down. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The next time I redesign my loadout I am adding shield busters to my grenades and missiles, maybe a fire extinguisher for my armour too. With great reluctance, I attach my arc rifle to my servo-harness, draw my pipe, and charge Spikesnik. I swing my pipe at his knee, trying to embed the crowsbeak into the small patch of green skin just above the joint. Spikesnik lifts his leg slightly and my blow hits his armour, vaporising a thin line of metal. My mechadendrites attach four grenades to Spikesnik¡¯s legs and I hose him down with nanites. An electric current arcs off the mega armour, disabling my nanites and zaps me too. My armour locks up a tenth of a second and I stumble. The gretchin, is hit as well and the electric discharge boils his blood and scatters him across the arena. ¡°Told you I¡¯d make it special. Did you fink I would forget?¡± The crowd cheer and fire the occasional shot at us, which miss by a handful of metres. Spikesnik tries to batter me aside with his kombi-skorcha, and I grab hold of his arm and let him fling me away. The grenades explode. Shrapnel and green blood spatter across the sand and Spikesnik yells. I had hoped to sever his knee, but alas, the resilience of ork flesh is as unnatural as it is bizarre and all I give him is a limp. The mega-armour¡¯s servos and pistons have been compromised though and are leaking lubricants down Spikesnik¡¯s left leg. He keeps turning to face me, refusing to let me get another shot at his back and I realise I may have to dismember him, rather than compromise his powersource and trap him in his own armour as I originally intended. ¡°E-SIM, can the advanced E-WAR suite disable the mega armour?¡± ++No.++ ¡°Dismemberment and decapitation it is then.¡± I focus my thoughts on my armour and my machine integration module converts them into binary. ¡°Power Armour Status?¡± A second machine-spirit answers, its voice a hissing whisper I can barely hear. ++Servos compromised. Artificial muscles degraded. Power armour speed and strength has fallen, on average, thirteen percent. Armour plates ablation at two percent. No critical damage. E-SIM link-up nominal. Nanite repair underway. Full function to be restored in fifty seconds. Estimated material reserve after repairs: ninety-six percent.++ Spikesnik unleashes a burst of dakka at me as I slide backwards. Flashes of light dance around me and I reconfigure the conversion field, pulling it into an oval, rather than a sphere, as well as increase the distance between the field and my front arc. Rounds begin flying past me without triggering the field. I don¡¯t really know how anyone could miss at such close range and I delight in Spikesnik¡¯s atrocious aim. His skorcha, however, has no difficulty in hitting me and I am bathed in flame. My armour¡¯s paint peels away, shedding the viscid fuel alongside it. I sprint sideways towards Spikesnik, slipping out of the raging stream of fire, knowing that, with the paint gone, I won¡¯t avoid damage a second time. My many minds focus on the problem, going over the details of the conversion field to see if I can lower its interception velocity, or link it to my auger and forcefully activate it, but it is too complex to reprogram so quickly and new code might accidentally disable the device. Spikesnik cuts off his flame and bullets. I accelerate my perception and everything around me slows. After the debacle with the space marine STC I¡¯ve avoided doing this, but now is not the time to indulge in my hang-ups, no matter how reasonable they may or may not be. At last I am able to track the bullets with my eyes and observe the boiling flames as they seep forward, overtaking each other in their race to thermal oblivion. With a sweeping uppercut, Spikesnik strikes at me with his power klaw. Anxious to avoid another paralysing discharge, I intercept the blow with a downward strike from my pipe, rather than try to grab him again. The two weapons clash, their powerfields contesting their might. Our bodies and armour strain against each other. Spikesnik is at least twice my strength and I am lifted from my feet. A component along Spikesnik¡¯s arm fails with a bang; I sever a klaw, then fall to the ground and land on my bulky feet. Surprised by the sudden failure, Spikesnik is unbalanced slightly and I go for his right knee with my pipe and my servo-arm grabs his kombi-skorcha while my mechadendrites whirl and cut into the oversized gun. Welds fail, screws fly and the kombi-skorcha is scattered over the arena in under a second. My pipe thumps into Spikesnik¡¯s right knee and vaporises the armour in a fountain of powdered, rusty metal. My second swing misses as Spikesnik retreats a step, pulling me along with him as my servo-arm is clamped to what¡¯s left of his kombi-skorcha. Spikesnik stabs his power klaw at my chest. My servo-arm rotates me to face the blow, even as I swing towards Spikesnik. I thrust my pipe forward, intercept the klaw and let the force swing me horizontally off Spikesniks arm, treating him like a gymnastics bar. Engaging my servos, I add extra momentum and rotate the servo-arm so I remain upright, rather than upside down like an acrobat. Four mechadendrites reach out and stabilise me, adding extra anchor points to Spikesniks armour and taking the strain off my magnetic boots and servo-arm. Spikesnik shakes his arm, and my servo-harness keeps me steady, letting me cling to the ork and pulling me towards the ork¡¯s shoulder. The audience dislike my acrobatics and jeer, calling me a pointy eared git, clown, and snotling. I despise the insinuations, though I do not let them distract me from the fight. Spikesnik triggers his electric discharge a second time. As I cling to his armour, the powerful current flows over my armour to little effect as I am too far from the ground. Perhaps the orks think I am cheating or lack sportsmanship because two-hundred and seventy-six orks open fire, trying to shoot me from my perch. Two thirds of the shots go wide and the third that actually hit are intercepted by Spikesnik¡¯s personal field. The rokkits, I feel, are a bit much though. Twenty-eight rokkits scream towards Spiksnik and I: my hellfire pistol picks off ten rokkits, another twelve miss and explode around Spikesnik and I take out four with my last missiles. I fail to intercept the final three. No matter how I try to hide behind Spikesnik¡¯s bulk, I will be hit by at least one of them. While he is distracted by the incoming fire, I kick his hat off and bring my pipe down on Spikesnik¡¯s over-wrought cranium, disintegrating a chunk of his head. Then, for good measure, I draw my backup phosphex pistol, stuff the barrel into his grey matter, and unload four rounds into his skull cavity. Being so close renders Spikesnik¡¯s personal field ineffective. As Spikesnik¡¯s brain and cybernetics burn with hot, white light, a mechadendrite grabs my MOA shield and interposes it between the missile and I. The tank buster missile shatters the shield and mechadendrite. The focused plasma spike created by the explosives is much longer than I thought possible and cuts through my breastplate and under armour. My new hyperweave musculature and armoured organs mitigate the rokkits remaining force. I am rattled by the explosion, though my servo-harness and boots keep me firmly attached to the mega armour. The other two missiles collide with Spiksniks breastplate and backplate, burning holes right through his armour and cooking his tough flesh. My injury is debilitating, though not fatal, and I have to switch control of my arms to my armour via my machine integration module as my chest muscles are damaged and inadequately anchored to my shoulders and arms. I have also sustained minor damage to my lungs as, even with their flexible armour, they are still sensitive to the intense heat and impacts. E-SIM shelters me from most of the pain. With such a focused breach, my power armour¡¯s functionality is only slightly diminished. Spikesnik sways on his feet and slumps, his armour locking him upright. I think he is dead, but I am taking no chances and my remaining mechadendrites shove three grenades through the burning white mess of his skull and down his throat into his chest. I leap from the armour and fall four metres to the ground and land unharmed. A haywire and two frag grenades detonate. The force of the three explosions is contained by the mega armour and focused upward, showing the arena and I in gore. The crowd yells and erupts into violence. E-SIM filters out the words and correlates the data. ++Congratulations on your victory, Aldrich. The orks are split into three sides. A third think they accidentally killed the boss and therefore they are in charge, another third supported Spiksnik and believes that they are entitled to his power. The last third want to have a go at you, thinking that killing you makes them the boss, but are getting swept up in the fight between the other two sides.++ I saunter over to Spikesnik¡¯s hat and a mechadendrite reaches out and places it on my head. ¡°That sounds bloody perfect, E-SIM.¡± Chapter Seventy-Three As pandemonium erupts around me I recall Bola¡¯s arvus lighter remotely. It sweeps over the fighting crowd and, as it approaches, I jump into the air and grab onto the fuselage with my servo arm. I smack the side airlock button, then haul myself inside as the door opens and the arvus accelerates away, all while keeping the Spikesniks hat on my armoured head. Within the arvus¡¯s hold, a battered and stripped Bola is locked into a jumpseat, as are the other fourteen gretchin. Tech-adepts Ethne Shay, Bryn ¨® Cill¨ªn, and Laisren Toolin stand guard in their carapace armour, cradling their lasguns. All three are tethered to the floor and ceiling with electromagnets and hyperweave rope, but still have decent manoeuvrability thanks to the two motorised reels of additional rope on either hip. I spot Igraine Yorath through the open cockpit door sitting in the pilot¡¯s seat. As I enter Bola gives me a slow round of applause, ¡°Well done, Rusty Slayah. That was a right proper scrap.¡± I Ignore the predictably treacherous xeno and address Ethne, ¡°Let me guess, Bola tried to flee and the controls, for some mysterious reason, didn¡¯t function. Bola and his crew got violent and you kicked the shit out of them.¡± ¡°The kataphrons did most of the work, Magos, though I suspect you already know that.¡± Ethne reaches over and shakes my hand. ¡°Congratulations on your victory, Magos.¡± She glances at my chest. ¡°Do you require medical aid?¡± The arvus thrusters whine as we pull a sharp turn and Bryn loses his grip, but his tether stops him from being thrown around the hold. The arvus evens out and Bryn re-grabs the handle. I glance at Bryn then turn back to Ethne, ¡°The wound is already closed and I will be back to one hundred percent in four hours. The armour will be repaired in twenty minutes.¡± ¡°Your auto-sanguine is much better than mine, Magos. It would seal such a wound, but it would take two weeks to heal me from that much damage and I would require extensive surgery. I didn¡¯t know there were automatic repair systems available for power armour either.¡± ¡°Well, if I ever figure out how to get them working for other people, I¡¯ll make sure it is available for the crew to purchase.¡± ¡°Perhaps you could create a research group?¡± ¡°I have several projects in mind I will be addressing once our current emergency is under control. Were you hoping to head one, Ethne?¡± ¡°I would like that, Magos. Perhaps something suitable for a doctorate?¡± ¡°We¡¯d all like one, Magos,¡± says Bryn. ¡°Perhaps more studies into safety gear?¡± he chuckles. ¡°You¡¯ll get a list to choose from with their budgets. I¡¯m going to establish a prize list too, for less urgent, minor projects. Projects that anyone can try to solve, with a second, larger bonus if the fleet adopts a participant¡¯s solution. I doubt you¡¯ll have time for these if you are pursuing a major project though.¡± ¡°That does sound appealing, Magos,¡± says Bryn. ¡°I¡¯d rather join your classes, if that¡¯s OK,¡± says Laisren. ¡°My tutor is excellent, but no one becomes a full tech-priest without your approval, Magos. I want to be more than a tech-adept. Much less likely to end up on the front lines again that way.¡± ¡°Nowhere is truly safe, Laisren, but you are clearly willing to work, I have no issue in mentoring you. You will have the extra opportunities you seek, but you will be held to a higher standard too.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos,¡± says Laisren. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡± I raise my voice, ¡°Anything you¡¯d like to add, Adept Igraine?¡± ¡°How about my own ship, Magos?¡± I laugh, ¡°You¡¯ll need to do more than lead one boarding assault for that, Igraine. I will place you on the officer track where you will be given such opportunities and a one time contact code for a single, moderate favour.¡± ¡°Cheers, Magos! Can I please have the controls?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be reckless, you¡¯re only qualified for a D-POT.¡± ¡°You¡¯re using the auto-pilot, Magos.¡± ¡°I can only fly a D-POT too, Igraine. Now that you¡¯ve all grabbed your opportunity while I¡¯m recovering from the euphoria of winning a duel with a warboss, it is time to focus on other issues.¡± I turn my attention back to the gretchin. ¡°Feeling secure, Bola?¡± ¡°Right cosy here, Rusty. Give me my ride back an¡¯ I¡¯ll show yer ¡®ow to fly. Back to the big ¡®ole you dropped in by, yeah? ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that, Bola. I recorded the route. You just sit tight and enjoy the thrill of high speed flying and no control whatsoever.¡± ¡°Dat wasn¡¯t part of da deal! Neither was hangin¡¯ around ta watch you bash ¡®eads wiv Spikesnik. Why you gotta pick on me for it? Yer should ¡®ave been more specific.¡± ¡°Neither was running off with my prize. Especially before I could claim it.¡± Bola snorts, ¡°Well if yer insist.¡± ¡°You mentioned I always keep my word, Bola. Enforcing it counts too.¡± ¡°Geh! Yer supposed to keep yah fancy preachin¡¯ inside yer head, not spout yah nonsense like a prick.¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. ¡°It¡¯s the imperial way.¡± ¡°At least yer self aware. Bettah than most of yer lot.¡± ¡°How would you know? Did you meet any imperials since I saw you last?¡± ¡°Well, dey were ¡®umies. Called their planet after a metal, which is silly ¡®cause it was all ice. Dey had some impressive beasties though, built cities on ¡®em and floated through da ice. Spikesnik wanted to nab one but a rogue trader shot at us ¡®till he gave up. Dey only had a dinky little destroyer, but it was really ¡®ard to hit back fer some reason an¡¯ we had no way to get an ice leviathan in ta orbit anyways. Dey¡¯s way too big.¡± ¡°What was the trader called?¡± ¡°Who Cares?¡± ¡°Of course you don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Naw, yer not listening. By the time I found out about it, his name was: ¡®Who Cares?¡¯.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°Did you raid the world? Grab anything good?¡± ¡°Dey had a lot o¡¯ chems and nosh floatin¡¯ in orbit. We grabbed dat and jumped back ta da warp. Dat¡¯s why there''s so many boyz right now. Dey not killin¡¯ each other over grub.¡± ¡°How convenient.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t slow you down none, Rusty.¡± ¡°Your lot crashed into my shipyard. Twice!¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s not crashin¡¯, it¡¯s landin¡¯. Yer supposed ta start a fight with a smackdown, not a touchdown. Yer navy an¡¯ beakies do dis all da time. ¡®Ow is dis a surprise to yah?¡± ¡°Of course, how could I have been so foolish. No one would ever try to land and not start a fight. For a foolish moment, I was beginning to like this galaxy.¡± ¡°Always ¡®appy to wreck yer views, Rusty. It wouldn''t do for yah ta pick up dem prejudices.¡± ¡°Oh yes, then I¡¯d just shoot you.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s da spirit! Now ¡®ow about you let me up, eh?¡± ¡°That might be a little tricky.¡± The arvus lighter swerves abruptly. ¡°Wot?¡± ¡°We¡¯re being shot at.¡± ¡°Those gits! Let¡¯s shoot ¡®em!¡± ¡°It¡¯s only a few stray shots, more like an involuntary reaction after spotting a moving object, I believe. We¡¯re half-way back and I don¡¯t think any of your ill mannered fellows know about the current leadership trials. Stop asking to be freed and we¡¯ll transfer everything at the spawn room. You¡¯d only bounce around the place anyway.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± We rush through the narrow corridors and return to the fungus brewery. Three hundred metres from the brewery we run into some of the brewery reinforcement, a battlewagon and some thirty bikers. The battlewagon is a long, boxy, half-tracked vehicle covered in spikes and teeth like some zombie prepper¡¯s one and only true love. The battlewagon is topped by the most ridiculous, oversized turreted gun, three ¡®eavy shootas, and half a dozen gun ports. Boyz stick their heads out of the gun ports, rather than their weapons, squinting and smiling at the force of the wind against their face. We buzz past them with millimetres to spare, our air and thruster wake washes over them, knocking eight bikers off their rides, and our right wing decapitates three of the orks who have their heads out of the gun ports. I suspect the ginkgo leaf machine-spirit piloting the arvus from within my armour felt an objective lesson in health and safety was required. The battlewagon crew object to the machine-spirit¡¯s precision flight and their weapons track us as we flee. Their main cannon fires just as we take the next corner and the pressure makes the arvus wobble close enough to the wall that many of the ork additions are scraped from the hull. Shrapnel hits the arvus¡¯s rear like hail on a tin roof and the shuttle continues unaffected. We enter the brewery and the fight is back in full swing. The orks have pulled up a scrap barricade from all the fallen vats. There¡¯s forty metres of dangerous terrain between each side, littered with sharp metal, unexploded ordnance, and ork bodies. We shoot over both sides and through the corridor to our last stop. My servo arm grabs the vox unit, I pull the kaptain¡¯s hat from my head, hold it to my chest and give Bola a small bow, ¡°See you next time, Bola.¡± The five of us exit the arvus and it shuts down. ¡°Oi, Rusty, you forgot to release me.¡± I put the hat back on top of my helmet and pick up a slugga and a choppa from the ground. There¡¯s loads of them as the orks have been assaulting the spawning chambers too. I toss the weapons into the arvus¡¯s hold. ¡°There you go, Bola. Next time, don¡¯t try to welch on the deal, eh?¡± ¡°Gork and Mork will get yah before we evah meet again, Rusty Slayah!¡± ¡°If they choose to bless me, instead of you, there¡¯s not much I can do about it!¡± ¡°Sod off, Rusty. Next time you¡¯ll be paying me, an¡¯ it won¡¯t be a lousy gun.¡± ¡°You keep dreaming big there, Bola, and chase that non-zero chance.¡± Bola picks up the choppa with his feet, grabs it with his hand and starts sawing away at the duct tape the adepts trussed him up with, ¡°Dat¡¯s wot da new bosses improvements will be for, once I spike his grog. I¡¯ll add a remote control an everythin¡¯ this time. Den I won¡¯t ¡®ave to cough up me loot for a bail.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t let me catch you looting an imperial world, otherwise I¡¯ll have to kill you.¡± ¡°Dat¡¯s da fun of da game! Besides, it wasn¡¯t me. It was da boss and you did ¡®im in good an¡¯ proppah. I never stole nuffink.¡± ¡°It¡¯ll be the same for the next guy as well, I imagine.¡± I hand Bola a vox unit, ¡°Keep this safe. I might contact you on it.¡± ¡°Always a pleasure, Rusty, yah catch on quick.¡± Bola snatches the vox unit from my hand. ¡°Now piss off. I ¡®ave a cunning gretchin revolution ta plot.¡± I give Bola a well deserved two-fingered salute and join the adepts and eighty-seven kataphrons in retreat, the remains of the spawn room and paroling units. I also pull back another seventy from the brewery. A final twenty-three will remain, guarding the retreat. My Cygnus welcomes me back to his hold with a squawk and a slap on the back with his wing, which I actually feel through my under armour¡¯s tactile sensors. I hand control of the adepts and kataphrons back to Commander Muire and they jog over the rok, then shipyard, to the lines around the anchor points and the fortified entry points into Iron Crane and the yard. I strap into a jumpseat and turn the kaptain¡¯s hat over and over in my hands, struggling to control my shaking. The impact of what I¡¯ve just done washes through my thoughts. The thunderhawk returns to Distant Sun and it isn¡¯t until we land in the hangar I realise I¡¯d blanked out. I take several, deep, slow breaths, undo the seat harness, then stand. As I leave the thunderhawk, I check E-SIM¡¯s hud to see what rewards mine and my crew¡¯s struggles have gained me. The golden skull, however, looks different. Atop its brow lies a crown of blades with a single red jewel in the central socket. Now I know how to unlock the best gear and modules. I smirk then resist the urge to facepalm. Who¡¯d have thought that for a video game-like progression system the best loot came from the boss? Chapter Seventy-Four I check through my list of possible modules and many that were previously unavailable are now selectable. However, I can¡¯t help but be suspicious that navigator conversion, an absurdly valuable technology, was available for a mere thousand kills, rather than, now that I know they exist, a crown. The same logic applies for the top tier module that would turn me into a mini astronomicon. At the scale this universe operates at, that¡¯s like being rewarded for eating a sugared doughnut without licking your lips, with another doughnut. Just because you¡¯re chewing mouth first into obesity, doesn¡¯t mean you know exactly how it is going to affect you personally. That doesn¡¯t mean I won¡¯t take Homer¡¯s deal with the Devil though, as, with anything but the most vital of E-SIM¡¯s modules, if I don¡¯t learn how it works, E-SIM won¡¯t install one for me and, once I have learned it, I don¡¯t have to install it if I don¡¯t want to. I purchase navigator conversion and set a trio of minds to understanding it at an accelerated pace. My next limitation is age as I am approaching my seventies. Even though body tuning will extend my fitness and working life for another fifty years, my dreams will take far longer than that. I spend the last of my kills on a rejuvenat gland and regenerative hormones. These two work as a pair to extend one¡¯s lifespan to four hundred years while giving you the neural plasticity of a twenty year old human. They also massively enhance my natural healing, healing that will equal a navigator¡¯s regeneration mutation. As for the crown, the boss kill, that I have earned, I will need to give it some more thought. I am tempted by some of the survival gear STCs as they would benefit my whole crew and make an excellent trade good, both the STC and the product. I have so many complete, engineering grade STCs right now, however, that it is already a little silly and I have absolutely no idea how I am going to flog them all and get away with all my spoils. On the other hand, I could begin some of the warp infrastructure modules, or add krork energy harvesting to fuel the subspace technology tree. I return to Distant Sun¡¯s bridge. I am surprised to find second officer Daith¨ª Quill on the command throne, then I check the time and realise that Eire¡¯s watch ended over an hour ago. There are two second officers on Distant Sun, Daith¨ª Quill and Nadbroicc Geadais, who oversee the third and fourth watches. Seoras L¨´tair is the only third officer and manages the training shift. I oversee the first watch and Eire supervises the second. The second and third officers change every six months right now as they quickly end up as second or first officer on one of my moth class ships, and from there they have a chance to compete for the same position on larger ships, like Erudition¡¯s Howl and Iron Crane, and work their way up through my fleet as it expands. They always come back to Distant Sun for the first few months of their promotion before returning to their new vessel. Ideally, all first, second, and third officers would complete the full fifteen month cycle on Distant Sun, but until I have enough spare officers to get a flag bridge up and running, that just isn¡¯t happening. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m releasing Eire to make space for other first officers to train on Distant Sun either as she isn¡¯t just my first officer on Distant Sun, but my second in command if I am unavailable and that would mess with fleet command if she was working with another captain. I may, eventually, add an additional officer to perform my watch, but that would impact on my own skills. It would allow me to move between watches more easily though and take a more active role in training my officers, but I don¡¯t want to constantly hover over people while they are learning or working either, nor stand around not doing much. It¡¯s a little slow to fill in the positions like this, but having all the major officers train on my ship first where I can keep an eye on them has already pruned one despot who escaped screening and gives all my officers a common origin that they can chat about when communicating with each other. Daith¨ª Quill is an unusual individual for Marwolv as he is short, at one metre sixty-seven centimetres, which is interesting because it shows that the modifications added to Marwolv¡¯s inhabitants do not prevent genetic drift, or overcome environmental factors, like a famine during childhood, for example. I wave at Daith¨ª as I walk up the stairs. ¡°Nice hat, Magos.¡± ¡°Thank you, Daith¨ª. How did Eire look when you relieved her?¡± ¡°Well enough, though her bio-monitor thought otherwise and she went back to the medicae deck, just in case. Eire warned me to not connect to Aruna during combat too, so I should be fine for my full eight hours.¡± ¡°Glad to hear it, though now that I am here, a half hour stint to practise with the command throne will help you in the long run. We¡¯re not in a complete crisis anymore, unless something has changed in the last few minutes.¡± ¡°No, Magos. The immediate crisis is under control for now. While you were away, Eire coordinated with Commander Muire and Erudition¡¯s Howl. ¡°Erudition¡¯s Howl is due to rendezvous with the yard in thirty-six hours and, with its ram, plans to push the yard from the other side. That will give us enough leeway to risk the tethers. Commander Muire will withdraw and we can re-angle our own thrusters for a more direct trajectory and between Iron Crane, Erudition¡¯s Howl, and Distant Sun we will drag the yard back to a more sustainable orbit. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°There is some debate as to the length of time Distant Sun¡¯s tethers will function as our thruster plume will be great enough to scour the yard. This will keep the orks from assaulting from outside the hull, but, over time, will erode the asteroid enough to detach the tethers, likely before we can completely free the yard. Which, as you no doubt know, was one of the reasons why we configured everything at an angle in the first place. Longer tethers would be prone to snapping.¡± ¡°Good work, Daith¨ª. How fares Commander Dougal MacCrane and Dimpsy Fortress?¡± ¡°He is in contact with Prime Minister Callen Gunn and they are following the Gael Democracy¡¯s major earthquake disaster relief plan. It¡¯s the closest equivalent they have to an asteroid impact plan. Meanwhile, the orks harried the fortress and achieved little, then went on to raid anything that was moving along the roads. ¡°There have been over five hundred civilian casualties in these clashes, despite the rapid response of Dimpsy Fortress¡¯s D-POT¡¯s who swept across the continent taking out the ork¡¯s air support. Dimpsy Fortress lost one, class two D-POT, in the operation, one which has already been recovered. Two of the sixteen crew died on the downed craft.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad we could at least avenge them. What¡¯s the readiness for the Stellar Corps and local forces across Marwolv? Did Eire have time to assemble the information?¡± ¡°She did Magos. I have her report here. Would you like me to send it or read it to you?¡± ¡°Do both please.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. There are fourteen line companies of Stellar Corps heavy infantry stationed on the Distant Sun. Four are on board, ten have been deployed to the shipyard. Casualties are at thirteen percent, with seven percent fatalities. ¡°The shipyard has two companies and these have now been reassigned to search and rescue within the yard. ¡°Of the one thousand kataphrons we had on board, all were deployed and forty percent have been destroyed.¡± Brian, one of my servo-skulls, floats out from behind the command throne. I toss the ork hat onto him and he wobbles then floats over to me, scanning my armour. I wave him away. ¡°Despite being in a vacuum, so far our casualties are much lower than they were for Operation Sea Mither.¡± I poke at the hole in my armour, ¡°Not having to fight through prepared defences makes an even greater difference than I thought it would. Though considering the fight I just had, that really should not surprise me. Carry on Daith¨ª.¡± ¡°Armed construction servitors, ten thousand of them, fill out the Stella Corps front line on the yard and Iron Crane, Magos. They have MOA shields, pistols, and their industrial tools, and are commanded to engage the orks in melee when they get too close allowing heralds to pull back. ¡°Once withdrawn, and if the orks win, defensive installation traps are detonated and, if the assault is halted, the heralds can retake their position. This has happened once so far and we lost fifty-nine construction servitors. Commander Muire has already put in a research request for servitor pikemen, or similar troops.¡± ¡°So much for the far future. I¡¯m sure there will be all manner of new tactics born from this scuffle. What happened to the dogs?¡± ¡°All two hundred and eighty logistics cyber mastiffs assigned to Distant Sun¡¯s infantry remain undeployed as they are not equipped for void operations.¡± ¡°The Soviets didn¡¯t give Laika a space suit either. I feel silly for not realising a dog suit is required.¡± Daith¨ª frowns. ¡°The first animal sent into space was a dog named Laika, thirty eight millenia ago. There¡¯s massive archives of random trivia on the Distant Sun if you want to know more.¡± ¡°Thank you for your wisdom, Magos. May I continue?¡± I chuckle at Daith¨ª¡¯s sarcastic tone, ¡°Please do.¡± ¡°Stellar Corps forces on Marwolv total two hundred twenty-five line companies of heavy infantry. Each line company has twenty squads of fifteen heralds, five special weapon teams of six, and an officer core of six, per company. Two of the officers are tech adepts. Each line company has eight infantry fighting vehicles and two crassus armoured transports. ¡°There are ten companies to a battalion, and ten battalions per regiment with eight line companies, one command company and one logistics company per a battalion. Depending on the battalion, some line companies are swapped for tank squadrons, artillery batteries, or anti-air batteries. Anything you want me to elaborate on?¡± ¡°Start with the logistics and command companies. How has commander Muire organised them?¡± ¡°We have forty logistics companies in total. Compared to line companies, each logistics company has an additional twenty four infantry fighting vehicles, for a total of thirty six IFVs per logistics company. Thirty of their infantry are tech-adepts and two of the six officers are tech-priests. A flight of D-POTs assigned to them from the aeronautica as well. ¡°Logistic companies don¡¯t have special weapon teams like line companies do and more of their total personnel are required as vehicle crew, but, unlike armoured companies with their tank squadrons and ordinance batteries, the extra vehicle crew required doesn¡¯t affect the number of their heavy infantry squads. They also have three cyber mastiffs per squad rather than the single mastiff that the line and command companies do, for a total of sixty. ¡°Logistic companies have significantly more mechanisation. Makes sense to me. Have we had any mobility or supply problems? ¡°We do struggle to move enough fuel, Magos, though no one has proposed a good enough solution just yet. The internal tanks on D-POTs are adequate for now and they can take barrels in their hold as well when needed. There has also been some call for more specialised vehicles for crossing rivers, rather than air lifting everything. This is a PDF request so that they don¡¯t have to wait for us to transport them and to reduce their reliance on road and rail as well.¡± ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll give it some thought. Command companies?¡± ¡°Each command company has eight command chimeras for their infantry fighting vehicles, rather than combat variants, though they don¡¯t have custom crassus armoured transports. Their special weapon teams are replaced with tech-adepts and two of their command squad are tech-priests, usually a lexmechanic or transmechanic.¡± ¡°No rune priests? I would have thought more flexible thinkers would be assigned rather than data compilers or vox maintenance specialists.¡± ¡°The tech-adepts for the engineering companies are often on that career track, or learning to be enginseers, but Commander Muire is fond of a ¡®by the numbers¡¯ approach. She likes her commanders to be able to accurately calculate the odds of success for any given manoeuvre and keep a close eye on the accuracy of the logistics companies, minimising loss from theft and error.¡± I chuckle, ¡°I appreciate her thoroughness to maximum efficiency. Give me the armour company details next.¡± Chapter Seventy-Five Daith¨ª continues his report, ¡°There are forty five armoured companies. Thirty contain three tank squadrons of eight tanks each for a total of twenty-four tanks per company. That¡¯s seven hundred and twenty tanks between thirty companies. The other fifteen armoured companies have ten artillery batteries and five mobile anti-air batteries, also with three squadrons at eight vehicles per company. ¡°All armoured companies have the standard three hundred and thirty six heralds per unit. They swap their special weapon teams for thirty tech-adepts. The two tech-adepts in the command squad that a line company would have, are replaced with tech-priests. That puts them at slightly over ten squads of heavy infantry per armour company in addition to their vehicles. ¡°They also have the standard eight IFVs per company as well as two crassus armoured transports. Armoured companies are the only companies that can transport their entire complement of personnel simultaneously without D-POT support, though it does get a little cramped for the battery squadrons as basilisks and hydra are only supposed to fit two crew each, rather than the six that a leman russ does.¡± ¡°Any problems with the armour companies?¡± ¡°Leman russ and basilisks are horribly slow at thirty-five kilometres per hour on road, and twenty one kilometres per hour off road. Hydras and Crasus match at fifty and thirty kilometres per hour on and off road and are much closer to matching a chimera seventy and fifty-five kilometres per hour on and off road. ¡°Once again, Commander Muire has put in a research request to find out what we can do to even out the speed of our armoured companies and provide an enclosed chassis for the basilisk crews. She suggests that we borrow from the hydra design for the basilisks and increase the crew and secondary armaments for both hydras and basilisks from two to six. Oh, and give the basilisk crews auto-loaders.¡± ¡°That¡¯s reasonable. I¡¯ll add the alterations to the projects list I¡¯m compiling. I doubt she¡¯s the first to mention it, there may already be solutions somewhere in our databases.¡± Daith¨ª takes a deep breath, ¡°Finally, we have one strategic command company, one reconnaissance company, one cyber mastiff assault company, three engineering companies and nine construction servitor companies. ¡°Strategic command company is organised in an identical fashion to the battalion level command companies, with command chimeras, thirty tech-adepts, and two tech-priests. Unlike battalion command companies, our strategic command company also has a flight of D-POTs assigned to them, all of whom are configured for command as well. ¡°Initially, there were no cyber mastiffs assigned to them as they never march cross country. However, there were complaints and the standard one mastiff per line squad equivalent was applied, giving them twenty dogs. ¡°They¡¯d rather walk dogs than carry their own stuff, eh? Can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised.¡± Daith¨ª huffs, ¡°That¡¯s not it, Magos. Working with cyber mastiffs is considered a rewarding, or punishment task as it usually isn¡¯t stressful but takes a lot of time. It¡¯s like getting paid time off if you like them and a punishment detail if you don¡¯t, so the officers like using them for unofficial discipline.¡± ¡°Good. I approve.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll pass that on, Magos. Moving on to our three engineering companies, like the command companies, they also have a flight of D-POTs assigned to them. Additionally, five of every fifteen heralds per squad is a tech-adept and the special weapon teams are replaced with five tech-adepts and a tech priest while the command squad has four tech-adepts and two tech-priests. ¡°Engineering companies have additional infantry fighting vehicles like the logistics companies, totalling thirty-six. They also have three construction servitors companies assigned to them. ¡°Once again, dogs had to be assigned after an initial refusal by Purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich, but she didn¡¯t object that fiercely.¡± I sigh, ¡°I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll be delighted to inform me how much this conflict is costing us. How are the attached construction servitor companies arranged?¡± ¡°Construction servitor companies have construction servitors for their line infantry equivalent, kataphrons for their special weapon squads, and their command squads are four tech-adepts and two tech-priests.¡± ¡°Nice and simple. What¡¯s next?¡± ¡°The reconnaissance company, our only light infantry. They wear flak instead of MOA carapace void armour, though they still have hyperweave undersuits. They use Kalibrax V-1 pattern lasrifles, from the solar auxilia wargear STCs, rather than the mark one Marwolv pattern lasguns, and lack the continuous fire feature of the Marwolv pattern, but don¡¯t need to be paired to the MOA void armour either. ¡°The reconnaissance company has one flight of D-POTs assigned to them, outfitted with command equipment and an additional twenty-four infantry fighting vehicles like the logistic companies, though eight of those are command chimeras instead of the normal ones. Unlike almost every other company, they do not have two crassus armoured transports. Their special weapon teams only have direct energy weapons, like lascannons and plasma guns.¡± I nod, ¡°They emphasise speed, mobility, and power. It¡¯s a shame I don¡¯t have the appropriate stealth tech for them as well. Alright, tell me about our dogs of war.¡± ¡°The experimental, mastiff special assault company was established after Operation Sea Mither. Rather than twenty squads of fifteen heralds, it has fifty special assault squads with four dogs and six heralds per squad, a total of two hundred dogs and three hundred heralds. ¡°The special weapon squads are replaced with tech-adepts in power armour and the command squad has four tech-adepts and two tech-priests, rather than two tech-adepts and four heralds. They are the only company with no infantry fighting vehicles assigned to them and they are our most expensive company to field and took the longest to train too.¡± ¡°Thank you, Daith¨ª. I am going to summarise what you told me. Let me know if I get anything wrong.¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± ¡°We have a total of three hundred and sixty five companies: two- hundred and twenty-five line companies, forty logistics companies, forty command companies, forty-five armoured squads and batteries, three engineering companies, nine construction servitor companies, one strategic command company, one reconnaissance company, and one experimental cyber mastiff assault company. ¡°These are organised into thirty seven battalions, three full regiments and one partial regiment. We don¡¯t have enough personnel for a brigade, division, or a full corps.¡± ¡°Ah, hold up, Magos. I forgot to mention that there is an additional squadron of D-POTs assigned to each regiment, that¡¯s another four squadrons, totalling nineteen D-POT squadrons.¡± I nod and recalculate my numbers, ¡°To continue, at full strength, the Stella Corps has a total of one hundred and nineteen thousand, six-hundred and seventy personnel and two thousand, nine hundred seventy servitors. Of those personnel, one hundred and fourteen thousand six hundred and ninety are heralds, four thousand, six hundred and eighty seven are tech-adepts, and two hundred and ninety three are tech-priests. ¡°There are eight thousand four hundred and ninety cyber mastiffs, two hundred of which are assault dogs. The remainder are logistics dogs, though they are still quite vicious. ¡°There are seven hundred and twenty tanks, two hundred and forty basilisks, one hundred and twenty hydras, and three thousand, nine hundred and sixty four chimeras and seven hundred crassus armoured transports.¡± ¡°That¡¯s correct, Magos. Should I cover our air and water forces?¡± ¡°Absolutely.¡± For a moment I am reminded of my son, Jamie, and his endless love of discussing army lists at the dinner table. Perfect memory is both a blessing and a curse. A small smile, hidden by my helmet, flashes across my face; I¡¯ve totally blown the points budget. ¡°In the aeronautica, there are three flights of five D-POTs per squadron, with four class ones and one class two per flight, totaling ninety-six heralds per squadron. ¡°Each class two D-POT can hold three hundred and thirty-six infantry, their equipment, and sixteen, leman russ sized vehicles split between two, variable height decks, and lift one thousand four hundred and forty tonnes into orbit. Crassus, because of their large chassis, can only fit two per deck, though you can squeeze in extra supplies and mastiffs on either side of them. ¡°Each class one D-POT holds fifty-six infantry, their equipment, and two leman russ sized vehicles and lift three hundred and sixty tonnes into orbit.¡± I smile in wonder, ¡°I still find that lift capacity ridiculous. You can¡¯t max it when carrying personnel, fuel, equipment, or vehicles. You have to half fill the cargo hold with iron ingots.¡± ¡°I think that¡¯s intentional, Magos, as D-POTs can lose half their thrust and get people safely to their destination. Heavy cargo is less of a concern as it can be jettisoned in an emergency so we can afford to use the weight.¡± ¡°Good point. I know I¡¯ve built a lot of them but what else can you tell me about D-POTs?¡± ¡°A single line or command company can be deployed in one, class two D-POT. Usually though, they spread out a bit more, and every scrap of equipment and fuel they can requisition, filling at least two more class one D-POTs. ¡°Armour and logistics and reconnaissance companies always require the lift capacity of a full flight as they have more vehicles and need to bring a lot more equipment, ordinance, and fuel. ¡°Finally, one engineering company and three logistic, six line, and four armoured companies are dedicated to caring for the D-POTs assigned to the heralds. The rest of the aeronautica is serviced by the shipyard and Distant Sun. ¡°That¡¯s it, Magos. I can pilot, or load one, like all the other tech-priests, but I¡¯m a logis, not an artisan, and while following the correct rites I could maintain one, unlike you, I certainly wouldn¡¯t fly any I¡¯d built from scratch!¡± I chuckle, ¡°Let¡¯s hope that never happens then Daith¨ª. I¡¯ll check how many crew hours the Aeronautica is consuming. We may need to give them a battalion or two of their own.¡± ¡°I only have the high-level details at hand, Magos.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine, Daith¨ª. That¡¯s all I asked for. Finish the Aeronautica summary please.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. The aeronautica on Marwolv has eighteen squadrons based at Dimpsy Fortress and has thirty-six squadrons split between the other two continents. Eighteen squadrons have been grounded by exceptionally poor environmental conditions from the rok strike and a near miss.¡± ¡°Expand on that please. What did the Marwolv rok strike cost us?¡± ¡°Of the three continents on Marwolv, Brisgean, D?l, and Llannerch, D?l was the one that was hit. There is too much dust in the air to get a good picture of what is going on just yet. We have one base, called Drumbledrone, three kilometres off the west coast of D?l. Drumbledrone, like Dimpsy Fortress, acts as a combined land, sea, and air base, though nowhere near as large. ¡°The rok struck right in the centre of D?l, between the Monadh Republic and Pailt Empire, wrecking the Backalong River. Simulations suggest it is going to turn the centre of D?l into a vast swamp. ¡°Drumbledrone is currently subject to a lightning storm severe enough to ground all craft and some personnel have been blinded or are suffering from minor skin burns. It does not bode well for the Monahd Republic and the Pailt Empire. ¡°Additionally, Drumbledrone was subject to an air assault of strike craft and stormboyz. They caused minor casualties and kept us down just long enough that the weather became too bad for us to reconnoitre their base.¡± ¡°How frustrating!¡± I say, ¡°They almost certainly attacked immediately, just for the fun of it, yet it ended up being an almost prescient move in its effectiveness.¡± Daith¨ª nods, ¡°There¡¯s a lot of chatter on the vox requesting use of our kinetic strike weapons once we have the shipyard back in a sustainable orbit, with little understanding that they are precision weapons, with little hope of striking through the debris cloud, or causing meaningful damage to a metallic asteroid. It will take between four and six weeks before there is enough visibility for either us, or the orks to really do much, aside from try and build defences.¡± I fold my arms, ¡°It will be some time before they find out their boss is dead too. I would be surprised if they have better coms than us. Until they get a message through, they¡¯ll be working diligently.¡± I grimace, ¡°Bola might be getting a payday sooner than he thought. I bet he¡¯d love to spread a rumour or two.¡± Daith¨ª frowns, ¡°Who¡¯s Bola?¡± ¡°A gretchin on board the Green Tick who is open to trade.¡± ¡°Is that unusual, Magos?¡± ¡°That he survived so long and made it here is a miracle. Orks, in general, are loyal only to themselves and will cooperate with their clan and boss so long as it benefits them. This means they will also trade with anyone if you are significantly stronger than them, though they¡¯ll probably try and steal it back immediately. Let¡¯s get back on track. I¡¯ll summarise what you¡¯ve told me about the aeronautica.¡± Chapter Seventy-Six I collate everything in my head that Daith¨ª has told me and say, ¡°We have seventy-three squadrons, nineteen of whom are assigned to logistics support for the Stellar Corps. A total of seven thousand and eight personnel, eight hundred and seventy-six class one D-POTs, and two hundred and nineteen class two D-POTs. This does not include any of the D-POT squadrons assigned to our fleet or infrastructure in orbit.¡± ¡°That matches with my report, Magos. Ocean navy next?¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°Our ocean navy has three fleets, set up in the same way as the D-POT squadrons with three larger ships escorted by twelve smaller ones: three missile cruisers, escorted by eight destroyers, and four submarines. At one hundred thousand per cruiser, twenty thousand per destroyer, and forty thousand per submarine, our total tonnage is one point eight six million tonnes. With five hundred crew per destroyer, two hundred per submarine, and two thousand per cruiser, there are sixty one thousand and four hundred crew for our three fleets.¡± ¡°We do not have a logistics fleet as the ocean fleet is supplied by D-POTs from orbit, or one of our three continental fortresses, via the Stellar Corps logistics companies. The D-POTs are nimble enough to hover over a ship, or float in the water, though they don¡¯t have to do it that often as the ships are fairly self-sustaining.¡± ¡°I worked on those designs personally,¡± I say. ¡°The compact atomic, fusion reactors, and other power sources available to us are remarkable. Did you know our fleets filter the heavy water they need from the oceans they traverse, or can extend their food supplies almost indefinitely with fish and algae? Even metals can be extracted in small amounts, or gathered from the ocean floor.¡± ¡°I have my hands full with learning the intricacies of the Distant Sun¡± Daith¨ª shakes his head, ¡°and preparing for my advancement to other vessels in the fleet. The ocean navy has always felt rather distant to me. Sticking my nose into the details of someone else''s responsibilities wouldn¡¯t help my career either.¡± I laugh, ¡°Fair enough, Daith¨ª. Those are valid reasons, but you¡¯re missing the bigger picture. It¡¯s all technology; understanding machines exposed to a different set of environments and the unique engineering challenges that come with them, compared to the issues that you are used to dealing with, will open avenues for improvements in your own work. ¡°For all you know, the specific plasteel alloy used in an ocean ship for its extra corrosion resistance, might be three percent heavier, but be the perfect material for a highly caustic coolant you¡¯ve spend a decade working on for some ultra-light drone, and because you¡¯d set a weight limit in your data search you¡¯d filtered the exact material you¡¯d needed and your project came to a dead end.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a highly specific example, Magos,¡± Daith¨ª raises an eyebrow. ¡°Did that happen to you?¡± ¡°Ah, something similar. I initially limited my search for blood replacement for all our servitors to non-psycho active, instead of typing non-psyker. When, on a whim, I went to look for sacred oils instead, I didn¡¯t add that qualifier and found a blessed oil that could be used as a blood substitute but required a psycho-active chemical. A chemical that would have no effect because of how it was bonded to the oil and was warp resistant, even if it required rare, warp sensitive elements to make.¡± Daith¨ª smiles, ¡°I¡¯ll make sure to study the ocean ships, Magos.¡± ¡°Good. Now, what was Eire able to gather about the PDF?¡± ¡°The majority of PDF forces are held by the Gael Democracy. They have almost five hundred thousand infantry, though only a fifth of that is mechanised, like ours, nor do they have cyber mastiffs. Most of their logistics are completed by train. ¡°The PDF follows the same organisational structure as the Stellar Corps, though they have few tech-adepts or tech-priests within their ranks and are reliant on civilian contractors for most of their maintenance, most of whom are start up companies funded by you. One of Purser Brataich¡¯s initiatives, I believe.¡± ¡°We have a lot of those,¡± I say. ¡°Building wealth and ownership is an important tool in promoting cooperation and reducing discontent when uplifting lost worlds. It may not provide much of a monetary return, if any at all, and less scrupulous sorts might believe we are an easy mark. Meanwhile they are doing what we actually want, with their own efforts and giving us legitimate reasons to follow their every move.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what I thought those programs were about at all, Magos.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t think I¡¯d sell all those weapons and forget about them did you? While few traders care about the exact consequences once they leave a planet, they are concerned about getting positive results. A strong ally can trade for much more than a divided one, even if I have to create said ally from scratch.¡± ¡°They do perform their advertised task as well, right, Magos? I sent my parents most of my pay to invest in those programs.¡± ¡°Of course! Destroying trust is a terrible way to run a business. It¡¯s why Brigid has as many auditors as she does accountants.¡± ¡°Glad to hear it, Magos. Back to the report: the PDF personnel have no implants and do not benefit from extensive virtual training or accelerated learning programs. The PDF has had a few minor clashes with the tau, but nothing to really test them. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°They only have flak armour, and no hyperweave undersuits, denying them advanced optics or Marwolv pattern lasguns. They do not have MOA shields either. Instead, the PDF is fitted with triplex pattern lasguns, phosphex pistols, and special weapons squads with grenade launchers, rocket launchers, auto-cannons, and flamers. They don¡¯t have any lascannons, heavy bolters, or plasma rifles.¡± I nod, ¡°A good balance between cost and power, if a little reliant on ammunition stocks. What are the triplex pattern lasguns like?¡± ¡°Triplex pattern lasguns can vary their shot power, much like you plan to do for the mark two Marwolv. They don¡¯t go up to ¡®hellfire¡¯ or ¡®hot-shot¡¯ levels, nor do they have the extended range of the Marwolv. They¡¯re still much better and more efficient than most PDF forces are granted though.¡± ¡°There you go, Daith¨ª, even the report you¡¯re reading to me says we don¡¯t sell rubbish. No las-lock rifles, low powered ammunition, or other such nonsense.¡± ¡°I appreciate it, Magos. I suspect the whole crew do as well. We¡¯re all from Marwolv, after all and this is the second xenos invasion we¡¯ve had in less than forty years, even if the first one took twenty years before they showed their true colours.¡± ¡°We won¡¯t be running, Daith¨ª. My fleet will remain and assist until the orks are pacified. You¡¯ll never be free of them though. Those spores are almost impossible to root out. Daith¨ª sighs, ¡°Thank you, Magos. I have heard of volkite weapons and their great efficiency at limiting ork corruption. Could we make those?¡± ¡°We could, but volkite weapons are an awkward middle child; they are much more complex to manufacture and maintain than lasguns or bolter weapons, neither are they as efficient as lasguns, nor as versatile as bolters. I will admit they make good mobile armour and fixed defence weapons though, where their ¡®tech-burden¡¯ on a military, matches their power and practicality.¡± I sigh, and shake my head, ¡°They are something that we could field, but it would do no good to sell them to the PDF, at least for another decade, and I hope to be long gone by then. Perhaps Marwolv will be able to make its own by then.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a more complex situation than I was led to believe,¡± says Daith¨ª. ¡°That¡¯s almost always the case. You¡¯ve told me about the state of the PDF on Brisgean. How about D?l, and Llannerch?¡± ¡°There are three kingdoms on Llannerch and an empire and a republic on D?l. The three kingdoms support about two hundred thousand infantry each while the empire and republic are less militant, maintaining a hundred and fifty thousand infantry and minimal mechanisation. All countries are bereft of an air force and possess, on average, twenty-five tank squadrons and ten batteries. ¡°Thirty percent of the PDF funding comes from you, Magos, the rest is paid by the Marwolv¡¯s polities. We manufacture everything in orbit, or at our continental fortresses, Dimpsy Fortress on Brisgean, Drumbledrone on D?l, and Anglewitch on Llanerch. ¡°Marwolv has undergone significant industrialisation since you arrived, but most of that has been building out infrastructure, such as genatoriums, power grids, roads, rail, and ports as well as the facilities needed to construct them, like ferrocrete plants, mines, and foundries. ¡°You are still the only polity that can manufacture the required industrial equipment, especially cogitators, precision instruments, and medical equipment. The knowledge has been traded for and schools are in session, but they aren¡¯t there yet and still owe significant numbers of personnel and resources to you for all your assistance. ¡°If you were charging ¡®imperial rates¡¯ for these items, they¡¯d never pay it back. As it is, you effectively own Marwolv and all its polities through debt for the next three centuries, their international trading currency is bytes, and all their modernised financial infrastructure is reliant on your good will to function at cost.¡± ¡°Three centuries? That¡¯s a considerable incentive to return.¡± Daith¨ª sighs, ¡°You even control whether or not they can pay it back, as all the rare elements that are needed to produce the most advanced facilities and products, production that would generate the required income in a reasonable timescale, can only be gathered or synthesised in sufficient quantities from within the system and you are the only one with void based infrastructure and transport.¡± I wince, ¡°I did not realise it had become so out of hand. What happened to the Gael Democracy¡¯s policy of only purchasing goods they could maintain without reliance on my resources?¡± ¡°The tau, Magos. If they hadn¡¯t made such a mess, the only leverage you would have had is the threat of your ships in orbit, which you can¡¯t use without ruining the environment of the planet you¡¯ve been trying to advance, and killing off the people you want to recruit. ¡°Psyker presence on Marwolv is too high for subtle assassinations and leader replacements as well. Not to mention, it would be a challenge to enforce discipline and make your crew fire on their own world, or march towards their own homes.¡± ¡°I am aware of that, it¡¯s why the tau never attacked openly either, but I hadn¡¯t realised the tau were the ones to whom I owe my fortune, so long as I am able to return and collect it. I will have to talk to Eire, Brigid, Meave and Thorfinn about further investment and security if so much is at stake.¡± ¡°I think it would leave a positive impression on the crew, Magos, to know that, when they depart, their homeworld is safe. It certainly would for me.¡± I nod, ¡°I will definitely rethink my plans. The orks messed up my timetable anyway. Alright, back to the PDF. You mentioned what they¡¯re supposed to have, how much do they have left?¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know, Magos. Judging from the estimated energy of the strike, anything within three hundred kilometres is dead unless they were inside a ferrocrete and armourglass building. Anywhere near the coast, where the majority of the population is, has been flooded by tsunamis. ¡°All Marwolv is vulnerable to earthquakes, so buildings are designed to endure them and their aftereffects, so for now all we can do is hope such preparations have worked. ¡°Knowing where all the bases are and how they were built, Eire has estimated three hundred and fifty-thousand PDF personnel remain on D?l, five hundred and ninety-thousand on Llanerch, and four hundred and ninety-eight thousand on Brisgean. ¡°The Monadh Republic and Pailt Empire kept most of their armour on their borders and have likely lost most of it. The other countries should be fine.¡± ¡°Thank you, second officer, Daith¨ª Quill. Is there anything else in that report I need to know right this moment?¡± ¡°No, Magos. That¡¯s everything in the summary. I¡¯ve forwarded the report, so you won¡¯t miss any details if you go looking.¡± ¡°Excellent work, thank you.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll pass your words to first officer Lobhdain.¡± Chapter Seventy-Seven ¡°That will be all, Daith¨ª. Let¡¯s move on to your lesson. Don¡¯t just sit on the command throne, connect to it. I will watch over you.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± I oversee Daith¨ª¡¯s practice, connecting to the command throne with a secondary cable and guide him in how to parse that much data. He completes his thirty minute trial without trouble, though he is quite exhausted. Unfortunately for him, Daith¨ª still has another four hours left in his shift. Afterwards, I leave the bridge and travel to the navigator¡¯s spire. I sit in the chapel, upon the steps leading down into Quaani¡¯s sepulchre where he lies beneath a stasis field. His skin has a grey hue, his arms and legs are thin and disproportionately large to his frame, making him three and a half metres tall. If I did not know it was him, I would not recognise Quaani compared to the first time I found him. I pat his casket, ¡°Hi Quaani. I hope your dreams are pleasant.¡± Closing my eyes, I enjoy the silence. Taking multiple, large, slow breaths I realise the pain has subsided and my body and armour are back to a hundred percent. I focus on my examination of the navigator conversion E-SIM has provided me. Unlike the three words the Emperor bothered to spare for me when I first woke up, the papers describing the navigator conversion process contain several digital scans of the Emperor¡¯s hand written notes as well as scientific papers from hundreds of other studies that give the background information required to understand the detailed explanations of the conversion process. I don¡¯t know how the Emperor did so, but even in a digital space, His words glow with power, ready to fuel the conversion. His words lack the impact and flash of insight that were present in his good luck note. Instead, they hum with purpose, like ancient machinery waiting to roar back to action. Their power unsettles me and I feel there is something here I cannot see. There is a finality to these words that I believe will not just change my mind and body, but my fate too. If I accept this ¡®blessing¡¯, the Emperor¡¯s direct and deliberate touch would be upon my body. Well, more so than he has done already. Given his abysmal record of care for even his most vital of subjects, I am absolutely convinced this will screw me in a manner I won¡¯t see coming. One could argue that with so much out there to kill me, what does one more matter? There¡¯s a big difference, however, between random encounters, eldar plots, and demonic stalkers to having the Emperor take an interest in you, because then everyone else wants a glance as well. Before those consequences stab me in the back, my main hurdle is that, with the exception of the Emperor, navigator conversion requires a psyker to volunteer for conversion. The process can only be guided by a navigator of great power and skill in conjunction with the same type of arcanotech medical nanites that I have. The conversion also requires a specialised facility an order of magnitude larger than any vessel that I possess as well as multiple psychic batteries, i.e. psychers, to power the process. It is a project great enough it would take forgeworlds to cooperate to build the terran moon sized facility. The good news is that medical facilities for navigator maladies are much smaller and I could fit one inside an interstellar cargo container, or into every navigator spire. The bad news is that to help Quaani, it requires a navigator skilled in biomancy and the skills, tools, and knowledge of a magos biologis. A navigator¡¯s specialist powers do not delve into biomancy beyond alleviating fatigue, so this is already a major block. However, all is not lost. Since my fuck up with tau weaponry and tabletop rules I have learned that balanced gameplay, forty thousand year old lore, and my current reality rarely match. Considering how much the fictional lore contradicted itself, that really should not have come as the surprise it did. Now that I think about it, Aruna¡¯s avatar and the other machine-spirits were a big hint. However, I have observed that, so far, the broad strokes, like locations, major events, and the attitudes of the factions I have encountered are similar to those described in the videos Jamie uploaded to my card. From Quaani¡¯s studies at the clubhouse, I know that, contrary to my ¡®historical accounts¡¯, navigators can learn psyker disciplines on top of their third eye navigator powers. I have also discovered that all psykers and navigators are capable of minor powers in the five disciplines: Biomancy, Divination, Pyromancy, Telekinesis, and Telepathy. I haven¡¯t met or studied an astropath, another specialist psyker type. Astropaths receive their bonus powers from the Emperor at the cost of their vision, rather than through genetic engineering, like a navigator, or a chance mutation, like a standard psyker. One still has to be born a psyker to be soul-bound into an astropath though. I suspect astropaths are capable of the same minor powers as psykers and navigators are, but I am yet to confirm. For all I know, the soul-binding ritual that almost always burns out an astropath¡¯s eyes and connects them to the Emperor, stunts their power elsewhere. There are verified accounts of faith miracles achieved by ministorum priests and the sisters of battle in the Distant Sun¡¯s database but no data on if they are a psyker based power channelled by the individual borrowing the Emperor¡¯s power, or if they are the Emperor reaching out a pushing his own power through a sufficiently devout individual. I have no idea if these blessed individuals are psykers or not. I can confirm that most navigators and psykers are hardy and can resist disease and mutation, detect immediate threats, spew a two metre cone of warpfire, levitate small, light objects, and sense strong emotions, without putting themselves at risk. Anything else requires significant discipline, knowledge, and practice. For a navigator, using psyker powers negates the natural protection against corruption, mutation, and possession that channelling the warp through their third eye grants. This protection limitation was confirmed by both Quaani, who found he had to resist such terrors when using psyker powers, as well as the information E-SIM granted me. Given the demon exorcising properties of their eyes, a canny and determined navigator could, potentially, exorcise a demon that tried to possess them before it could get too great a hold. I have no accounts of someone being possessed twice, and the Imperium has been known to experiment with demon possession to create incorruptible individuals. While it almost always ends in a darwin award, it works just often enough that people keep trying it. Creating or becoming an incorruptible navigator is immensely tempting and I hope someone would shoot me before I attempted something so idiotic. Using abilities that negate a navigator¡¯s natural protection is a terrible idea, especially when a navigator has plenty of other ways to ruin an enemy¡¯s day and so they rarely learn to do so. Their wealth and status usually grants them at least company of elite guards, excellent armour, a conversion shield, a whole host of implants, master crafted weapons, and many other protections. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. They just don¡¯t need to take the risks that a psyker does with their lower status and wealth. If I want to use navigator conversion, I won¡¯t have such liberties. There are no other navigators around to learn the process, nor is it guaranteed I can find a navigator willing to learn such skills and knowledge. I can¡¯t create new navigators within a practical time scale either. I have two main options. Curing Quaani myself would keep the knowledge secret and keep me safe. With a cured Quaani, leaving Marwolv would be much less risky too. I would have to become a navigator, which is going to cause me all sorts of trouble. Demons will be knocking on my mind at all hours as I train in biomancy, while navigator houses and the adeptus mechanicus will kick up a fuss about there being a magos explorator navigator, two major branches of imperial authority that, to my knowledge, have never mixed as thoroughly as I will need to. I drum my fingers against the stone steps. The other option is that I risk travelling the warp without a navigator, survive the journey, recruit a navigator family, and give them the knowledge on how to control navigator mutations in exchange for their service, then have them fix Quaani. Assuming I can get a house to agree, that is. The plus is that I don¡¯t have to become a navigator. The downside is that I¡¯m risking hundreds of thousands of people and multiple void ships in exchange for my own needs. This is not an exchange I object to, even if I would feel fucking awful about it. The problem is I would be on those ships too. My minor options include leaving Quaani in stasis until the end of time, or searching the galaxy for his house that, for all I know, is now extinct, and hope they have the knowledge to help him. I could also kill Quaani, or use him until he dies, but those are really shitty options. I stand and pace up and down the chapel, trying to reframe the problem. No matter what I do, I need navigators. I just don¡¯t want to risk travelling the warp without one. It doesn¡¯t help that I also consider becoming a navigator an equally stupid idea. There is also absolutely nothing I can do about any traces of power the Emperor may leave behind or stop any sufficiently powerful individual from noticing my artificial changes if I bump into them. My gellar field should deter such auguries and it should also continue to hide me from demons, even if I become a navigator. They are, at least, managed risks. One could argue that His touch is a blessing, one that could benefit me. However, new saints, or any hint of a miracle, usually result in a religious schism I want no part of. The accounts on the Distant Sun are quite detailed on such things, even if they are lousy with ridicule. Increased inquisitorial scrutiny from such rumours is almost a certainty and that would cause all sorts of trouble. I can¡¯t afford to lie to the inquisition as that has vile penalties when they inevitably catch you out and don¡¯t want them to know the truth either. While they would have to track me down, they specialise in such tasks and I don''t fancy my chances at avoiding a determined inquisitor. I know that some eldar and chaos forces are aware of the E-SIM project and have tried to eliminate it. Both of these forces probably think I am dead or are dead themselves. Baphomel of the Horned Darkness knows that I live and, from his specific targeting of me, via my servitors, tau hybrids, and probably the orks, I must have something he wants. I do not know if he has knowledge of the E-SIM project. He has not shown any so far. What he does want, I do not know. It could be anything from STCs, to E-SIM, to some dark fetish hidden on the Distant Sun that got mixed up in the ferrocrete of the outer ablative armour. I have caused him significant damage and E-SIM can now track him in the warp. Baphomel will likely be back for more regardless of navigator conversion. The Imperium likely knows nothing of me and what I can do, nor should the tau, necrons, tyranids, or any of the minor races. Hopefully, it will stay that way, as I do not want a crazy necron lord like Trazyn the Infinite hunting me down to add to his ¡®collection¡¯. If I don¡¯t want to benefit from declaring miracles and choose to hide any potential traces as best I can, I could benefit from selling navigation conversion technology instead. At the very least I should offer the mutation management technology. Enabling the Imperium to create navigators, especially ones without twenty millenia of genetic drift, will make a huge difference and give me even more political immunity than being a rogue trader, or selling STCs would. As political immunity is one of my primary goals, I should pursue it further. I can probably get the best result by handing the knowledge directly to Roboute Guilliman so it actually gets used and should help me avoid an onerous recruitment or a torturous demise. Roboute Guilliman is a space marine primarch, Lord Commander of the Imperium and the Imperial Regent. He is as famous for his statecraft as he is for his warcraft, allegedly. While chasing him down would be a significant time investment and a risky endeavour, it should be worth it; Roboute Guilliman is possibly the only person who can keep the inquisition and other imperial factions off my back from the absolute shit storm that will follow me after selling my STCs, or the navigator knowledge. Belisarius Cawl, an incredibly powerful tech-priest, could probably protect me too, though I¡¯d have to avoid his vivisection table. I think I¡¯d rather try and leave the galaxy than trust him though. I could choose not to sell at all, but no matter how shit the Imperium is, I do want to give my fellow humans a greater chance at survival. There¡¯s no point being a rogue trader if all your clients are dead. Cowering at Marwolv, or hiding in the Koronus Expanse, when I have a whole galaxy to explore, and xenos to hunt, isn¡¯t going to increase personal power or help me find some proper builders tea. There¡¯s got to be some real tea in the Imperium somewhere, right? A more immediate concern is that it will take me many months, if not years, to understand navigator genetics enough to pass E-SIM¡¯s test. Thanks to the orks I will need that time as they¡¯ve damaged the shipyard and the almost completed Iron Crane. On the other hand it was the orks who gifted me enough kills to purchase the navigator conversion upgrade and life extension technology so that I actually have the lifespan to fix all the shit they broke. Distant Sun and Erudition¡¯s Howl don¡¯t have rejuvenat facilities on board, or the data to build them. I have mixed feelings about this. I remove my helmet and rest my head against the cold stone. Gradually, I drift off to sleep. Two hours later, I wake from my nap. My mind is clear again and my thoughts have stopped circling. With this renewed clarity, comes a realisation on a different, though related, issue. I possess a lot of vital knowledge and while I have plenty of backups, E-SIM has only one database and no off-body backup. Losing E-SIM¡¯s data would likely take my entire body¡¯s destruction, at which point it would no longer be my problem. However, something out there that might wipe E-SIM, like the heavy arc rifle specifically designed to destroy machine-spirits, that I like to run around with and blast all my enemies with. To minimise this risk, I will spend my crown on warp infrastructure so E-SIM can have another storage location. E-SIM is restricted from placing its core data on anything it is not directly linked to at all times with an effectively uninterruptible link. I could, potentially, side step the issue by creating the same sort of psychic link between me and a database on Distant Sun using a psychic servitor. I would need to be a psyker of some kind as well and it would tie up one of my minds to be a constant data link. Alternatively, I could carry around a psyker brain in a jar at all times. I may even use one of these options as a temporary solution, but neither are something I want to do permanently. I could choose the krork tech tree and its subspace options instead of warp infrastructure. However, it comes with a side effects warning but doesn¡¯t say what they might be. Returning to Quaani, I pat his casket a second time, then leave the chapel. I¡¯ve spent enough time musing for one day. I should check in with Thorfinn and see what we can come up with to purge the alien. Chapter Seventy-Eight I leave the navigator spire and pass multiple security checkpoints on my way to the closest train station. The station has two tracks, one stacked on top of the other for travelling in opposite directions. A rectangular, chunky carriage, three point five metres wide and twelve metres long decelerates then hovers sideways from the main track up to the platform. With this arrangement, up to four different pods can be loaded and unloaded per layer without blocking each other, so that loading cargo doesn¡¯t slow down passengers or require a separate station. Not all pods have to stop at each station either, depending on the journeys requested by the passengers. It¡¯s more similar to a bus or a lift than a train. The trains run on a loop around the vessel and there are lines on #K2 and #S2, between the first and second hull, and a station every five hundred metres. There is a third loop on #C1 where the officer and guest quarters as well as the arboretum filled with lethal flora. A single, heavy cargo rail runs along the centre of #M1. Thirteen other passengers step off the carriage then I and six others embark. No one pays any attention to me; I have my helmet on and I¡¯m not broadcasting who I am, nor is the insignia on my armour particularly noticeable. No point encouraging snipers on the battlefield any more than I already do. The carriage has no seats and multiple handles are welded to the ceiling and side panels. Two lines of recessed cargo rings are spread along the floor. The pod can hold up to ten, two cubic metre pallets or between twenty space marine sized individuals and forty uniformed passengers, depending on how much gear they¡¯re wearing. As the carriage slides back on to the mag track and shoots off, I dream about selling the arboretum plants and turning the facility into a series of secluded gardens: multiple different styles from stone lanterns, moss, and delicate bridges to yew hedges and box topiary with sparkling water features to tie it all together. Sure, I can walk around such environments in the noosphere to a fidelity that it is easy to believe it is real, but how it comes together with all the senses is just lacking enough that I want a space with the real thing. The difference is deliberate, not a limitation of the technology, so that users do not forget where they are. Noosphere environments are intended to alleviate stress and provide leisure, training and teaching environments and they do in the overwhelming majority of cases. The balance is ensuring it isn¡¯t so marvellous it leaves the crew distracted when working, or plotting how to beat their colleagues in the next arena match, instead of doing their jobs. Despite the lowered settings, we have had thirty-seven cases of severe depression in the last two years related to noosphere addiction and two hundred and three accidents where the culprit admitted they were thinking about their noosphere activities rather than on what they were supposed to be doing. This contrasts with only nineteen incidents related to drug and alcohol abuse, which is much easier to police. The train arrives at the barracks and I disembark. Almost everyone I pass is fully kitted out with tense postures and a brisk pace. I can¡¯t see their faces through their helmets, but I doubt they look happy. Noosphere issues have been way less severe than the five hundred and twenty-nine cases associated with marriage, deaths, and other interpersonal relationships. Overall, discipline is excellent and morale is high. Having a highly educated and trained crew makes a massive difference as most personnel have an excellent idea of what their responsibilities are, how to execute them, and what the consequences of fucking up are. Friends and family on board encourage personnel not to mess up. With five watches, personnel are retrained every twelve months and at that time they can try a new role or advance their education. They can also request to change teams, which is a good way for us to track inept or cruel officers, or pick out people who are disruptive and belligerent, who hide their habits from standard screening. Right now, these people are easy to replace as we are right next to a population centre, but I¡¯m unsure how I¡¯ll handle it once we¡¯re deep in the void. I don¡¯t see much point in giving such hidden fools a second chance, but neither can I space every asshole in case there¡¯s an error or a plot. Personnel work six days on, four days off with three weeks of additional paid leave a year. I even offer six months maternity and paternity leave, as well as free child care, medical care, and high pay. I press the intercom on Thorfinn¡¯s door and chuckle. If conditions on other vessels in the Imperium are anywhere near as bad as Jamie¡¯s videos suggest, the one thing I won¡¯t have to worry about at new ports is desertion. I am quite certain that some twit will accuse me of heresy for my employment practices and another will think I am an adherent of Slaanesh because I don¡¯t starve my crew. Thorfinn¡¯s voice comes out of the vox caster, ¡°Name and rank.¡± ¡°Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. Void ship captain.¡± ¡°Ah, hello Aldrich. I wasn¡¯t expecting you.¡± His voice is a little wobbly. The door opens, ¡°Come in.¡± I enter a small room with wooden panelling on the walls, a slim desk and three office chairs. A cogitator perches in the centre of the desk. A las pistol is mag locked to one of two panels that curl at the base and hold up the desk. Headmaster Aileen is also present and has his arms wrapped around Thorfinn. They separate as I approach. Both men have tear streaks on their faces. I remove my helmet, ¡°I¡¯ve come at a bad time. I can give you both a few more minutes to steel your nerves if you need it. I do not mind if Aileen stays for our discussion, Thorfinn. He has the rank for it.¡± Thorfinn slowly shakes his head. ¡°No, no. I¡¯ve been in the military long enough to learn to cry while working and sleeping.¡± He gives us both a small, sad smile and wipes his cheeks with his thumb. ¡°Take a seat, both of you. Please.¡± I sit. My servo harness keeps me from leaning back, but the position is sufficiently comfortable. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¡°Thorfinn, I am aware I am acting like a grox in a granary. Before I open my discussion with you and Aileen, there is time to air your sorrows, if you wish.¡± Thorfinn points at the unopened bottle of ancient amansec and three glasses on the wall of shelves in his office. I gave it to him when he became Distant Sun¡¯s Master-of-Arms. ¡°I think it¡¯s time. Do you mind, Aldrich? A glass each, please. Two fingers.¡± ¡°Sure.¡± I prepare the drinks and pass a glass to Thorfinn and Aileen. ¡°Thank you, Aldrich,¡± says Aileen. Thorfinn takes his glass and holds it in both hands without drinking a sip. After a minute of silence, he says, ¡°My sister, Thurid, and her two children were working on the shipyard when Green Tick struck.¡± He takes a snip, ¡°I couldn¡¯t get a message through, so I asked Aileen for a favour. He scried for them. They¡¯re dead.¡± ¡°Oh, Thorfinn. I am so, so sorry.¡± Thorfinn frowns, ¡°I finally understand what you told me all those years ago about the terrors of the galaxy. The tau were bad, but it wasn¡¯t personal, at least for me. I always secretly thought you were a paranoid bigot.¡± I smirk, ¡°I am.¡± Thorfinn snorts, ¡°Yeah, the difference is that now I can relate to it.¡± He waves his glass at Aileen. ¡°Thing is, my loss is insignificant compared to some.¡± Aileen sighs and sips his amasec, ¡°Almost all my students are dead as well as the majority of Marwolv¡¯s order of psy-errants. They perished with the manifestation of that vile avatar. Any who were not behind a gellar field, or those who had not adopted your warding electoos, died.¡± ¡°I knew it was bad, but I don¡¯t know the numbers.¡± ¡°A single student, ?se Lochridge survived,¡± says Aileen. ¡°She was praying in a chapel at the time, before she went on her qualifying hunt with her fellow students. ?se isn¡¯t a great believer in the imperial cult. She and her friends were just praying for fun. None of the other students with her survived. ¡°As for the exact numbers, I believe that, across Marwolv, some three hundred thousand psykers have perished. Most are weak, you would class them as iota level psykers, capable of minor cantrips and of little consequence. I do not know how many survived. ¡°Of those three hundred thousand, approximately thirty thousand are around theta or greater and had to graduate from the Clubhouse or be killed. I have told you of ?se Lochridge, and my current students. There were also two hundred and eighteen theta level psykers on your payroll. One hundred and eighty-eight survived. Beyond these individuals, I do not know the number of theta level survivors across Marwolv. I doubt more than a handful remain. ¡°There were four hundred and three eta psykers, eighty zeta psykers and seven epsilon psykers on Marwolv. These three categories are a lot more powerful and dangerous. Of these three categories, six psykers, one of whom is an epsilon, survived. ¡°I am the only delta class psyker on Marwolv and the Distant Sun¡¯s gellar field protected me. I will be getting those tattoos later today.¡± I sigh, ¡°At least a few of them made it, though they may not feel the same. You too, Aileen. I¡¯m glad you¡¯re taking further precautions as well.¡± ¡°It was the closest I¡¯ve come to death in a hundred and fifty years,¡± says Aileen, his voice trembling. ¡°Most of these more powerful psykers were my colleagues and friends. I am happy some were spared. They grew up aware of my presence, many were foolish little children at one point who would reach out and say hello to me, not knowing what they were doing or why it was dangerous and I had to desperately shield them from hungry maws. This time? I didn¡¯t stand a chance.¡± Thorfinn reaches over his desk and grabs Aileen¡¯s hand, ¡°It¡¯s not your fault, Aileen.¡± ¡°I know. That doesn¡¯t make it any less painful.¡± Aileen squeezes Thorfinn¡¯s hand, then lets go and leans back in his seat. Thorfinn returns to holding his glass in both hands and stares at the swirling liquid. ¡°There¡¯s one thing that puzzles me,¡± I say. ¡°With all that sacrifice, it¡¯s a miracle Marwolv is in one piece.¡± ¡°It was almost imperceptible,¡± says Aileen, ¡°but the demonic avatar spent much of the energy it acquired maintaining Marwolv¡¯s integrity. Possibly it wished to drag it into the warp to breed more psykers. Any power it saved for its next move was lost when it spat out the orks, then threw a tantrum when it knew it no longer had enough for whatever it planned. I¡¯d say we should be grateful for the interference, but¡± Aileen glances at Thorfinn, ¡°I don¡¯t think that would be appropriate.¡± ¡°We need to kill them all, Aldrich,¡± Thorfinn looks up and stares me in the eyes. ¡°That¡¯s why you came here, yes? To make a plan? Almost all the accounts I¡¯ve read imply one can¡¯t wait for orks to come to you or they get out of hand.¡± I nod, ¡°That¡¯s one reason and yes, I have some ideas. Maeve is busy and while her input is valuable, she¡¯s an assault commander, not a fortress commander. We should focus our support on Drumbledrone off D?l¡¯s west coast. I have Eire¡¯s list of available forces. Twenty-five percent are at Drumbledrone. I¡¯ve forwarded the list to your noosphere address.¡± Thorfinn turns on his cogitator and the screen springs to life. Using his implants to control the device he views the files I have sent him. ¡°Forgive me, Aldrich,¡± says Aileen, ¡°for asking such a simple question, but why are you preparing for a campaign? Why can you not cleanse them from orbit as soon as Distant Sun is finished with its current operations?¡± ¡°I do intend to bomb them. The problem is we can¡¯t do so immediately as all that dust and dirt thrown into the atmosphere is filled with metal particles from the asteroid and continuous lightning. We know where the orks hit, but they did so at an angle and likely slid considerable distance after impact. ¡°Current simulations suggest six to eight weeks for the dust to settle, but if we wait that long, the orks will dig in and spread out, making them harder to remove. I want to set out within the next forty-eight hours.¡± Thorfinn looks up, ¡°So our goals are: locate the rok impact site, contain the orks, interrupt whatever they are up to, then wait out the storm and melt them.¡± ¡°Not quite. My first choice would be to sneak a targeting beacon in and blast them immediately, but I¡¯ve no idea if that¡¯s possible, so we need to have our contain and strike plan in place before we try the easy solution as no matter what happens, I doubt it will end with a few lances from orbit, or dropping our kinetic armaments.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not all, is it?¡± Thorfinn grimaces. ¡°When we strike from orbit it will throw more crap into the atmosphere. That will keep our D-POTs grounded and maintain the rok¡¯s cover from orbit. If a lance takes out the beacon, or hits the spotters, we¡¯d be back to the start with nothing to show for it.¡± Alieen clears his throat, ¡°One more question, if I may. What happened to the sensor net you placed to detect tau vehicles? There¡¯s also all those sensor stations you placed to monitor earthquakes for Marwolv¡¯s polities. Would they be enough to hit a two kilometre asteroid from orbit?¡± I grin, ¡°That might do it!¡± Chapter Seventy-Nine ¡°Are you listening, Aruna?¡± Aruna appears on the desk, though only I can see it. The machine-spirit has a simulated ork pinned beneath its paw. Aileen and Thorfinn follow my gaze, then look back at me, their expressions studiously blank. ¡°Aruna is ever present, Magos. Do not waste its cycles with inane questions,¡± Aruna dismantles the ork one digit at a time, faint screams echo behind its next words, ¡°Aruna can strike the orks, but cannot guarantee to hit anything important. Many shots and much maintenance would be required afterwards. Proceed?¡± I cross my arms and rest my hand on my chin, ¡°Kinetic strikes wouldn¡¯t be much good then. Lances will be dispersed somewhat and, without proper auspex, the resources expended to hit that chance for critical strike might end up more than mobilising the infantry. It might still be worth it though. ¡°Our current macro shells are not rated for bombardment through an atmosphere, though we could build enough bombardment shells for one volley in the next forty-eight hours. Melta rounds would be appropriate for such thick armour. It will neutralise spores and not spread them about too much either. Again, this would be a significant expenditure of resources.¡± Thorfinn stares at me, ¡°Has the machine-spirit offered its wisdom?¡± ¡°Ah, excuse me. Yes, it has. Your idea is viable, Aileen. I was thinking it through out loud.¡± Aileen nods and sips from his glass. ¡°I think that, no matter what, we should deploy,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°The reasoning behind your initial outline hasn¡¯t changed just because we can bombard sooner. Additionally, trying to save resources now might bite us later and put us on the hook for more than if we¡¯d spent them up front. You own the planet, effectively, and clearing up after the orks for centuries instead of weeks is a terrible idea.¡± ¡°I agree,¡± I say, ¡°Though no matter what we do, I doubt we¡¯ll get them all.¡± ¡°Feral orks will make a good challenge for future psy-errants, once we rebuild the order. I won¡¯t let it die just like this.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a remarkable attitude, Aileen.¡± I say. ¡°I will ensure you get the support you require.¡± ¡°Thank you, Aldrich. I admit it is more a necessity than a ¡®can do attitude¡¯, psykers are always a constant threat, even one as disciplined as I. So long as necessity gets me through these harrowing days, it will suffice.¡± I pat Aileen on the shoulder, then turn to Thorfinn, ¡°I¡¯ll send the orders down to fortress commander Dougal MacCrane. He and his contemporaries can organise our planetside forces and coordinate with the PDF. Commander Maeve Muire will continue to focus on our orbital conflict around the shipyard. Thorfinn, you will ensure the internal security of our void ships and the discipline of the crew. ¡°Additionally, I will call on our head chaplain, Owen Broin, to monitor morale and shepherd the grief of our personnel. He has dedicated himself to self-improvement since I explained his job requirements and has become as proficient in his field as a tech-adept would. If people start acting out, send them to him first, Thorfinn, rather than dress them down. If it¡¯s too late, one of Owen¡¯s deacons will have to visit them in the brig if they¡¯ve done anything particularly egregious.¡± ¡°Are you sure such a soft hand is wise, Aldrich?¡± says Thorfinn. I shake my head, ¡°That isn¡¯t what I intend. Fuck ups should be dealt with per usual. I am, however, asking you and the other officers to ensure our personnel get the help and support they need. I know you do this normally, but I want you to make counselling sessions obligatory for anyone who acts out during the next six months, rather than just taking them aside for a chat, or pushing their work mates to invite them out for an evening on the promenade. ¡°That includes both of you, too. When you find yourself struggling, ask for help. I may be the boss, but for personal matters, you are both my friends and my peers. If you need to contact me at any time, do so. I rarely sleep. ¡°What I don''t want to see is either of you bottling it up, and start making mistakes. The consequences are too great and there is no one to properly replace you. For example, accidentally shouting at an undeserving junior officer, which goads them into foolhardy or bitter actions. In space, that always leads to death. You¡¯ve both been at the top, and working for me, long enough to know that. This is a reminder. Not a criticism. You haven¡¯t let me down before.¡± ¡°Alright, Aldrich,¡± says Thorfinnn. ¡°You¡¯ve made your point.¡± He leans back and stares at the ceiling, then back at me. ¡°Hearing that annoys me. No one likes to be told how to do their job when they¡¯ve already been doing it for years, especially when everything is going to shit through no fault of their own. However, I may not want to admit it but I probably do need the reminder. It is hard to remember everything when my mind is full of grief. I will have your words spread among the officers.¡± ¡°Thank you, Thorfinn. Now, on to the other reason I came here for. I want to know what you found out about those birds that forced this mess upon us.¡± Throfinn shrugs, ¡°They¡¯re the same birds we¡¯ve always had on Marwolv. We couldn¡¯t find anything that we didn''t already know.¡± ¡°Start with that then. An ex-sky captain like yourself must have a key point or two on them.¡± ¡°Well, they¡¯re big birds, with a four metre wingspan that always hunt in flocks. A single leader, usually the biggest, always strikes first, which makes it pretty easy to tell when they¡¯re about to strike. ¡°Watch them long enough and you¡¯ll notice they signal to each other with specific claw and wing motions or certain cries. They are cunning and cautious, preferring to target small groups and can recognise when you point weapons at them. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°They¡¯re incredibly beautiful birds with deep blue feathers and twin red crests along their eyes and neck. Their feathers are sharp and they can lacerate an unarmoured human badly enough that they¡¯ll swiftly bleed to death, just by beating them with their wings. They can even hit an armoured soldier hard enough on a dive to pulp them on impact.¡± The more Thorfinn speaks, the greater my frown gets. ¡°What concerns you, Aldrich?¡± says Aileen. ¡°Thorfinn¡¯s description reminds me of a bird favoured by dark eldar beastmasters and common to death worlds across the koronus expanse and calixis sector. Were these birds in Distant Sun¡¯s database when you put them through their tests? ¡°Let me check.¡± Thorfinn glances at his cogitator screen and reads through the information. ¡°Yes, it has them listed as an unknown species of razorwing.¡± With a single word, all the pieces of the puzzle click together in my head. I clench my fists and hit them together. A loud bang reverberates around the small room. ¡°Dammit! I really should have looked into this sooner.¡± ¡°I take it they¡¯re not just birds then,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°No, they¡¯re not. Razorwing is a term given to a type of carnivorous bird known for the characteristics and behaviours Thorfin described. The dark eldar, a faction of the aeldari, train them to hunt humans and xenos for fun. ¡°I am going to speculate on what I think has and is happening. ¡°The razor wings were originally purchased from the aeldari before their empire collapsed, and split into the eldar and dark eldar, as part of the menagerie of challenging creatures to hunt on Marwolv. ¡°The eldar strike team assaulted the mechanicus conclave, likely due to some farseer prophecy that implied an avatar of the gods was to be summoned on Marwolv. I suspect they ¡®saw¡¯ someone messing with portals and thought, ¡®let¡¯s kill them before they summon something by accident,¡¯ not realising that the uncertain nature of prophecy meant that the portals happened because they attacked and had nothing to do with the avatar being summoned, just looked like a probable cause. ¡°The dark eldar likely followed the eldar to take advantage of whatever mess they knew their cousins would inevitably cause. There, these opportunistic pirates and slavers would have found an untouched and ill defended world. A further investigation would have revealed a gene-modded population of great beauty, uniformity, robustness, and mild temperament. All traits required for the best of slaves. ¡°They would also have found the high percentage of psykers, the one trade good that is banned from Commorragh, their city in the webway; a city where, allegedly, anything can be bought and sold at. The webway is how the eldar and dark eldar travel between systems and is accessed by physical gates hidden on planets or out in the void. ¡°These dark eldar slavers would have asked themselves, how can we weed psykers from the population so that raids can be conducted freely?¡± Aileen sits up and inhales sharply, ¡°Incite someone to summon something big and trigger a great enough backlash to wipe out all the psykers, then grab everything they can before the world is overrun with demons. Guaranteeing the final sacrifice with trained razor wings would let them interfere with minimal risk to themselves.¡± I nod, ¡°Only the biggest bird of them all had its many eyes on the system and, if not for the orks messing everything up on behalf of, I suspect, Bad Penny, who is salty about me destroying a portion of its essence. ¡°When the avatar turned up, the dark eldar realised they were about to try and raid a planet that was minutes from being dragged into the warp. This would have encouraged a sudden change in plans. I don¡¯t know if this is true, as our only evidence is a group of razor wings acting strangely, behaviour that could also have been triggered by the chaos avatar from within the warp.¡± ¡°Your reasoning aside,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°you are stating that there is a race of manipulative slavers, fond of striking vulnerable planets and taking advantage of other conflicts, who have access to Marwolv, and we should be on high alert for them, even as we struggle to keep the orks in check.¡± ¡°Yes, that¡¯s exactly it. They usually use anti-grav technology like the tau, but they are much better at stealth, so I do not know if our sensors will pick the dark eldar up.¡± ¡°Then we need to consolidate our population centres as well,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°The global fallout is going to wreck all our crops anyway so there is no need to station people everywhere.¡± I sip my amasec, ¡°I would have preferred to evacuate the whole continent then sterilise it with life-eater virus bombs, but I don¡¯t have the STC for them.¡± ¡°That sounds horrifying,¡± says Aileen, ¡°and rather pointless. The orks already spread their spores when they struck at the other two fortresses soon after impact.¡± ¡°It¡¯s better than having to use an atmospheric igniter like a cyclonic torpedo, or bombard the planet to ash. It¡¯s not really worth re-terraforming a planet after that.¡± ¡°Well, we¡¯ll just have to hope it doesn¡¯t get that out of hand,¡± says Aileen. ¡°So long as we keep orbital superiority it should be OK.¡± ¡°Another factor to add to the plan,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Let me confirm I understand what you want from me, Aldrich, with a few alterations of my own. Drumbledrone is to immediately send out reconnaissance forces while they muster. Mustered forces are required to depart within twenty-four hours and surround the orks within forty-eight hours and dig in. ¡°Assuming Distant Sun can finish its current tasks, Distant Sun will bombard the crashed rok in forty-eight hours, using Marwolv¡¯s grav sensor net and whatever targeting we can manage from groundside. This assumes our IFF signals can get through and we won¡¯t hit our own troops. ¡°Once orbital bombardment is over, we will move in on the ork position, and destroy them. The majority of forces will retreat and the Distant Sun will glass the area to sterilise it as best we can. ¡°During this operation, the other two fortresses, Dimpsy and Anglewitch will mobilise and forcefully deport all civilians into major cities and fortify against possible dark eldar raiding parties, remnant tau, and ork warbands. After civilians have been secured, patrols will be dispatched to recover resources. However, priority remains on reinforcing Drumbledrone if and when required. ¡°All groundside industrial capacity will be reconfigured to assemble soylent viridans facilities, additional sensors, wargear, and munitions, with an emphasis on food production. ¡°Our primary objective is to maintain orbital superiority, no matter what. Our secondary goals are to eliminate the orks, and find the webway gate and destroy it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it Thorfinn.¡± I stand and place my hands on his desk, ¡°It¡¯s time to roll the dice.¡± Chapter Eighty I leave Thorfinn¡¯s office and return to my quarters where I remove and dismantle my armour, checking it for defects. While my power armour is stuffed with sensors, there is no guarantee they are all working properly, no matter what is reported to the armour¡¯s machine-spirit. The machine-spirit is excellent at ferreting out discrepancies, but I took some hard hits against the warboss and I entrust my life to my armour; performing a proper visual inspection is a necessary precaution. E-SIM and the dragon machine-spirit have repaired my armour well, but I¡¯m glad I checked as while the seal is good, when I test it in a press, the repair dents slightly. Another two tests and some detailed scans reveals that the repair is twenty-three percent weaker than the surrounding material. With E-SIM¡¯s guidance, I dig through the logs and realise the nanites can¡¯t replicate the extreme density of ceramite formed in a high pressure press. I replace the damaged scales and pop them into a glass jar. Engaging the warp and weft module, I disintegrate the damaged scales and reassemble the powder into small silver and grey balls of plasteel and ceramite, ready to be reforged into new shapes. With my armour repaired, I relax a little, sparing some time to watch the first wildlife documentary filmed on Marwolv, knowing this is the first and last time many of these creatures will be recorded, unless I dedicate resources to restoring them and their habitats. After the documentary, I still feel restless after my duel. I turn off the holoprojector, lie on the sofa and close my eyes. I even pause my additional thought streams and let my thoughts wander. Eventually, it is time for my watch and I return to the bridge. During my watch, the groundside reconnaissance attempts to get close to the ork position. After they return, I watch the record of their attempt and realise they¡¯re going to fail once I spot how swampy the ground has become. The heralds quickly realise this too and their one tech-adept sends out a servo-skull to try and get close, but the bad weather is too much for its anaemic anti-grav drive and the skull is grounded within minutes and sinks into the muck. With no success, the team retreats and I spend the rest of my watch helping Aruna refine its calculations from the amalgamation of sensors we have available. My next watch starts just in time for me to coordinate with Erudition¡¯s Howl to push the shipyard out of its holding position and back into a stable orbit. Commander Muire retreats the stellar corps and Distant Sun alters its angle and increases its thrust. Several dozen orks, who were hopping across the rok hoping to take advantage of the retreating heralds, are hit with a violent stream of particles and blasted from the rok¡¯s surface, which heats up and ablates as the manoeuvre continues. I chuckle as I watch them flail on the sensors and are scattered into space. Before the yard reaches its new orbit, I send a secret message to Bola with the vox I left him, telling him to escape. Six hours later, the yard is back in a stable orbit, though twenty centimetres of the front quarter of the shipyard has been scoured away by Distant Sun¡¯s thruster plume. With the eroding material, we lose two cable anchors during the process and one of the rebounding cables lashes Distant Sun¡¯s main thrusters, causing minor damage, though it doesn¡¯t reduce our thrust profile. I send a congratulatory message to all crew and thank them for their hard work, getting us through this crisis and rescuing those trapped upon the shipyard and Iron Crane from a catastrophic impact. Once the yard is in position and cables have been stowed, Erudition¡¯s Howl and Distant Sun reposition and begin their bombardment of Green Tick, steadily cutting through two kilometres of metallic asteroid with macro shells. The ork vessel is helpless and cannot retaliate. We don¡¯t miss a single shot and my watch ends before we can dislodge them. I choose to stay, keeping an eye on Eire as she practises with the increased neural load from the command throne during light combat. Even without shields, Green Tick is resilient and remains lodged in the Iron Crane. On the twenty fourth volley, Green Tick begins to crack. The orks finally realise they¡¯re in for a proper krumping, however, and what few remaining craft they have flee to Marwolv, using the bulk of the yard to cover the first part of their retreat. Once they¡¯re out of cover, Erudition¡¯s Howl fires up its CIWS and blasts another nine craft before the orks reach the atmosphere and it becomes too challenging to target them. I¡¯ve no idea if Bola made it but he¡¯s a sneaky cockroach and I¡¯ve no intention of betting against him. Any remaining orks make a final push for the yard and Iron Crane, breaking through with some boring machinery and pour out into the hollow docks inside the Iron Crane. Most are left floating about and are picked off, but a few have jet packs and try to escape into the ship. The heralds gun them down and Commander Muire communicates that all boarders have been repelled, but it will be many hours until we can be absolutely sure. Distant Sun ceases its attack and manoeuvres away from the yard, leaving the final blows on Green Tick to Erudition¡¯s Howl. Taking position above the grounded rok, Distant Sun fires a single lance through the churning clouds upon the ork position below. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Coordinating with the ground forces and planetside sensor net, we fire three more lances over thirty minutes, trying to get the best shot we can with little more than passive seismic, gravity, and light sensors to guide us. Once Aruna is confident it¡¯s struck the ork position and isn¡¯t going to harm our own forces, we follow it up with a macro-cannon bombardment, firing melta rounds at the orks below. The rounds accelerate out of the cannon at zero point one C and part the turbulent clouds. For a short moment I get a glimpse of the rok, then the eight shells strike, sending vast plumes of heat, light and particles into the sky, obscuring the target with eight mushroom clouds. I see a few people on the bridge lift their arms as they cheer, but no sound gets through their helmets and they quickly settle down. Rather than rest, I remain on the bridge. I don¡¯t have to do much when it¡¯s not my watch as I don¡¯t want to metaphorically breathe down peoples¡¯ necks more than I already am, but I also don¡¯t want to miss a moment of the conflict as it is a rare chance for some experience outside a simulator. There aren¡¯t any live vid-feeds of the ground conflict as the interference is still too bad and I have to piece everything together from out of order recordings brought up every six hours on a D-POT. E-SIM puts together an amazing simulation of the battlefield from the recordings from a bird¡¯s eye view, making it much easier to understand what is going on. To get around the bad weather, the D-POTs have sealed their air intakes and are using their void reaction mass, and the grav drives normally reserved for vertical take off and landing, to fly like skimmers. Normally, in atmosphere, the D-POTs can use their micro-fusion reactors to compress and heat air and use almost no fuel to travel, but with the intakes sealed, they¡¯re burning through reaction mass and fuel to sustain their momentum and power the grav drives as they manoeuvre the stellar corps and sustain their supplies. I didn¡¯t know they could fly like this and I am impressed by the pilots¡¯ ingenuity. While the fuel and reaction mass is a minor problem for now, the maintenance on the grav drives is more serious, changing the maintenance flight to down time ratio from twenty-four to one, to six to one as each hour of skimming is like the equivalent of twelve launches and landings. The swampy ground isn¡¯t great for tracked vehicles either and I start looking into a refit for the D-POTs to better handle this kind of load when the orks send out a raid in all directions, mounted on trukks, an armed, janky buggy, with their wheels replaced by a squig leather skirt, billowing with air. The low-tech hover-craft takes both me and the stellar corps by surprise and three of the groups, some two hundred vehicles in total, slip between our first ring of scattered defensive positions, their approach obscured by the torrential rain and low light conditions. The difficult terrain is stymying the three engineering companies, two of whom were flown in from the other fortresses. Even with three servitor companies and four logistic companies assigned to assist them, they haven¡¯t had enough time to establish our advancing first line, or in this case, float, as they¡¯re casting ferrocrete barges and building bunkers on top of them, then towing them into position with D-POTs. Our second line, three kilometres behind the first, isn¡¯t suffering from swampy ground and they are much better prepared with sixteen fortified forward operating bases built in a circle, fifty kilometres in diameter. The ground in between is littered with a series of pits offset with each other, indicating the beginnings of a trench network. Somewhat predictably, the orks don¡¯t try to break out of encirclement and instead charge the eastern most fortified position, D?l East Prime, as it is the largest and therefore offers the best fight. D?l East Prime is a two hundred metre diameter octagonal fortification of interlocking, four metres tall, ferrocrete fencing. Chimeras move back and forth with their dozer blades, pushing earth into a berm against the outside edge of the ferrocrete fencing while multiple diggers requisitioned from civilian building sites around the planet plunge their plasteel buckets into the earth and rock, excavating a series of interconnected, narrow trenches, twenty metres from the growing earth and ferrocrete berm. Two line infantry companies are hard at work dismantling the plasteel crates that all their supplies are shipped in, reusing the material to reinforce the trench walls while two more companies are dragging back timber from all the downed trees with their chimeras. Special weapon teams watch over the toiling heavy infantry from behind repurposed aggregate bags, filled with earth, just behind the trench. The crassus armoured transports assigned to D?l East Prime¡¯s garrisoned companies are nowhere near the base as they¡¯re currently assisting the D-POTs, transporting construction materials from Drumbledrone. While I love the improvisational attitude, our defence would have been a lot easier if we had specialist earth moving equipment assigned to the engineering companies and more than just ferrocrete fencing ready to go. If we were planning an assault, we¡¯d have all the right equipment made in advance, but clearly our emergency deployment supplies and protocols require work. The moment D?l East Prime receives notice of the incoming orks, the heralds tumble into their half formed trenches. The base has an artillery battery and an anti-air battery assigned to it and within thirty seconds of the orks being detected, the eight basilisks open fire. Only three shells manage a glancing blow, killing a handful of the orks stuffed in their open topped vehicles, and flipping one hover-trukk over. The basilisks manage two more rounds before the orks get too close. Their second and third salvos are much more accurate and hit nine hover-trukks directly. The explosive disassembly sends ork flesh and metal spinning through the air and lights up the twilight gloom for fractions of a second. Once the orks reach the two kilometre line, the special weapon teams start firing their lascannons and heavy bolters disabling another seven vehicles, then over the next minute, they destroy twenty-four vehicles. Over two hundred orks leap from their broken vehicles and start sprinting for our position. A little over a minute later, the hover-trukks reach the one kilometre line and start exchanging fire with D?l East Prime. The sixteen chimeras, who were previously pushing earth about, just finish spreading themselves out in front of the berm before they start taking hits from the ork hover-trukks. Sixteen chimeras quickly pop smoke to obscure themselves and much of the base. Targeting data from D?l East North East and D?l East South East gets transferred to the heralds and their machines, and then twelve chimeras return fire through their own smoke at the estimated positions of their enemies while the machine-spirits chatter back and forth with command assigning targets and coordinating fire. The other four ignite their flamers and wait for their chance. Behind the berm, the crews for hydra-anti air sprint to their vehicles and start their engines, then drive towards the east gate, opposite to the ork assault. Their quad-linked auto-cannons swivel down from the sky and point forwards, ready to repurpose their strike-craft shredding guns for a ground focused fire mission. Chapter Eighty-One Six armoured companies of leman russ tanks and mechanised infantry patrol between the sixteen forward bases and two armoured companies are close enough to respond. They start to converge on D?l East Prime within a minute of the orks dashing past the barely functional first line of floating concrete bunkers. Being three times faster than the tanks, the mechanised infantry sweep behind the orks as they reach the one kilometre line around D?l East Prime. The orks whoop and holler, and a third of their remaining vehicles turn around and circle the approaching mechanised infantry, while the remaining one hundred and six vehicles continue their assault on D?l East Prime. Both sides quickly rack up casualties, the orks much faster than the heralds, as their open topped hover-trukks offer little defence against multi-lasers and lasguns. The four flamer chimera variants mixed among the two armoured companies¡¯ mechanised infantry are particularly effective, setting the orks within alight and sending the hover trukks ploughing into the dirt when the skirting ignites, then explodes, in a great billow of flame from all the extra air. I quickly shelve any thoughts of replicating a hover-craft tank. Distracted by chimeras and crassus armoured transports, the circling orks¡¯ movement becomes more predictable, creating an opportunity for the cumbersome leman russ tanks. The tanks fire on the move, as they pootle along at a disappointing twenty kilometres per hour. They¡¯re at maximum range and only a quarter of the shots hit. I frown at the inadequate accuracy, then add hunter shells, a self-targeting shell for smoothbore guns, to my growing list of research projects. I can understand why the tank commander is hanging on to his hunter-killer missiles as they don¡¯t know if the orks might swoop in with strike craft or have a missile barrage of their own on the way. Supply of hunter-killer missiles is limited too and the storm bolter on the tank turret is more for close-in defence, than trying to gun down flying targets. The commander¡¯s caution will cost us a lot of casualties though and they are within the support range of D?l East Prime, even if all it¡¯s guns are currently tasked on the ork assault. It¡¯s a good choice if they were facing tau or eldar, but I do not know if they made the right call here and have a thought stream to set up a discussion of the after action review for this current assault to examine our engagement protocol for orks and its relation to our current munitions logistics and manufacturing. Between the near misses and direct hits, eighteen hover-trukks are destroyed and eleven are disabled. The orks'' enthusiasm increases and they pick up speed and jink their hover-trukks as much as they can, throwing off their already terrible aim and reducing the number of hits the mechanised infantry are taking to near zero. My infantry fighting vehicles are much more steady and the heralds are all well trained. They are not too hampered by the orks erratic manoeuvres and destroy another thirty one vehicles in five minutes at the cost of six chimeras and a crassus. Finally, the leman russ get close enough for a volley at half range and the orks attempt to flee back to their base, but it¡¯s too late and they are completely obliterated in under twenty seconds beneath the might of two volleys. The remaining chimeras and crassus deploy their infantry, who sweep through the wrecked vehicles, executing any surviving orks and the leman russ move on to support D?l East Prime. During the armoured companies¡¯ engagement, the fire from the D?l East Prime focuses on the incoming vehicles. The four companies of infantry within the trenches start picking off the dismounted orks and targeting the trukk drivers with moderate success. Basilisks continue to fire, though they don¡¯t have much luck hitting the fast moving vehicles and the order comes through to swap to a retreating fire screen that will pin down disembarked orks. Up to fourteen orks crawl and leap from each wrecked hover-truck, depending on how many of their crew and passengers survive the crash. Upon disembarking, the orks in the back of the trukk immediately charge, while most of the surviving gunners and drivers take a moment to grab the big shoota, or other gunz, mounted on their vehicles. As the orks get closer, such is the absurd weight of fire coming from their direction that they start picking off the chimeras parked in front of the berm, even though they can¡¯t see where they are through the smoke. The heralds are forced to keep their heads down in the trenches, lest they lose them, and the heavy weapon teams are suppressed. With the infantry and chimeras suppressed and the orks reaching the five hundred metre mark, D?l East Prime command orders the basilisks and hydra anti-air to fire their hunter-killer missiles. Thirty-two missiles, two from each vehicle, zoom over the berm almost tickling the churned earth, then, right before they hit the trucks, the hunter killer missiles rapidly ascend, before turning and plummeting towards the ork trukks, striking the top of the vehicles and annihilating them utterly. Fifty three hover-trukks make it through the final barrage to the trench line and start disgorging their violent passengers. The leman russ, having finished off the orks rear guard are finally ready to fire on them, but the orks are almost on top of the trenches and the tanks can¡¯t risk friendly fire. Just when I think the stellar corps is about to take a horrendous beating, the three surviving flamer chimeras burst over the narrow trenches and sweep through the ork vehicles showering a hearty chunk of them in burning promethium. The retaliation is brutal, with the orks chucking dozens of stikk bombs and firing an absurd seventeen rockets at three vehicles. The fuel within the chimera¡¯s ignites and the multiple explosions scatter it absolutely everywhere. All three chimeras and their crews are obliterated. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Bulky orks try, then fail, to stuff their muscular forms into the trenches, held back by the infantry jamming their MOA shields into the gap above their heads. Unable to take cover from the scattered, burning promethium, the orks start to panic as their numbers drop rapidly. At last, the hydra anti-air vehicles finish exiting D?l East Prime''s east gate and circle around the berm to the west side. Within the sights of their large guns are forty-one surviving trukks and about eight hundred greenskins, now outnumbered by approximately four hundred individuals, as they desperately strike at the four companies of heavy line infantry sheltering in the trenches and their special weapon teams hidden within nests of earth filled bags. All eight hydras open up with their quad-linked auto-cannons and heavy bolters, sweeping a line of fire across the disorganised orks from two sides. I thought I had witnessed enough brutality to stomach anti-air guns being used on infantry, but I was wrong. My hands shake and my skin pales as the quad-linked auto-cannons rip through the orks, sawing most of the orks and their hover-trukks in half over a fifteen second burst. Shrapnel, fuel, and minced green flesh scatter into the air and smear across the ground in a thunderous display of absolute carnage. A final few orks stumble around the mess and are picked off by the special weapon teams. The line infantry are too close to the action and, even in their trenches with their MOA shields and void carapace armour, many are injured and stunned by the noise of the guns and the pressure of all the exploding fuel, leaving them unable to respond once the hydra¡¯s stop firing. I exhale a breath I didn¡¯t notice I was holding as silence smothers the air. After a minute of no sound or movement, half a company climbs out their trench and moves through the ork dead, shooting every xeno in the head and collecting all the shootas and explosives they can find. Next, the special weapon teams move in with their flamers and burn every uncooked corpse they can find. Ten minutes later, three class one D-POT¡¯s approach D?l East Prime and take away the casualties, followed by a single class two that takes an hour to recover the disabled vehicles before returning to Drumbledrone. Meanwhile, the surviving chimeras from the armoured companies tow the ork wrecks behind D?l East Prime so that the engineering companies can salvage them and reinforce the burgeoning fortifications. A final sweep for ork chunks is made and they are piled up and burned. Once the battlefield is tidied up, the two armoured companies resume their patrols. I bring my consciousness out of the recordings and examine the bridge. It is almost silent here as over four hundred crew lie in their chairs, or stand at their stations, poking at cogitators and flipping switches. The extreme contrast unsettles me and it takes me a few minutes to settle my mind. Next, I read through the after action report and contemplate the casualty list: two hundred and eighty-two casualties, ninety four of whom are dead. Thirteen chimeras and one crassus were also destroyed, of which four chimeras are unrepairable. This is just the opening salvo and we haven¡¯t finished counting dead for the orbital conflict yet either. I am not looking forward to writing the letters for those directly under my command. It is a personal tragedy for those who survive them, and thus I believe I should make each letter unique and written by hand on high quality paper. There are, however, only so many ways you can tell someone their friends and family are dead. How long will it be before I am forced to recycle my words and associate loss with a randomised pick from a set of bereavement letter templates, rather than the person they were in life? Fortunately, I am not the direct superior for most of the groundside crew, even if I lose all three fortress commanders, it should be many more years before I get to that point, and I shall fight the inevitable every step of the way. A week after the chaos avatar first descended, while waiting for Envoy Lynu beneath the observation dome, I receive the first recordings of the ork crash site. The dome remains much the same as when I first found it, with its stone urns, gravel gardens, and hand carved benches. The ferns, moss, and other subtle greenery, have been replaced by new, identical specimens, and the calming water features flow once again. The chamber has been sound proofed too, all I hear is the gentle murmur of quiet voices, soft water, and crunching steps. It is one of the few places on Distant Sun wholly free from the eternal hum and clank of ancient machinery. Beyond the dome lies Marwolv and a small, bright blip where the shipyard glides through the void. The yard is under repair and the Green Tick is steadily being fed into its refineries. Erudition¡¯s Howl hunted down Solid Slug earlier in the week and pounded it into scrap. The void ship is currently towing pieces back to the yard. Between the two ork roks we have more than enough material to complete Iron Crane and four more moth class vessels, which will take us up to ten of the small resource vessels, five fuel processors and five material synthesisers. They¡¯ll be finished around the time the Iron Crane launches. Erudition¡¯s Howl will continue to scour the system for resources as I want to start a void habitat before I go, integrate the shipyard into it, and drag it out to the Kuiper belt. While a Kuiper belt is much lower in metals than an asteroid belt, Marwolv doesn¡¯t have an asteroid belt, only scattered asteroids. There are four dwarf planets and their moons out in the Kuiper belt that can be mined for minerals though. Where the location really shadows other options, however, is its proximity to one of the system¡¯s two mandeville points as well as the vast amount of frozen water and hydrocarbons that can be processed into reaction mass, fuel, and lubricants. Collecting resources from comets is a much easier task than diving into a gas giant, or even the local star. It does not require the specialised, moth class vessels that I use and can be undertaken by D-POTs with relative ease. The new station will enable Marwolv to build monitor vessels, system defence vessels usually built without a warp drive, and any other industry they care to imagine. I¡¯ll be leaving them with all my imperial STCs, a few designs from my cargo container STC, and a detailed plan. If I ever make it back to Marwolv to collect on their debt, there will be plenty of resources to resupply and expand my fleet. If I don¡¯t make it, I will have to hope that what I¡¯ve left behind will be used responsibly. Chapter Eighty-Two While one thought stream enjoys the view and ponders future plans, another watches the scouts¡¯ recordings of the crash site. It¡¯s a mix of picts, vids, and auspex that the stellar corps and its machine spirits have laboured over to produce a virtual construction of the zone, free of all the visual artefacts and scummy weather that make planning an offensive from the original recordings a mind bending endeavour. The simulation shows that the rok slammed into the planet with enough force to flatten everything within one hundred and sixty kilometres and shatter every non-mechanicus window on the continent. The mushroom cloud reached space. How then did the rok survive impact, let alone the orks within? Imperial ships occasionally ram other vessels at a notable fraction of lightspeed and both sides withstand the collision, an event I find quite ridiculous. The rok was less fortunate, and is in four pieces. The back half is mostly intact and slid for thirty kilometres, creating a new lake that is slowly filling up. The front three sections broke off; one on impact, and the other two broke off during the great skidmark and tumbled away, creating two more furrows on the planet before coming to a halt. As for how the orks survived the collision, thieving bastards that they are, they have the same artificial gravity technology as the imperium, which can negate sudden shocks. Orks are also much more hardy than humans and their special brand of cobbled junk teknologee partly works because they believe it will, though this does have limits; the more orks there are, the stronger the effect. The mechanics remind me of the ¡®Schrodinger''s cat¡¯ thought experiment. So long as you don¡¯t stick your nose into the box of gubbins and take a closer look to see how their machines actually work their devices function just fine. In other words, the cock-eyed shrooms survived the crash because they never considered they wouldn¡¯t survive it. Between the Imperium¡¯s rabid theocracy and the orks wilful imagination, ignorance in the forty-second millennium has become a survival trait. Personally, I like to blame the imperial cult and inquisition who like to burn people any time your average pleb dares to know more than nothing. John Snow would do well here, I am sure. The rear half of the rok has been pummelled to near scrap by Distant Sun¡¯s lance and melta-shell macro cannon orbital bombardment. There is a single bore hole right through the engines and six craters, each over two hundred metres wide and four hundred deep, on its hull. No significant heat or electromagnetic radiation is present and a lot of gretchin are swarming the structure, cannibalising parts and shipping them elsewhere. The rok isn¡¯t entirely abandoned, and the edge of the craters in the hull are being shored up with scrap. Rain is hampering their efforts, pooling in the craters and seeping into the rok. I can¡¯t tell what they intend to do with the structure yet. As for the front three pieces, they¡¯re surrounded by scaffolding and it¡¯s impossible to make out what the orks are up to. I am absolutely sure I will hate it when I find out though. Envoy Lynu finally arrives. She looks much healthier and less worn down than before and has changed her clothes to a hyperweave undersuit and a clear helmet, and a loose orange jumpsuit. Unlike other uniforms, the jumpsuit isn¡¯t made from flak weave and armaplas. Instead, it is a tough, synthetic polymer. The undersuits are still armour and can take a lasgun shot or two. Unlike the crew, I saw no point in armouring a prisoner twice, but I didn¡¯t want the tau to suffer any ¡®accidents¡¯ either, or freeze and suffocate to death while traversing the ship. Taking away the suits is an easy way to confine them to the guest quarters too. Two heralds flank Lynu and stand behind her after I direct Lynu to join me on the stone bench. ¡°Good day, Magos.¡± ¡°Hello, Envoy Lynu. How has your stay aboard the Distant Sun been so far?¡± ¡°Given the reputation of the Imperium of Man, far better than I had hoped, but one always wishes for more. What can the tau do for you, Magos?¡± I nod, ¡°Many things, I hope. I intend to have the guest quarters converted to something less lavish. We will replace them with xeno habitats and you will be given a small amount of input so that your community¡¯s long term health and productivity remains high. ¡°Everything you can do for me will be restricted to your area of the ship or via remote operation. We don¡¯t even have a proper ceasefire yet and your polity is headless and unable to negotiate your release. You are prisoners of war. It is possible you will do so until the end of your lives, unless you wish to try another new colony within the Imperium¡¯s sphere of influence?¡± Lynu holds her hands in her lap in a tight grip, ¡°You would allow this after all we have done?¡± I grin, ¡°There are no ethereals in your group. Perhaps a little freedom from your overbearing ruling caste will give rise to a more cooperative relationship between our peoples. Besides, good work deserves a reward. Even for prisoners.¡± ¡°There is a touch of the greater good in you after all, Magos.¡± ¡°Once upon a time, on a planet far, far away, in a time long lost to humanity, I may have agreed with you.¡± I shake my head, ¡°This war-drunk galaxy has obscured my vision with bloody spray and mists of tears. While I prefer to focus on my own survival, the Emperor¡¯s indifferent light holds doom at bay for all species. The Imperium¡¯s unintentional greater good, if you will. ¡°Such things have a price, however. A sacrifice. One the Imperium can barely pay. You can think of your stay on the Distant Sun as your contribution to the Imperium, and thus the greater good of all species. A contribution that will indirectly save your own. A stronger Imperium means greater sacrifice is possible in the Emperor¡¯s name and so his light spreads to more worlds, keeping the vile whispers that drove your ethereal mad and far from the ill-prepared minds of your psychically deaf castes and auxiliaries.¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Lynu shakes slightly, ¡°The two-headed bird.¡± ¡°Aye, one of four such beings and their myriad legions that the tau unknowingly tempts everytime you experiment with the warp. These may have been unconfirmed accounts and children¡¯s tales to you. Now you know better.¡± ¡°I wish we had never learned.¡± ¡°Me too, but one cannot hide from the dark while, as we all do, lurking within it.¡± Lynu nods slowly, then glances at me. I turn and look her in the eyes. ¡°This isn¡¯t going to be a discussion. I am going to tell you how things are and you will have to trust my kindness, that tiny, raw spark of the greater good which still burns in my jaded, plasteel heart. Like the greater good, that spark thrives on cooperation. Understood?¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. I understand and will communicate your will to our small community.¡± ¡°Good. All your people will be fitted with brain-machine interfaces called a mind impulse unit, or MIU in abbreviated low gothic. This will serve multiple purposes. First, you will be able to access the noosphere via the sleeping pods, though this will be restricted and no tools or command lines will be enabled for you. ¡°You will be able to access various virtual environments to minimise claustrophobia and provide a small amount of entertainment. I am warning you now that the entertainment branch of the noosphere has no hard connections to any of Distant Sun¡¯s functions or databases. You will get absolutely nowhere if anyone tries to mess with it and lose the privilege.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. The more free-spirited members will be warned.¡± I shrug, ¡°If they fuck up, that¡¯s on them. I suggest you hand over any schematics and data you have for the similar implants you use to pilot your battlesuits. This will let me remove any painful or terminal incompatibilities between human and tau physiologies.¡± Lynu¡¯s shoulders tense. I continue, ¡°You will be fitted with an MIU irregardless of if you hand over your equivalent and I have enough samples to understand it anyway. This is for me to check my work, not steal from you. ¡°As for any other technologies you may have hidden, I am not going to insist on them. You can sell them to me as and when you wish for privileges, better accommodations, and better food. Perhaps even the machinery required to start a new colony, when and if you are ready to move on.¡± ¡°Thank you for your understanding, Magos.¡± Lynu puts on a charming smile. ¡°How about a void ship?¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°It is illegal for me to sell imperial technology and hardware to xenos at this time.¡± Lynu nods, ¡°I see.¡± ¡°To continue, some noosphere environments will let you interact with the crew anonymously. By that, I mean Aruna, our primary machine-spirit will know who everyone is and monitor all interactions, but those whom you speak to will not know who is or who is not tau unless you tell them or give it away with your behaviour. I hope these interactions will gradually reduce hostilities and acclimatise our cultures to each other. Should this prove successful, you may earn the right to visit the promenade and observation dome, just like other crew.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos.¡± I nod, ¡°The other purpose the MIU serves is it will allow authorised tau to exit the xenos habitat while remotely controlling a servitor and interact with the crew with, hopefully, minimal harassment so that tasks that can¡¯t be brought to you can still be completed. The same caveats as the anonymity of the noosphere will apply and, for security, it is unlikely a tau will ever pilot the same servitor twice. ¡°We use this piloting method for dangerous environments and hard labour that can¡¯t be done by an undirected servitor. Do keep in mind that an MIU, in conjunction with the sleeping pod, is perfectly capable of mimicking the wear and tear on the servitor that is being piloted. This is a punishment for scurrilous, careless, and aggressive crew who haven¡¯t quite done anything bad enough to deserve the brig. Lynu flashes a small smile, then quickly hides her expressions once again, ¡°An enlightened practice, Magos.¡± I huff, ¡°Save your flattery and we will get through this conversation much faster. Now, to the tasks I require. Your earth caste members are of the most use to me. I cannot let you access Imperial technology, or continue to meddle with the human genome. There is, however, a metaphorical grey area.¡± ¡°Please enlighten me, Magos.¡± ¡°Mutants. I have thirty mutants I recovered from Errudition¡¯s Howl¡¯s bilge deck. For now, I require three labours from the tau: discover the cause of these mutations, design the tools and medicines to detect and prevent them, and last, you must create methods to reverse and treat mutations in humans. ¡°Depending on the quality of your results, I will permit a variable amount of additional time on these tasks to complete the same research for tau. One never knows what they might find in the galaxy and I prefer to be prepared.¡± ¡°I will see it done, Magos. Do you have a timeline for this research?¡± I shake my head. ¡°No. One does not wish for enlightenment and it cannot be rushed. You will be supervised by a team of tech-priests and adepts. So long as reasonable efforts are being made to progress through the problem in a logical fashion, no ¡®encouragements¡¯ will be applied. This also includes asking for assistance if you don¡¯t know how to proceed, so long as you don¡¯t try to get your supervisors to do your work for you.¡± Lynu¡¯s eyes widen, ¡°You are asking us to be a normal research team. Nothing more? To be part of your crew as we are human?¡± ¡°Until such time as willful errors and non-compliance is expressed, that is all I will ask. I have read that the tau who assimilate human worlds treat them as second class citizens. Until I am given sufficient reason not to, I will extend you the same courtesy.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos,¡± Lynu leans back on the stone bench and smiles. It¡¯s the first genuine expression I¡¯ve seen from her. ¡°You are welcome. In the spirit of cooperation, you will be paid. Our currency for the fleet is bytes and it is based on a unit of energy, one kilowatt hour. I do not know how that compares to your own energy units. To put that in perspective for you, assuming one hundred percent efficiency, and the air pressure on Marwolv at sea level, one kilowatt hour can boil eight point six kilograms of pure water.¡± Lynu nods, ¡°Thank you for your teachings, Magos.¡± I frown at Lynu, ¡°For now, prisoners will receive the minimum stipend of twenty-five bytes a day. This represents the average energy required to supply the minimum air, water, food, healthcare and shelter an average human requires per day. It does not include noosphere access outside of training. ¡°We don¡¯t actually charge the crew for such basics and the stipend allows for a few small luxuries per day, like recaf, alcohol, and better food than soylent viridans. As prisoners, you will be charged for such basics. ¡°Prisoners who choose to work will receive additional compensation, they will begin on the wage scale as if they are a tech-apprentice and can work their way up like any other crew member. That means fifty bytes a day.¡± Lynu, ¡°So you will not force labour upon us, but the choice is to work for you and enjoy a few luxuries with a chance for freedom, poisoning us with hope, or spend our days staring at metal walls waiting for death.¡± Chapter Eighty-Three ¡°I do not view hope as a poison, Envoy Lynu, so long as both parties remain genuine and cooperative, that is.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. You have made that abundantly clear. Now, there is something I wish to ask of you.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°Is there anything you can do to increase our protection against such horrors as the two-headed bird?¡± ¡°The walls of the vessel protect you as does the gellar field. It is unlikely you will be leaving their protection. Your species is psychically deaf enough that under normal circumstances, you won¡¯t have to worry about it anyway.¡± Lynu holds her hand clasped tightly in her lap, ¡°Even so, Magos. What little understanding I have of the warp and its whispers imply that deafness does not mean immunity; it is a limit of power and the two-headed bird that crawled from the warp had enough to do, for a short time, almost whatever it pleased. ¡°While there is some merit in claiming that, once reaching such a point, whatever protections we can muster become irrelevant, it would give us great peace of mind to have them anyway. Something clearly warped our ethereal to madness, however. Perhaps a little extra protection at the right time and place would have prevented much sorrow. Doing nothing shows we have learned nothing. Neither you nor fortune will save us twice. Knowledge and preparation might just manage it though.¡± ¡°It is exceptionally expensive to ward people against the warp. What are you willing to pay?¡± ¡°How about a technology for a technology?¡± ¡°You would still need to earn the tools and materials.¡± ¡°That¡¯s just another trade, Magos. What do you want?¡± ¡°I have noticed that despite your losses and low population, you do not suffer from insufficient personnel. Coupled with your attempted cloning of mixed psyker and tau humanoids, I can only assume you have exo-wombs that can grow intelligent, educated individuals. I want that technology.¡± ¡°Are mechanicus members not grown in such a manner?¡± says Lynu. ¡°I thought you could already do this.¡± ¡°On forge worlds, the technology is available. I do not have it for my fleet. While I can grow blank servitors, and I do have teaching engines, the separate parts are not as compatible as one might think. Rapidly growing an intelligent and educated individual is a completely different challenge to a servitor. I can do it the long way, but then one might as well use the traditional method of procreation and education.¡± I smirk, ¡°Think of this as a limited time offer. Once I can purchase it from the imperium, you¡¯ll have to think of other things to offer.¡± ¡°You are most generous, Magos. We do have rapid growth exo-wombs and knowledge implantation technology available to trade. What manner might this protection come in?¡± ¡°I have two for you. The first is something I use, warding electoos.¡± I power up my electoos, and a blue, almost purple light seeps from my skin as thousands of tiny runes glow with an eerie light. ¡°That is a most unusual display.¡± ¡°It works and I am pleased with the results.¡± Now that Lynu asked, I will make this a standard implant along with the MIU for all personnel, not just the servitors, and including prisoners. Lynu doesn¡¯t need to know this though. No reason I can¡¯t get her to pay for a technology I now intend to apply to them anyway. Technically I¡¯m not supposed to sell anything to a xeno, but anything I can do to reduce chaos corruption in the galaxy is a good thing and one of my primary goals, so I am willing to flout the rules for this one technology. Trading with a hidden agenda will make for a good excuse when someone inevitably complains about it and, so long as the tau never find out, is a good way to squeeze their technology from them without fostering resentment. One might wonder why I bother at all, but trading, rather than seizing, means I can return to consult with their experts on their technology as part of the trade and acquire the theory behind their works. With scientific theory and engineering principles available I can apply them to imperial technology, effectively integrating xeno-tech without directly using it, as direct use of xeno-tech is forbidden as it rarely ends well for the humans involved. Warding electoos for all personnel would be almost impossible to afford without the moth class ships; I believe it is worth the expense and the materials can be recycled after death, so over time it should become more affordable. ¡°What is the second type?¡± says Lynu. ¡°A silver blood substitute that doubles as a sacred oil for the machine cult, called sacred blood. I do not know how this would work for tau physiology and it does have side effects and complications, which is why I currently only use it for servitors. You would likely have to adopt the faith to get the most from it too. ¡°One that note, becoming adherents of the machine cult may reduce the inevitable stigma the tau will experience aboard the Distant Sun and within the Imperium. It will be much easier for me to get you the sanctioned xeno status and thus be granted a modicum of freedom within the Imperium if you are one of the faithful. This does not equate to protection, however.¡± ¡°I will keep your suggestion in mind. What sort of side effects?¡± ¡°In humans, sacred blood turns the skin grey and a partial marrow replacement is required to make space for the implants to manufacture and recycle the blood substitute. Alternatively, sacred blood must be periodically replaced from an external source, which is what I usually do for servitors as the implants are expensive. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°This marrow surgery is exceptionally invasive and debilitating, so instead, a complete skeletal replacement is undertaken, called a black skeleton. For servitors, they are grown on it anyway, so I can fit them with such implants easily. Retrofitting people is much more tricky, but still easier and less painful than marrow surgery. This improved skeleton is a more resilient and logical design, making the user less prone to injury, but does not heal naturally and must be repaired or replaced with surgery or repaired with nanites if broken.¡± ¡°That sounds like you could lock us into your own healthcare system, Magos. I am not keen on you having another way to restrain us. Is there anything else I should be aware of about this so-called upgrade?¡± ¡°Rehabilitation for a complete skeletal replacement requires up to two terran years if done naturally. An auto-sanguine implant, an implant that enhances healing and eases inflammation between implants and the user¡¯s original flesh, can reduce rehabilitation to three months and only minor physiotherapy is required. ¡°Unfortunately, auto-sanguines are expensive and reserved for officers, at least for now, so patients are usually hooked up to an external, supercharged auto-sanguine and kept in a coma. Two weeks later they are taken off the machines, wake up mostly pain free and ready for physiotherapy, which is a six week course. This saves me money, time, and resources.¡± ¡°This sacred blood does not sound like it is worth the effort,¡± says Lynu. I nod, ¡°From a purely cost to performance ratio, sacred blood is inferior to warding electoos for reducing warp based effects upon a person. It does provide an opportunity to double up on warp protection though. One¡¯s immortal soul is worth protecting and, in combination with all the additional implants required, sacred blood does provide significant improvements in body performance, whereas electoos provide none. The void skin electoos are printed on, however, is resilient. ¡°For example, sacred blood lets a stationary individual hold their breath for an hour and clots rapidly when exposed to air or vacuum. It¡¯s actually quite difficult to bleed out from an injury when you have sacred blood and, in an emergency, you can use it to patch up holes in your spacesuit.¡± ¡°How ingenious!¡± I snort, ¡°So long as you''re not the one cleaning up, sure. Sacred blood is not as compatible with the body as the Imperium¡¯s standard substitutes and much more pricey, but neither does it cause the withering of muscles, which would lead to complications over time. The heart, liver, and kidneys also require bionic replacements to handle pumping and processing sacred blood as it is a heavy, thick, and oily liquid. You also need a potentia coil to power them. These implants require minor surgery every ten years to perform maintenance on the artificial organs and provide their own advantages, like toxin and trauma resistance.¡± Lynu sighs, ¡°Well I did ask and you have provided. Of the two methods, which is the most effective?¡± ¡°That¡¯s tricky to answer. I only have the electoos, as do some of the crew. Personnel with warding tattoos cannot be directly scried by psykers of delta power or less. It is therefore hypothesised that warded individuals cannot be targeted by warp entities without line of sight. This is challenging to prove, and like you said earlier, it is more a matter of power, and perhaps trickery, rather than an absolute protection.¡± ¡°The mass slaughter of Marwolv¡¯s psykers suggests that these warding electoos are effective to a high level of power as those with the electoos were spared a grisly death, but for all we know this could be some long term trick to make us waste resources or to prepare a large number of individuals as better vessels for warp entity possession. That isn¡¯t what the data says. It isn¡¯t what our limited testing implies. Unfortunately, one can never be entirely sure when dealing with warp entities.¡± ¡°I believe poisoning with hope is fast becoming a distant dream Magos,¡± Lynu shivers. ¡°Your words do not fill me with confidence. Are you really trying to sell me on this mystical engineering or not?¡± ¡°I am not the one on a deadline to get the most value from my limited knowledge, Envoy Lynu.¡± ¡°That...is not inaccurate. Is there anything else you are willing to share?¡± ¡°We did discover that a pict-viewer or a mirror is sufficient to count as line of sight to employ psychic effects against warded individuals.¡± Lynu frowns, ¡°That would mean that for comprehensive protection, everyone has to have these electoos. When you said these materials are expensive, how expensive are they?¡± ¡°One can mine them from asteroids saturated in warp energy that might be pulled from the immaterium by a void ship¡¯s wake between warp and realspace transitions. They can also be stolen from raids on demon worlds languishing in the warp and after sanctifying polluted ritual grounds or artefacts. Oh, and space hulks. The main issue is that the same energised elements compete for warp fuel synthesis.¡± I¡¯m not going to mention my sun diving moth class ships who can synthesise these materials too. ¡°Yet you ward every servitor. I think these things are more common than you imply.¡± Alright Aldrich, time to mislead for all your worth! ¡°Not at all, Envoy. This is more a personal precaution of mine after a possession event. Most would not choose to expend so many resources on such an endeavour. Many resources have been expended since I arrived at Marwolv to acquire these rare, warp infused elements. Even after all this time, warp transitions are limited, but I deem the trade-off worth the risk.¡± ¡°I see. If you could humour me a little further?¡± I nod. I¡¯m rather proud of my wards, and though it is unwise, I feel I have enough control over Envoy Lynu¡¯s information channels that I can afford to boast a little more. ¡°What happens to warded individuals within line of sight of a psyker?¡± says Lynu. ¡°When psychic effects were applied, with direct line of sight, it was discovered the minds of warded individuals could not be read without the individual becoming aware of it. Telepathic messages could still be sent, though psykers recorded an increase in exertion between twelve and eighteen percent depending on the individuals involved in testing. This makes electoo wards less ideal for astropaths. ¡°Hostile effects, such as warp fire and lightning, when tested to destruction on servitors with just the electoos, were not noticeably repelled. Sacred blood reduced damage to soft tissues between four point five and six percent. ¡°When tested on warded volunteers at much lower power levels, damage reduction from warp fire and lightning was up to sixty-two percent depending on the mental discipline of the individual, though the median average was nineteen percent. ¡°We are still waiting on the right criminals to declare their existence so we can test warded individuals to destruction. ¡°Unlike the servitors with just the electoos, servitors with electoos and sacred blood could not be forcefully controlled by a psyker. Servitors with neither could be overridden without line of sight. ¡°Servitors with electoos could be forcefully controlled with line of sight, to a much lesser degree, as if the psyker was sending instructions via a dodgy data connection suffering from time outs and packet loss. ¡°Servitors with just sacred blood could not be fully forcefully controlled with or without line of sight. They could be prevented from taking any actions, or halting an action they were performing, but not be prompted to complete new actions at the behest of the psyker.¡± ¡°What about testing possession, rather than control on people and servitors?¡± says Lynu. Chapter Eighty-Four I wince, ¡°Questions like possession experimentation and other foolhardy sorcery are why many imperials believe the tau empire, despite its impressive technology, is a self correcting problem.¡± ¡°No need to be rude, Magos.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t my opinion. However, you need only consider the steps that resulted in you sitting by me today, begging for sanctuary, to understand why many imperials hold this view.¡± Lynu frowns. ¡°Now, to actually answer your question,¡± I say, ¡°we can¡¯t test possession on people, even criminals, as psykers cannot possess others. I have no intention of learning the vile rituals required to summon a warp entity to assist in testing. Some individuals may be desperate, dumb, or prideful enough to attempt it. They are of little concern as, well, they¡¯re a self correcting problem. As for how effective electoo wards and sacred blood are against possession I only have one data point. Since adopting both methods I have not had a repeat possession event.¡± Lynu folds her arms, almost hugging herself, ¡°Your explanation does not lack clarity, Magos.¡± She looks up at the stars for a few breaths, then returns her gaze to me. ¡°We are not ready to abandon our beliefs and convert to the Machine Cult, Magos. I will revisit the trade for sacred blood when it has been more thoroughly tested. ¡°We would, however, like to purchase your warding electoos and the materials required to implant them, as well as rent the needed tools and employ a pair of tech-priests to assist in our understanding and implementation of these electoos. ¡°We offer all our combined exo-womb and knowledge implantation technology in exchange, as requested. However, we are in no hurry to implement the electoos if we are indeed as safe within the hull of your vessel as you imply. Instead, we wish to purchase these materials with the bytes that we earn by working for you. How long do you estimate it will take to earn sufficient funds to acquire the tools, materials, and guidance we will need?¡± ¡°For three hundred tau? Twenty years.¡± Lynu¡¯s eyes widen, ¡°Are you, as you imperials like to say, pulling my leg?¡± ¡°No.¡± I pass her a data slate with the current price for everything she has asked alongside the projected wages of the prisoners. I also add a comparison using my own adepts¡¯ and priests¡¯ wages in similar jobs, as well as their spending habits. ¡°I am not pleased to see this, Magos, and require additional time to think this over. You are far more wealthy than I believed. I regret our previous altercations immensely.¡± ¡°So do I, Envoy.¡± Lynu gives me a sharp nod and a weak smile, ¡°We will still provide the exo-womb and knowledge combination technology and provide the schematics for our civilian brain-machine interface implants. As for the other items we require,¡± she pauses, ¡°is there anything else we can do to alleviate our burdens?¡± ¡°That¡¯s enough cultural exchange for today, Envoy Lynu. I¡¯ve done a lot of the work and volunteered a lot of information. I did this to set an example for future cooperation, not to symbolise the beginning of a one sided trend. Come back to me with a genuine offer for a technology or service you think I need. I am already providing all the tools you need to interact with the crew and find out what that might be.¡± ¡°Ah. You are a direct individual, Magos.¡± I snort, ¡°This is your big chance to surprise me. Your only chance.¡± I look past her at her two guards. ¡°Take her back to the guest quarters.¡± The two heralds salute me. Lynu stands, then bows to me, ¡°Good day, Magos.¡± I think back to the ork scout report and the new targeting data that Aruna can infer from it and smile, ¡°It sure is!¡± Lynu pales and swiftly departs. It¡¯s time to introduce the orks to a traditional terran meme from my ill spent youth. ¡°Omae wa mou shindeiru,¡± I mutter. For security reasons, fire orders must be given in person by me, or authorised by two first or second class officers working in tandem on the bridge, though Eire is the only first class officer present on Distant Sun. With that in mind, I head to the bridge, feeling that all my troubles are a button press away. Third officer Seoras L¨´tair is the primary officer for the fifth watch and is on the bridge when I arrive. Like most of Marwolv¡¯s citizens he¡¯s over a hundred and eighty centimetres tall with bright red hair, mild freckles, and pale skin. He sits upright upon the command throne with his eyes closed. A thick cable is plugged into the metal collar of his undersuit. A helmet with a clear faceplate covers his head. Seoras L¨´tair is wearing the new uniform designed by purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich, and the cut and colours are greatly improved from my first attempts. His new uniform includes red, brass, and dark green tartan trousers and waistcoat with a rust coloured, herringbone tweed-imitation shirt and a dark green, almost black great coat with brass buttons. Black gloves cover his hands, to keep the wear and tear on his undersuit to a minimum. The cog and skull of the mechanicus is embroidered on his waistcoat over his heart and a series of patches on the left arm of his greatcoat displays his rank. Distant Sun in silver lettering is embroidered on the back of his greatcoat, across his shoulders, with my own symbol beneath it: my plasteel pipe turned crowsbeak power hammer, also embroidered in silver thread and placed inside a brass cog. The uniform is woven from flak weave and the greatcoat is reinforced with flexible, armaplas inserts and has the same chemical and radiation resistance treatments as a Kreig greatcoat. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it I think it looks rather smart and I¡¯m rather pleased with Brigid¡¯s efforts. While similar, my designs were more utilitarian and I¡¯d put armaplas inserts in the trousers and waistcoat too, which wasn¡¯t that comfortable and ended up being too heavy for normal people. I hadn¡¯t noticed thanks to my void skin and hyperweave musculature. Now the trousers only have the inserts over the knees. Brigid also got rid of the optional kilts to enforce proper protection for everyone. I¡¯d allowed them to give people a chance to express a little individuality, but Brigid has replaced them with two different clothing cuts for each item, for both males and females, that people can mix and match instead, while keeping the same colours, buttons, and embroidery to keep everyone looking, well, uniform. I chuckle, that would mean that, besides war, the other immortal constant in the forty second millennium is dad jokes. I¡¯ve noticed that the officers tend to choose the suit trousers and high cut waistcoat with a single row of brass buttons that have quite tight fits, whereas everyone else goes for utility trousers with extra pockets and the double breasted waistcoat as the buttons don¡¯t catch as easily when lifting objects of using machinery. Dragonscale power armour is my equivalent of a uniform. I wore the mechanicus red robe for a while, but it gets in the way of my servo harness and having a cloak with a giant hole in the back is rather pointless. Instead, my armour is Mars red, with silver trim and brass detailing, to match with the rest of my crew. I ping Seoras and he opens his eyes and smiles. ¡°Good afternoon, Magos.¡± ¡°Hello, Seoras. How fares the watch?¡± ¡°Nothing unexpected for Distant Sun. The orks assaulted D?l South Prime two hours ago and were repelled with three percent casualties of which twelve percent were fatalities.¡± I nod, ¡°The engineers must have finally got enough floating fortifications in place with those numbers. I¡¯ll authorise an off duty beer ration for them. That last attack marks all four compass prime bases that the orks have tried now. How are the PDF forces doing?¡± ¡°All of D?l¡¯s remaining PDF are still focused on disaster relief and reorganising themselves after massive losses. Eire¡¯s initial casualty estimates of fifty thousand were way off as both sides were keeping more troops on their borders than they¡¯d reported. The Monadh Republic and Pailt Empire on D?l not only lost all their armour but half their PDF too. They are down to one hundred thousand each. ¡°Brisgean and Llannerch are stockpiling resources and moving civilians to fortified refugee camps in case of dark eldar or ork raids. It¡¯s slow going as they don¡¯t have enough vehicles. Our class three D-POTs have been recalled from around the system to speed everything up. The majority will be with us in sixty hours, but ten percent of them are staying out there and have begun to search for webway gates in case they¡¯re out in the system, rather than on Marwolv.¡± I fold my arms, and tap my finger against my bicep, ¡°I was hoping they would bolster our numbers against the orks, but I did ask Dimpsy Fortress commander, Dougal MacCrane, to coordinate with the PDF and told him those tasks needed to be done, so I can¡¯t complain too much. ¡°As for the D-POT¡¯s we really don¡¯t need the extra resources so long as we can continue to harvest the roks, I am happy with those orders to remain. Is Dougal using the stellar corps stationed at Dimpsy Fortress and Anglewitch to relieve and reinforce Drumbledrone¡¯s forces around the orks?¡± ¡°Ah, I¡¯ll ping you the report that came in during the last watch. I¡¯ve been too busy running drills with the trainees to read it and it wasn¡¯t marked urgent.¡± I hold up my hand, ¡°No need, Seoras, I¡¯ve already found it. Looks like Commander MacCrane is preparing to sweep through the ork territory and is requesting a bombardment within the next thirty-six hours. He and I clearly think alike. Let¡¯s get that underway shall we?¡± A small grin flashes over Seoras face before returning to his practised placid expression, ¡°Aye, aye, Magos.¡± ¡°Go ahead, Seoras, show me how it¡¯s done.¡± Seoras blinks rapidly and his lips tighten. He takes a deep breath and swaps to shipwide vox. ¡°All crew, this is third officer Seoras L¨´tair. Distant Sun is at yellow alert, I repeat, yellow alert. This is not a drill. Fifth watch, prepare for orbital bombardment.¡± Seoras gestures to me and I commandeer his vox channel, ¡°All crew, orbital bombardment authorised, Magos Issengrund out.¡± I swap back to the proximity channel. ¡°Carry on, Seoras.¡± Seoras addresses the bridge and gunnery crews, ¡°Trainee ordinance officer, Lonceta Ridel, load the port macro-cannons with melta shells and charge the prow and spinal lances. Don¡¯t rush the crews, we¡¯re not under fire. Trainee helm officer, Darragh Selkirk, position us above central D?l and bring us to a stationary orbit. Be gentle with the thrusters and keep our reaction mass expenditure to a minimum. You both have one hour.¡± Next, Seoras contacts our ground forces. ¡°Commander MacCrane, this is Distant Sun, your request for orbital support has been authorised. Fire mission begins in six zero minutes.¡± He glances up at me, ¡°How long do we bombard for, Magos?¡± ¡°You really should have asked that first: twenty-four hours.¡± Seoras winces, ¡°I¡¯ll add that to my notes.¡± He continues his message to Dimpsy Fortress, ¡°Fire mission will last for twenty-four hours. Distant Sun out.¡± Seoras sighs, ¡°Apologies, Magos. Addressing the whole crew still makes me a little nervous.¡± I smile, ¡°That just means you¡¯re taking it seriously. Let¡¯s go over that checklist of yours while we wait, eh?¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± Seoras and I spend the next hour practising his protocol and public speaking. He makes no mistakes when it¡¯s just the two of us and has clearly put a lot of practice into enunciating clearly and learning the proper scripts by heart, rather than have his MIU feed him the words. He¡¯s only two months into his stint as a third officer after finishing his tech-adept training and the one year officer conversion course that he took from my equivalent of the schola progenium, the imperium¡¯s officer academy. My officer training course is quite different as rather than training war orphans with faith, fasting, and furious sparring, it focuses more on teaching adults applied sciences, data driven diets, and competitive simulations with the muscle stimulation turned up to max. It¡¯s an incredibly tough course, but unlike the schola progenium, my technology means I don¡¯t have to recycle dead children into corpse starch for the surviving kids after live-fire exercises. Darragh does a good job of plotting out a course and puts us into a stationary orbit within forty minutes. Lonceta takes a little longer as she has to keep halting the crew on one of the guns who keep giving the servitors the wrong orders and manage to damage one of the loading cranes. From Lonceta¡¯s tirade I learn they¡¯re trying to one up each other with ¡®harmless¡¯ pranks. Fortunately the damage control team is much more competent and they swap out the broken parts in nine minutes flat. I am a little surprised when Lonceta files the careless gunnery team for criminal negligence and they get taken away for a tier one sentence at the brig, but they could have killed a lot of people if they kept messing about so I don¡¯t object. They¡¯ll be out after a month, but jail time and a fine are the least of their worries as they¡¯ll have plenty of time to reconsider their work ethic from inside a boarding torpedo or other assault shuttle the next time I have to order a boarding action. Chapter Eighty-Five ¡°Trainee officer Ridel,¡± says Seoras, ¡°Targets for bombardment are the rear rok mass, now designated Barrel, and the three shards in order of proximity to Barrel: Pan, Embers, and Ash. ¡°All bombardments are to proceed with up to two lance strikes for targeting strikes, then a melta macro-cannon bombardment, once every thirty minutes using alternating port and starboard macro-cannons, beginning with port cannons. Fire rates will double once the trainee fifth watch is over. Twelve hours are to be spent on Barrel and four hours on the other three targets. Begin bombardment when ready.¡± I notice a little back and forth on the vox between Lonceta Ridel and Darragh Selkirk. Then the first lance strike from the spinal turret pierces through the churning atmosphere. Sensors all over Marwolv pick up the strike and are fed back to Dimpsy Fortress and then Distant Sun. The initial data suggest they¡¯ve hit where Barrel is supposed to be, but the trainee crew doesn¡¯t notice that they haven¡¯t actually struck a dense metal object. Lonceta gives the order for the macro-cannon¡¯s to fire and Aruna interferes, slamming all their MIUs with error messages. After some confusion, Lonceta and her crew figure out where they¡¯ve gone wrong and fire the second lance and the sensors return a proper strike. Aruna unlocks the macro-cannon fire control and the massive shells are expelled from the port guns. Marwolv¡¯s atmosphere swirls behind the shells and eight bright lights set the clouds aglow with fire and spite. As best we can tell, the shells are on target, but there¡¯s far too much noise on the seismic sensor net after such a strike to be absolutely sure. ¡°Good work, Seoras. If Lonceta doesn¡¯t file herself and her crew for extra practice, discipline, and physical training by the time her next shift comes round, assign them a week¡¯s worth of maintenance in the bilges to be completed in their free time on top of the actual remedial work. Don¡¯t warn any of them in advance either.¡± ¡°Should I make that a standard practice, Magos?¡± ¡°Use your own judgement. A wasted salvo is an expensive and dangerous error. One that, in ship to ship combat, puts the whole vessel at risk, or in this case, Marwolv and its peoples. Smaller errors, such as burying one¡¯s head in their datapad and terminating the wanderings with a power wash out of the auto-loader is a tragedy of design and a disciplinary opportunity for the remainder of the team. The potential damage to the vessel and crew is lower and thus further action should not be required.¡± ¡°I hate how callus that is, Magos, even if I understand the logic of it.¡± I shrug, ¡°Then conduct a safety review, or work on a simulation time to workplace error comparison paper; work with your fellow officers, and see where our training can be improved or crew alertness and discipline can be maintained long term through diet, rest, and incentives. ¡°These are just examples. The point is, propose different methods, and test them. Don¡¯t wait for stuff to go wrong. I¡¯m not perfect and while the work that¡¯s already in place hasn¡¯t truly let us down yet, there¡¯s clearly more to be tweaked. Not all methods work for all crew and their work locations after all and some of our protocols are a little generic.¡± Seoras stares at me, ¡°I was unaware that such initiative was permitted. The archives do not spare the reader from the terminal consequences for a litany of officers who tried to alter protocols.¡± ¡°So long as you have well researched and concise proposals, and enough personnel willing to try something new, I will always put aside the time to examine your work. Being a third officer comes with perks beyond a better living space, a fat wallet, and a longer list of possible implants. It gives you a direct line to me and a chance to affect meaningful change within my fleet. A chance to bask in the satisfaction of improving tens of thousands of lives and the admiration of your peers and crew. Do well enough and you are one of the few people with a chance to earn your own command.¡± Seoras chuckles, ¡°You¡¯re laying it on a bit thick there, Magos. I appreciate the opportunity though.¡± ¡°Of course you do,¡± I smirk. I clap my hands together once, ¡°Well, that¡¯s enough pep talk. Those mark two Marwolv pattern lasguns won¡¯t design themselves.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep you updated on the bombardment, Magos, and notify you of any new groudside reports.¡± ¡°Please do.¡± I leave the bridge and return to my quarters to work on my research projects, going through the different permutations my research module has come up with and building out prototypes for testing. Meanwhile one of my minds reads through old data, looking for inspiration. During this current conflict we¡¯ve been having logistical snarls, come up against the limitations of the chimera chassis, and suffered communication lag. While Bola¡¯s neutrino vox may one day fix many of our communication woes, I need an immediate solution. Even if it is one day surpassed, it will still be a decent backup. As data is a type of cargo, I turn once again to my engineering grade cargo container STC and look for courier vehicles. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. It took me some time to recognise the theme, but I¡¯ve noticed that the the cargo container STC favours biomimicry and biomechanical constructs, like the whale servitor stealth submarine I used to scout out the tau base, or the fat-bellied, mantaray-like appearance of the D-POTs. Almost all of the designs lack weapons too, even if they usually have hardpoints that can attach a variety of extras, such as weapons or manipulators, these extras aren¡¯t in the STC. The only weapons I¡¯ve found on it are the plasma macro-cannons and CIWS laser defence grid that came with the origami pattern mobile shipyard, as well as an array of E-WAR and countermeasures. The selection of courier vehicles are no different, with courier vehicles ranging from tiny dragonfly drones, to giant spiders that skate across both ground and water like a water boatman, to invisible mechanical owls that can flit through the air, or skim just above the ground in utter silence. There¡¯s also a small selection of more conventional vehicles, with a single example in each category like an all terrain, six wheeled buggy, an air car, hoverbike, and a foldable bicycle. These come across as reference samples rather than serious designs, though they still have everything you need to create them and knowledge to design new ones along a more conventional theme. After looking through the designs, I choose a large, mechanical owl. I don¡¯t have any stealth vehicles, and it¡¯s a chassis I can repurpose to other roles should I so wish. They¡¯re big enough for a single person to lie inside the chest cavity. Most of their internal space is filled with a power plant and data storage. Each dull red feather naturally bends light around it. You actually have to run a current through the feathers to reverse the effect so you can assemble the exotic vehicle, or not walk into it when it¡¯s parked, as it won¡¯t show up on the electromagnetic spectrum at all. The only way to detect the mechanical owl is from the air it displaces when in motion, or the ripples in a planet¡¯s magnetosphere caused by the anti-grav technology that helps keep the owl aloft when travelling at low speeds. Because they can fly so low to the ground, almost like a jetbike, the mechanical owls should be able to avoid the worst of the weather like the D-POTs do and avoid being grounded. I am not entirely happy with how difficult they are to manufacture though as each one will tie up a micro-factory for a month, so I also pick an all terrain motorbike as well. The motorbike has a fully enclosed seat and extra wide tyres that will be much easier to spread among the stellar corps for general use, and unlike the space marine design I have, usable by normal humans. The bikes won¡¯t require the establishment of another experimental company or specialised training, and are simple enough that I can use a more traditional manufacturing line. Sure it takes up more space and requires large amounts of skilled labour, but it is faster and less energy intensive to manufacture and maintain. Between the two designs, I should have no difficulty in transporting battlefield data and orders when there is excessive interference and I don¡¯t have wired communications available. I promptly delegate the work to my artisans and fabricators and give them two weeks to bring me a prototype of the all terrain motorbike. The owls will take much longer as the microfactories take considerable time and expertise to reconfigure. Next I turn my mind to looking for a better tank-like chassis, but my STC doesn¡¯t have an appropriate tracked vehicle so I turn Maeve¡¯s request into a research bounty and let my tech-adepts and priests have a go as I am still busy with the Marwolv lasgun. For the stellar corps, I will likely transition everything to rhino chassis from the space marine wargear STC that I transcribed, though I may tweak it a little. However, that still leaves the PDF high and dry with an overloaded design for their tanks and now I¡¯ve invested so much into Marwolv, I want to see if there are better options. Last, I turn my attention to military logistics, because no matter how multi-purpose the D-POTs are, they are an orbital shuttle, not a military cargo plane, or truck. Fortunately, I have the right STC for the job and I am overwhelmed with options. The first design that jumps out at me is a macro-vehicle, a tracked land crawler four hundred metres long and one hundred metres wide that can transport just about anything across solid and semi-solid terrain. You can even link multiple macro-crawlers up into an oversized train, or travel across the sea floor. This isn¡¯t what I¡¯m looking for right now, but it¡¯s the only tracked vehicle on my STC database and if I ever need a moving fortress, or mass transport on a zero infrastructure planet, it will give me an excellent starting point. Next is a scaled, slithering land wyrm that burrows underground and surfaces to scavenge burnt out vehicles, radioactive waste, and shattered fortifications, then turns them into manufacturing feedstock, vehicle parts, or ammunition. It can turn corpses into food too. It¡¯s rather large and has a lot of smaller helper drones that help gather materials, which it can also manufacture from junk, so it doesn¡¯t have to risk itself most of the time, unless you need something capable of swallowing a titan. You can¡¯t shove a quarter kilometre snek through the earth without consequences though and it tends to destabilise the ground, causing landslides, sinkholes, and earthquakes. Like the macro-crawler, I¡¯d love one just for the bragging rights, but no matter how brilliant it is, it isn¡¯t what I¡¯m looking for as the stellar corps isn¡¯t cut off from supplies, just inconvenienced. It does have two relevant features, however: it will be useful in post war clean up as its hazardous waste disposal should be able to remove orc spores from the water and soil and turn their bodies into emergency rations. Its second essential feature lies in its burrowing drones that transport material and parts as these smaller worms can burrow through the earth and pop up to resupply vehicle crews with fuel and ammunition, and with a few small modifications to my current vehicles, can feed their shells directly into a vehicle¡¯s autoloader. If necessary, there are also configurations to carry other types of cargo too. This is great, because no matter how terrible the ground gets, or how awful the weather is, the wyrm drones can always supply the stellar corps and PDF. I can build them without the land wyrm and deploy them much faster, though it will have to wait until my bikes are made as I don¡¯t have enough spare capacity as most of it is dedicated to building the algae vats and material processing for soylent viridans. The last stand out design is a cargo loader, a bipedal walker comparable in size to a tau battle suit. It looks remarkably similar to a penitent engine used by the sisters of battle. Rather than crucify the pilot and leave them open to enemy fire, the cargo loader has a properly sealed cockpit and its arms have two pronged clamps, rather than guns. The frame is properly armoured too so anyone standing near it won¡¯t get their limbs caught in the servos and hydraulics. There are many places where such a machine will be useful, but that isn¡¯t what brings a smile to my face, it¡¯s the science and engineering within the STC. With the knowledge within, combined with the space marine STC and the STC for Distant Sun¡¯s command throne, I believe I can repair those three imperial knights I have hanging around and maybe, just maybe, reverse engineer them too. Chapter Eighty-Six The Distant Sun¡¯s orbital bombardment on the ork positions, Barrel, Pan, Embers, and Ash are completed without further complications. During this time, Commander MacCrane finishes organising our counter attack into four groups and the stellar corps depart six hours after the bombardment ceases. The terrain is impassable for our armoured vehicles as I don¡¯t have anything that can fight in a shallow, growing lake, so we load twelve armoured companies, split equally between armour, artillery, and anti-air onto D-POTs as well as thirty two line companies and four command companies. The cyber mastiff assault company is also along for the ride. The reconnaissance company has already left. I join up with the cyber mastiff company so I can experience their performance myself and step in to get them out of trouble if it all goes horribly wrong and hopefully hunt another crown too. I travel from orbit down to Drumbledrone and board a different D-POT with my retinue of twenty kataphrons and six tech-adepts, walking through the hold where most of the cyber mastiffs are. Two heralds sit either side of each pony-sized doggo, all of whom are mag-locked and strapped to the floor. It looks quite uncomfortable to me, but the dogs are calm aside from the occasional whine, pacified by extra scritches or a stern command. The smell is rather fierce and I order my armour to engage the rebreather. An hour into our flight I receive reconnaissance footage from a flyby. Barrel is completely slagged, as are Pan and Embers. Ash, however, is missing. Three of the attack groups set down on Barrel, Pan, and Embers. The groups spread about small islands of steaming, glassy rock, setting up sensors and looking for ways inside the remains of the structures so that they can be properly cleared of ork spawn and spores. The armoured companies push the fragile rock armour with their dozer blades, creating embankments and filling holes with rubble. Over the next few hours basic fortifications are pushed into place and roads are crushed into place. Little will be found in these places, I think, but that is no reason to be careless and commander MacCrane clearly agrees. Despite our fortifications, training, and equipment our casualties have been quite high, even if the fatalities are low. Thanks to the implant and prosthetics manufactory on Distant Sun, heralds can be back with their unit within two weeks from even the most crippling of injuries, but those stocks are dwindling fast as no one thought to have a big stockpile ready before a fight and if we take another two percent casualties our units will begin to lose effectiveness. We still have eighty-eight percent of our original numbers and will recover to ninety-five percent without further recruitment, but I still hate losing people. Chaplain Owen Broin and small team confessors have been working overtime visiting heralds in rehab, or chatting to them while they wait for surgery. They¡¯ve been working wonders in keeping people¡¯s spirits up, letting our hospitallers and tech-priests focus on trauma care and surgery. While there has been some interest in the imperial cult, word of the clergy¡¯s kindness is inspiring an increase in worship, or at least visits to the auto-temple and small altars around the Distant Sun, as well as the chapel at Drumbledrone. While I feel like I¡¯m scamming people, seeing the stellar corps take up worship of the Emperor is a great relief as it will protect my crews and I from the eternal vigilance of the inquisition and the grasping paws of the ministorum. If they¡¯re lucky, it may even save their souls too. Kind words have done more to convert my personnel than the fear of Tzeench¡¯s avatar managed. ¡®The Emperor Protects¡¯ still doesn¡¯t mean much to Marwolv¡¯s populous, but a stranger holding your hand while you¡¯re blind from shrapnel and pain and about to go in for a scary surgery means far more, enough that they¡¯ll at least visit the chapel afterwards to say thank you and find out more about what that person actually does every day. From there, people form friendships and help groups focused around the chapels, instead of pubs and community centres, and are gradually exposed to imperial faith and culture. The chapels carefully cultivate a welcoming aura, with workshops, talks, community fairs, meeting halls, and so on pulling people together into a shared space where they feel appreciated and listened to and therefore willing to listen to others in turn. That¡¯s when Chaplain Broin steps in to spread the faith with small anecdotes, stories, and scriptures so that visitors can relate the faith to their own lives, or become enchanted by the tales of great saints. While Barrel, Pan, and Embers are fortified and excavated, my D-POT remains in the air, waiting for the deployment order as the reconnaissance company and the aeronautica try to find out where Ash has disappeared to. As the hours tick by with no result my mood starts to sink. Something has gone horribly wrong and I¡¯m cut off from Distant Sun and have no way of finding out what it is. After seven lethargic hours with nothing but STCs and nine other thought streams to entertain me, I receive an update. D?l East Prime has been destroyed. I curse in the privacy of my sealed helmet and continue with the report. Ash has been located moving into the Monadh Republic, heading for their capital, Ettinsmoor: a sprawling, fortified city of three million people. We don¡¯t have a picture of Ash yet, only bad scans, so we can¡¯t work out how they got it moving, survived the bombardment, or avoided notice until now. We do know they have a massive anti-grav array as it started pinging like crazy on our sensor network, which is how we found it in the first place. The orks have eight hundred kilometres to travel before they get there and at the speed they¡¯re going, we have about fifty four hours until they arrive. My second class officers, Daith¨ª Quill and Nadbroicc Geadais have ordered another bombardment and I¡¯m left waiting for the next update to find out how the orks respond. Thirty minutes later, my D-POT stops circling and heads towards Ettinsmoor and I receive another update: the orks stopped moving when being bombarded. We can¡¯t make macro-shells as fast as we can fire them, so they won¡¯t be held up for long. Eire sends a request asking to have Distant Sun bombard the orks at random intervals while they travel and bring Erudition¡¯s Howl in to help as combining lance fire might cut through whatever crazy shield their mek boys likely cooked up to resist bombardment. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. I approve of the plan as it will give more time for Commander MacCrane to build fortifications and perform hit and run attacks on the orks. Commander MacCrane doesn¡¯t just want to rely on orbital bombardment either as Two hours later, my D-POT and the rest of its flight sets down and disgorge the dogs, then fly off. Data builds up in my head as three armoured companies and a command company report in. Four line companies also deploy. Auspex from all units, especially the D-POTs and myself, mesh together and fill in the terrain around me. E-SIM matches everything to orbital scan data and uses it to create my location data, without me requiring an uplink to Distant Sun. Which is ideal, as between the rok colliding with Marwolv and multiple orbital bombardments, there is still far too much dust in the air for a reliable connection. For our harassing action, MacCrane has set up a point to point relay with loitering D-POTs all the way back to Drumbledrone, which is far enough from the rok impact to have lower interference and has a much stronger vox relay, which is just enough to reach Distant Sun. This should be enough for us to coordinate our efforts but there¡¯s no guarantee we can keep it if the orks launch strikes at the low flying D-POTs. From the topographic data I realise we are seven hundred kilometres from Ettinsmoor positioned high in the hills, north of a glacial valley. South of me, on the other side, are the three armoured companies, the command company, and two line companies. Even over the rain and lightning, I hear the rumble of thousands of machines approaching. I receive a call over my vox, ¡°Magos, this is Lieutenant Moredeleg of the seventh stellar corps command company. I have been assigned as your liaison for this upcoming battle.¡± I smile, ¡°Congratulations on the promotion, Lieutenant Moredeleg. I am delighted to fight with you once again.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos. You are currently registered as an independent party, outside the chain of command, in the same manner as Operation Sea Mither as well as an attached force for the experimental cyber mastiff assault squad. How would you like to proceed?¡± ¡°In my last update I received some battle plans. Has anything changed?¡± ¡°The orks haven¡¯t turned up yet, so there will be no change of plans for a few more minutes, Magos.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Fair enough. Issengrund out.¡± With my retinue surrounding me, I seek out the mastiff company captain, passing hundreds of wet and happy dogs, who are ever so happy to be out off the D-POT. Their simple joy is delightful and I feel absolutely terrible about the approaching carnage. Following a discrete signal, I find a man in black carapace armour surrounded by twenty nine heralds, chatting about how they¡¯re going to approach the orders they¡¯ve been assigned. The mastiff assault company is the only company with clear face helms, letting the mastiffs better understand the orders and mood of their handlers. Their captain, Fergal Whelan, is a slim, twenty-eight year old man with a fine jaw and petite nose. All talk stops as I approach, and I see several arms twitch as they refrain from saluting me. ¡°Hello, Magos. Ready to stretch your legs?¡± says Fergal. ¡°Good evening, Captain Whelan. That sounds wonderful. Just think of me as an observer, I won¡¯t be interfering unless I have to, so please continue with your briefing.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos,¡± Fergal turns back to his officers. ¡°Our only objectives are to delay the orks and get an accurate picture of their forces. As we are highly mobile, the plan is to pick off the ork scouts and outriders, and retreat. I¡¯d rather not get caught, but the chances of that are low as orks always seem to know where a fight is and how many to bring. Rather than take any risks, I want to give ¡®em a poke then lead them back to the hills, where the four companies of line infantry will ambush the orks. ¡°Once we have identified their different groups, their numbers, and the routes they¡¯re taking, we¡¯ll move on to phase two and start setting traps and further ambushes and perform a fighting retreat. We¡¯re working with the aeronautica who will use class one D-POTs to reposition our line companies and help us retreat in good order. They¡¯ll also act as resupply points. ¡°During this second phase, the mastiff company will be used to hold off the orks if a line company needs assistance to disengage. Any questions?¡± A herald raises his hand. ¡°Go ahead, Captain Reid.¡± ¡°What¡¯s our engagement distance and what¡¯s their current speed?¡± Fergal nods, ¡°The ork attack group is travelling at approximately fifteen kilometres per hour. The plan is to attack with our special weapon teams only, using lascannons, rocket launchers, and heavy bolters to pick off as many vehicles as we can. They are to fire at five kilometres, then keep going until the orks are within three kilometres, then get out of there. You¡¯ll have three to eight minutes of fire, then four minutes to retreat before the ork weapon counterfire becomes debilitating assuming they don¡¯t accelerate. I wouldn¡¯t count on that though, so four minutes after the first shot is fired, I want everyone to be stowed and already moving.¡± A different herald raises his hand. ¡°Yes, Sergeant O¡¯Rourke?¡± ¡°Could we get the dogs to carry the special weapon teams, or attach our guns to their harnesses and save us from repeatedly setting up and tearing down our heavy weapons?¡± Fergal crosses his arms and frowns. ¡°That would require six dogs per team. The line infantry have one dog per fifteen man squad, that gives you twenty dogs for your thirty special weapons heralds, per line infantry company. You¡¯d need to borrow forty dogs from me to do that, leaving us with one hundred and sixty dogs for our three hundred men.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± says Sergeant O¡¯Rourke, ¡°you plan to ride them when retreating and fewer dogs means more have to double up.¡± ¡°We do,¡± says Fergal. ¡°It¡¯s a little unconventional, as unlike your logistics dogs, ours are trained to carry and fire their own weapons, or fight in melee. They only have twin lasguns though, and while I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be needed, that doesn¡¯t match up with the fighting retreat we have planned.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s pool our chimera¡¯s and crassus then,¡± says Captain Reid. ¡°Each line company can normally move a third of our heavy infantry at once, but if all our IFVs work with whichever company is currently on the front line, they can retreat to the next line and the D-POTs can focus on moving heralds to establish new lines and keep our supplies up. There''ll be plenty of space for the extra mastiff company heralds and then you won¡¯t have to double up on your dogs and still be able to lend some to the special weapon teams.¡± ¡°That would work,¡± says Fergal. ¡°Can your dogs stay steady with loud guns firing over their heads?¡± ¡°Maybe not all of them,¡± says Captain Reid. ¡°We¡¯ll give that a test. The more skittish ones can carry heralds with rocket launchers as they¡¯re single use so the heralds don¡¯t need to mount the dogs and can retreat in the chimeras.¡± ¡°Excellent. Last chance for further questions.¡± A new herald holds up her hand. ¡°Yes, Lieutenant Hogan.¡± ¡°How do our two phases fit in with the armoured companies on the hills to the south?¡± ¡°They¡¯re doing the same as us,¡± says Fergal, ¡°but from a much greater range. Our delaying action is supposed to make the orks bunch up, increasing the effectiveness of our artillery. They intend to hop from hill to hill with the D-POTs so that the orks can never catch them and hopefully spend a lot of time trying to do so.¡± ¡°Thank you, sir. Always nice to know what I¡¯m risking my life for.¡± Fergal chuckles, ¡°Well, there¡¯s always hearth and home. Just be grateful we¡¯re fighting orks or no doubt there would be an information blackout and I wouldn¡¯t have been told.¡± Fergal turns to me, ¡°Anything to add, Magos.¡± ¡°Call me in if you spot anything big. I have a lot of firepower with me. Otherwise I will just observe from the front line.¡± ¡°Will you need a lift, Magos?¡± says Fergal. ¡°No, I can run. My adepts can hitch on the kataphrons.¡± ¡°Understood, Magos.¡± The officers break up and return to their companies and I climb to the top of the hill and lie down. Staring through the rain, I try to understand the approaching shapes and examine the networked auspex. The mastiff company sends out its scouts and they lure back orks to the slaughter and data on the enemy. Between the data and my own observations, I realise what we are facing. Fear grips me, and for the first time in many years, E-SIM floods my body with combat drugs. ¡°Well, at least it¡¯s not an attack moon,¡± I mutter. Chapter Eighty-Seven Beneath the thunderous shadow of furious clouds looms a grand, lumbering tooth, three hundred metres tall and sixty metres wide. A crackling energy field projects from its point in a large, oval bubble two kilometres long and five hundred metres wide. Sixteen squiggoths, mighty beasts of burden covered in armoured plates and lousy with gretchin, trudge through the muck hauling Ash behind them. Below its protective bubble of incomprehensible teknologee swarm over twenty thousand ork hovercraft and some three thousand heavier vehicles, putting them at four hundred thousand infantry minimum. The orks swarm in and out of the shield as they have to drive slowly and close to each other beneath it and none of them are that patient. I forward my observations to Lieutenant Moredeleg. ¡°We¡¯re at a bit of a loss here, Magos. We have our orders, but we don¡¯t have the right equipment or enough firepower to delay something like that, nor any way to get it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve already thought of four, Lieutenant. The problem is the shield, yes? Have a think about their limitations. Don¡¯t let that education I paid for go to waste.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos! We know it draws enough power that Ash can¡¯t hover and recharge the shield. Any strike at their power source, or the shield itself, would ground Ash or leave it vulnerable. We can¡¯t teleport through the shield though, and there are too many orks to sneak in a group. D-POTs would never get through that much firepower to bomb them at close range either.¡± ¡°You¡¯re still thinking like a soldier, Lieutenant. You have an engineered defence before you. Approach the problem like an engineer. You already plan to do some of what I¡¯m thinking of. It¡¯s just a matter of scale.¡± After a couple more minutes of coaching, Moredeleg finally works out one of the ideas and once he understands what I¡¯m trying to get across he quickly fills in the rest and adds a few of his own. ¡°Do you really think they¡¯ll fall for it, Magos?¡± ¡°No idea. That¡¯s why MacCrane is fortifying Ettinsmoor and why harrying them is still important. Wild plans are fun, but they aren¡¯t reliable which is why the initial, more standard approach is still important. We also had to find out what the problem was in the first place too and it would be terrible to approach data gathering in a haphazard fashion.¡± ¡°Good to hear, Magos. I wouldn¡¯t want all that education to be a waste either.¡± I laugh, ¡°Pass on my wisdom, Lieutenant. We¡¯ll delay until it¡¯s ready.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Moredeleg out.¡± The original plan is still in place and the orks are getting close. I jog down the hill and join the special weapon teams, feeding my superior auspex data to their suits¡¯ cogitators. Officers coordinate targets with the distant artillery. Three minutes later, the orks cross the five kilometre line and, even amid the sheeting rain, a moment of silence blankets the valley as time, for just a moment, seems to pause. Violet beams cut through the darkness and twenty rockets hug the ground as they seek rusty battlewagons and looted tanks. Streams of heavy bolter fire follow in their wake, cutting sharp lines through the rain then hammering into hover trukks, mulching drivers and igniting fuel tanks. Across the approaching front, sixty-four vehicles careen and crash into the stony ground or explode outright. A bone shaking ¡°Waaagh!¡± echoes through the valley and the thousands of vehicles pick up the pace and charge out from beneath the shields. The special weapon teams continue to fire, emptying everything they have in under ninety seconds. Seeing no reason to hang about, the special weapon squads pull their dogs around and retreat. The line infantry are quick to follow and crawl from their fox holes, then board the IFVs while the mastiff company performs overwatch. Two minutes later, we depart, the dogs running alongside the chimeras and crassus at an impressive forty kilometres per hour. I, too, run alongside them, enjoying my powerful, effortless movement across the rough terrain. Behind us, the orks swerve to avoid their charred, smoking kin. They don¡¯t bunch up as much as I¡¯d hoped, but they do slow down and their movement becomes more predictable. The basilisks fire their first salvo. Eight shells scream through the air and explode just before they hit the ground, dispersing shrapnel in a scythe-like shriek of destruction that mulches ork and vehicle alike. Shells fall every twenty seconds for six minutes, obliterating another seventy vehicles. It feels like an impressive achievement, but we¡¯ve yet to destroy more than a rounding error of the ork forces. The artillery crews will need to rest and re-arm as well; those big shells are loaded by hand, something I really, really need to fix. Three minutes later, the orks reach the fox holes and drive over hundreds of vehicle mines; they lose another one hundred and fourteen vehicles. I¡¯m a little surprised when the basilisks start firing again so soon and commend the crews for their efforts. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. We complete this sequence two more times, destroying some six hundred light vehicles and forty three heavier ones, each cycle taking approximately thirty-five minutes. As we retreat a third time, the colossal tooth¡¯s exterior rumbles and a massive hatch recedes. From within the floating fortress, the orks haul out a void ship grade gun. Even from over ten kilometres away, I feel my teeth rattle and the horrendous hum of poorly shielded magnets and transformers pulses through the air as the massive gun charges. The gun fires at a fraction of its usual power and strikes our previous position. Despite the distance, the shockwave knocks over dozens of dogs and even I am thrown from my feet. Our chimeras and crassus transports are peppered with tiny rocks that fall upon their hulls like hail, cutting through the sound of the rain with ominous plinks. Most of our mines are destroyed and the basilisks¡¯ targeting is obscured too much by the mushroom cloud to risk wasting shells on lucky shots. The leading orks are too close to the macro-shell and thirty-one vehicles are destroyed. The others bulldoze over our old possession without further trouble. My helmet picks up a massive, orky cheer and, as I help dogs and riders get to their feet, I glance back and see thousands of tracer rounds fire into the air. It¡¯s an impressive sight and the orks joy at such destruction is almost infectious, but I am far too frazzled from that near miss to appreciate it. We continue to the fourth line, eighty kilometres from where we started this madness and set up the next round. If the ork gun crew are at a similar competence as the other roks we fought in orbit, it will take the orks at least forty-five minutes to fire again, so I¡¯m not too worried. We do have to change up our plans a little though and organise an exchange of dogs with the forces assembling at Ettinsmoor as ours are tired and injured. If all goes according to plan, they¡¯ll be waiting for us at the fifth line. The fourth exchange starts as usual, but our artillery support never arrives. I vox Moredeleg and receive no response. We retreat immediately, hurrying to the next line as fast as we can. As I run, my auspex picks up some weird readings. My minds cogitate on the data, but I am not fast enough. Two squads of orks blindside us, seemingly springing from the ground, freshly grown with gunz in their hands and a choppa clamped between their foul, pointed teeth. The ork kommandos open fire with their sluggas, a rokkit launcha, and two big shootas, cutting down twenty mastiff riders and crippling a chimera. They charge at our column, firing as they run, and half of them hurl stikk bombs into our shocked lines. As soon as they pass through our column we return fire, hitting most of them, but only six are slain outright by the massed lasfire streaming from the chimeras as they are too close to bring all our weapons to bear. In the most un-orkish manoeuvre I¡¯ve ever witnessed, the orks continue running away from us and into the darkness, somehow fading into the night and off my auspex. While we gather the wounded and the weapons of the dead, I pick up the faint growl of ork bikes rushing away. ¡°Magos, apologies for the delay,¡± voxes Mordeleg. ¡°We just repelled four squads of ork kommandos. Most of them are dead, but so is our artillery. It will take an hour to replace them.¡± ¡°Very well. How is the gambit progressing?¡± ¡°It¡¯s being deployed at the ninth line.¡± ¡°Acknowledged. Isengrund out.¡± During our gradual retreat, the kommandos attack two more times before we wipe them out. Even when looking out for them, they are challenging to combat. After we finish them off, I sweep through their detritus while the column continues, trying to find out how they managed to hide so well and on one of the more intact bodies I discover a hefty syringe, with a needle thick enough I baulk at its girth. A quick scan reveals dozens of compounds assembled in an ingenious timed release effect that should place an ork into hibernation, then revive them after a set length of time. I pop the data into the research module and by the time I catch up to the column, I have a basic overview of the substance. An ork can take the compound then bury into the muck, and cool down enough to look like the native flora, releasing the expected scents and compounds from their skin in place of their shedding spores, becoming almost undetectable. It will also make them so high that I am honestly impressed they managed to run at us in a straight line, let alone hit anything with their guns. So long as they''re smart enough to do basic maths, a rarity among the orks, they can time it so they revive just as their target passes them by. I knew orks are cunning, idiot savants, but this reminder is most unwelcome. I keep telling myself not to take them lightly, adopting a maximum overkill and scorched earth policy, yet still they surprise me. Their big gun takes a couple more shots at us, then focuses on the armoured companies hiding in the hills once they replace their basilisks, firing four rounds. While they¡¯re both near misses, we take fifty-five casualties from the bombardment and have to abandon a chimera when it gets flipped, one which I don¡¯t even have time to booby trap. The armoured companies are less fortunate and the impacts trigger a landslide, trapping half a squadron of leman russ and nine chimera. A few heralds managed to escape from their vehicles, but most were buried alive. Hopefully the orks won¡¯t notice them and we can rescue them from their trapped vehicles once the enemy pass. It is with great relief that we arrive at the ninth line, almost five hours into the battle. We swap dogs again and prepare to face the orks one last time. The ork lines are fairly strung out by now, with a third of their forces out from under their energy shield. We¡¯ve wiped out about two thousand vehicles so far and the light hover-trukks have started holding back, letting their more chonky brethren absorb the lascannon and missile fire. I¡¯m not sure what imperial depot they raided for them, but with their looted tanks and homebrew battlewagons taking the lead, our volley is much less effective. Some of the vehicles survive multiple hits from krak missiles and lascannons, and our heavy bolters are rendered almost impotent. It isn¡¯t a complete disaster though a small handful explode from the lightest caress of imperial fire even while their sturdier companions keep on trucking through fire and fury. At last we retreat, this time at maximum speed, managing a seven kilometre sprint at fifty-five kilometres per hour before we have to slow back to forty. We arrive at the tenth and final line, a substantial embankment and trench, and quickly hide behind it. I poke my head over the top, trusting my armour to keep me safe. With my fingers and mechadendrites crossed, I murmur a prayer to the machine god and wait. The minutes tick by and the heralds hiding in the trenches start to fidget. Boom? Chapter Eighty-Eight The explosion starts with a bright, blinding flash followed by a searing eruption of melta fire as the buried macro-shells detonate. Hundreds of thousands of orks die instantly, their bodies sublimated by the sudden heat. The ork shield strains and contains the immense explosion beneath its dome for an impressive two seconds before Ash is shattered and the shield fails. Great chunks of rock and dust are blasted horizontally, tossing and incinerating the many vehicles that avoided the initial strike. I forward a message to Eire through the D-POT relay, ¡°Ork shield terminated.¡± Seconds later Distant Sun and Erudition¡¯s Howl bombard the area, trying to take out as much of the surviving orc column as possible. Twelve monumental strikes reshape the valley, wrecking most of the remaining vehicles. Still, hundreds remain and tens of thousands of orks flee the carnage in all directions. From orbit descend three, class three D-POTs, each with their own escort squadron of fifteen D-POTs. These vast macro-landers are more like flying ocean liners than aircraft. At one hundred and twenty metres long, one hundred and fifty-six metres wide, and forty metres tall they are comparable to an emperor class titan in size, though not armour and armament. For now. These three have been refitted for war with hundreds of guns, missiles, bombs, and drones that pour from their hulls with tumultuous abandon, erasing rain and orks alike as their lumbering bulk glides over the battlefield. Even as they flee and die, the orks return fire to little effect, the class three D-POTs micro-laser grid vaporises any heavy ordinance that gets close and the ork shootas and beamy deffguns barely tickle their powerful void shields. The accompanying squadrons also unleash tens of thousands of munitions as they sweep over glowing wrecks and splattered corpses. As the bombs land, great gouts of burning promethium are scattered across the cratered earth that spread and flare with phosphorus light. Finally they pass and the battlefield, at last, is silent. I slide from my perch back into the trench. All the heralds look back and forth between me and the top of the trench. Beneath my helmet, my face stretches into a massive grin. I hold my fist in the air and declare, ¡°Victory!¡± Hundreds of men and women cheer alongside me. After a handful of seconds the officers step in and we poke our heads guns out of the trenches using the optical link through the scopes to keep an eye out for stragglers. Nine minutes later, a single hover-trukk rushes at our line and is picked off by a lascannon and a squad¡¯s worth of lasfire. Over the next few minutes, we pick off twenty three orks and after half an hour of waiting, no more turn up and we are relieved from the trenches. I return to orbit thousands of kills richer, though for all my exertions, a fresh ruby on the crown of my ¡®kill count¡¯ skull does not manifest. Once I am in my quarters, I remove my armour and relax in my private sauna while enjoying an amasec cocktail and a plate of chilled petit fours. During the following week, I review reports and spend time visiting injured heralds on the medicae deck. A few even ask me to sign their new ¡®iron¡¯, their prosthetics, which I do with much amusement and a mechadendrite. After a month, operations are back to normal in orbit. Marwolv, however, is a different beast, for politics and paranoia have reared their sinuous heads. Industrial capacity has dropped precipitously, with plastic, fuel and oil production being replaced with soylent viridans. Repairs on Iron Crane slow as most of my manufacturing is redirected towards machinery for more vats and algae processing, as well as other survival gear, like clothes, tents, and water purification. I receive scores of requests from various polities, varying wildly in their tone from begging to insulting to polite and everything in between. I do not withhold my aid from millions of people just because a tiny minority of their leadership are rude, entitled arseholes. However, three months after the ork invasion, the chancellor of the Monadh Republic demands I hand over mining rights to the remains of the ork rok. Instead, I invite all the polity leaders up to Distant Sun and bluntly tell them I am installing a governor of the planet to ensure I receive my due for all the aid I am providing, and they can all take turns, those that were polite to me at least, or be spaced. There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but they have nothing to offer and I have an overwhelming monopoly on industry and firepower. They are also all heavily in debt to me and their populations will die without my intervention. A treaty is signed and Marwolv becomes an imperial compliant world and the first system in my new domain. Afterwards, the leaders all return with neither pomp nor ceremony. It is a swift and brutal change from my previous soft approach and I take advantage of my superior data networks to spread the news of exactly who and why is responsible for this change in policy and how much more aid it now means I can give them. Two of the country leaders immediately resign so that their replacements can be admitted to the council and give their country a turn at planet wide governance: six elected individuals, one from each polity, and one representative from me. With a more centralised body it becomes easier to assign resources and I select three sites for new hive cities, one in the centre of each continent and with a different speciality: organics, manufacturing, and research. It will be centuries until they are complete, but that doesn¡¯t mean I can¡¯t start planning now. I thought about focusing hives on other endeavours, such as mining, military, arts, and religion. Ultimately though, they¡¯ll all need their own streams for each of these resources, whereas the other three require specialist structures and their products can actually be traded between hives. Eventually, as the hive cities gradually replace the countries, there will be two representatives for each hive and a single one for me. I intend to maintain my monopoly on orbital constructs and resources, so for all practical purposes, all power will remain with me. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. While the biosphere is in disarray, I believe it is worth preserving and so I establish harsh regulations to minimise further damage and restore lost ecosystems. I also set half the oceans and a third of the land as wildlife reserves. This has the added benefit of ensuring that, with their combined efforts, the hives should be self-sufficient as there is no agri-world nearby. Neither should they have to eat their dead. An intact biosphere with wildlife reserves is more productive too and should support more people. Seven months after Ash was destroyed, most people are able to return to their homes, the PDF is restored, and the political playground has been pacified. With no immediate threats I decide to try and socialise with my senior employees outside work and formal dinners, starting with Purser Brigid Mac''Ille na Brataich, whom I invite to a cafe on Distant Sun¡¯s promenade. The promenade is just below the cathedral superstructure (#C), on the top spineward deck, in the third quarter of the vessel, within the second spineward subdeck, or #S3/Q3/+2, in shorthand. It is between the guest quarters in the cathedral superstructure, where the tau are being held, and the primary void crew quarters. The subdeck is a one hundred metre section thirty metres high and two hundred and fifty metres wide with a paved, oval promenade lined with shops on both sides. The central oval has an inner cross and a small central courtyard with a red-leafed acer towing over an intricate mosaic of my symbolic pipe. The outer oval is rather noisy with hundreds of small shop fronts with spaces that get larger the further back they go. Here, personnel can trade for everyday items and luxuries, or indulge in cocktails bars, and dance clubs. There are many neon signs and blaring speakers competing for attention. I enjoy the atmosphere as I walk through the busy space. The extra height really lifts the claustrophobia from the vessel and gives extra space for shops to stack on top of each other, hiding all manner of hobby stores, custom workshops, and warehouses. The inner cross and courtyard are far more sedate, with quiet cafes, expensive restaurants, and a small theatre. Here, neon is swiftly replaced with water features and Marwolv¡¯s black leaved, luminescent flora. The fake sun overhead warms my face as I sit on a metallic-wood chair next to one of the tables beneath the acer and outside one of five, rather crowded cafes. A waiter immediately hurries over, the embroidery on his apron proclaiming the cafe¡¯s name: Cross and Crowsbeak. ¡°Good day, Magos.¡± He places a glass of iced water on the table stuffed with fresh mint. ¡°You can scan the pattern on the table to direct you to our noosphere site or I can bring you a physical menu.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take the menu.¡± Even after so many years, I still find it strange that everyone knows my face and voice. He nods, returns to the cafe, then exits a minute later with a fancy folder of scaled grox leather and hands it to me. ¡°It always surprises me how many people like something to hold or hide behind, rather than use the digital services,¡± he says. I smirk, ¡°Staring glassy eyed at your date while you check out something other than them isn¡¯t a good look.¡± He laughs, ¡°I suppose not! Do you have a date today, Magos?¡± ¡°Not this time, I¡¯m here to enjoy a change in location for my many meetings.¡± The waiter looks up at the tree, ¡°I am quite fond of working here: an island of peace in an ocean of brass and neon. Just give me a shout when you¡¯re ready, or ping my data slate.¡± He taps the etched code on the table, ¡°You can find the active addresses for the day here.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± He smiles and leaves. Most of the staff at these shops are family members of my crew who have little interest in becoming tech-adepts or heralds alongside them but still want to accompany them into the void. There is no space for idle hands though. Service roles are limited in quantity and thus coveted and viewed with greater respectability than when I was last on Terra. They can¡¯t escape education entirely though, and still have to complete a tech-apprenticeship. This includes literacy and numeracy, the basics of how to survive on a void ship and herald basic training. It also has to be completed to be eligible for an MIU, and as you can¡¯t do much on the vessel without one, even the service personnel are likely more educated than a standard imperial citizen. I¡¯m going to be in for a right shock if all my ¡®historical¡¯ accounts are completely different to the reality I find myself in. At least by expecting the worst I have a chance to be pleasantly surprised. Despite its horror, I might even be disappointed. I rather like feeling smug about the great conditions on my vessel. While I am flicking through the menu, Brigid turns up. I wave at her and she joins me. ¡°Good morning, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Hi, Brigid. Thank you for coming.¡± ¡°Well, I can hardly say no, now can I?¡± ¡°I am not that petty.¡± Brigid gives me a pretty smile, ¡°No, you are not.¡± ¡°How are your two boys doing? Last time I asked they were both nearing the end of their tech-adept courses and determined to push on with a speciality, rather than accept a more forgiving job.¡± The waiter returns with a glass of water for Bridid and a menu. Brigid looks up and thanks him. ¡°They are well, Aldrich. Quinn was promoted to enginseer last week on one of the Moth class ships, Voracious Light. I had hoped he would take a closer posting, but he still blames me for my separation with my ex-husband and tends to shut me out. ¡°Maslorius is the complete opposite and has taken up the logis path, hoping to spend every day working alongside me. No matter their choices, I am proud of both of them.¡± I smile, ¡°I am happy for you, Brigid. Is there any hope Quinn will come around?¡± ¡°Maybe one day. He is much like his father, a man of passion and obstinacy. Quite unlike my own tendency towards obsessing over whatever catches my attention.¡± ¡°That is a remarkable amount of self awareness.¡± Brigid sighs, ¡°Before you turned everything on its head, Aldrich, my life was a mess, and so I thought furiously about it from every angle, talked to dozens of people, and came to understand myself a little better. These obsessions of mine are what lost me my husband and estranged me from my son, yet they also gave me the drive to excel and reach the position I am in today.¡± ¡°It clearly still bothers you though, or you would not talk about it at the drop of a hat, before you even order refreshments.¡± ¡°I suppose so! Yet, you are the one who messaged me, asking to know me better. I gave much thought to the words that would convey who I am with the least pretence I can muster. When you hold something in your head for long enough, you just have to let it burst out or you can think of naught else until it is done.¡± ¡°Apologies, I did not intend to stress you so.¡± ¡°You have not. I am comfortable with who and how I am. Now that I have got that off my chest, I wish to spare a thought for this scaled menu. Rather novel that.¡± ¡°It is. Go ahead and take a moment. I am yet to choose myself.¡± Chapter Eighty-Nine I ping the waiter and he arrives a couple of minutes later. ¡°What will you have, Magos?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take herbal rose blend and a shortbread as well as the shrimp stir fry and the bilberry blancmange for dessert. Oh, and a light beer.¡± Brigid raises an eyebrow, ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning on taking a whole meal, but that does sound lovely. Give me a few seconds to rethink.¡± She runs her finger along the menu with the odd pause for a handful of seconds. ¡°I¡¯ll have the stuffed dumpling soup, a white wine spritzer, and the cranachan as my sweet with a bitter recaf please.¡± The waiter nods, ¡°Thank you for your orders. Everything is fresh today and prepared by hand so it will be about twenty minutes.¡± ¡°No problem,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I¡¯m sure the magos can entertain me.¡± I chuckle, ¡°I¡¯ll give it my best shot.¡± The waiter smiles and leaves. ¡°I¡¯ve done enough sharing for now, Aldrich. How about a snippet from you? What¡¯s your current pet project, aside from that lasrifle you¡¯ve been working on for the past few years.¡± ¡°Yes, the mark two has proved to be a frustrating project. Apart from the lasrifle, I¡¯ve been writing a lot of textbooks and working with the machine-spirits to integrate them into the personalised learning we run as well as redoing all the manuals for all our systems into something more unified. Aruna has done a lot of the busy work, helping with the formatting and researching old data to ensure we don¡¯t miss anything vital.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were doing that.¡± ¡°My name is on the front of every cover!¡± I shake my head and laugh. ¡°I guess you lucked out in avoiding being part of the test groups when you first started out; I hand rewritten manuals to the tech-apprentices and if they can follow the manuals, the manuals go into circulation, otherwise I try again. I¡¯ve mostly finished everything on the Distant Sun, so now I¡¯m working on linking terms in the manuals to the textbooks and learning programs. Once I¡¯m finished with the ones for Distant Sun I¡¯ll be going over the Origami, Cobra, and Moth-Class manuals.¡± Brigid nods, ¡°A little too micromanaging for my tastes, but when you''re the only person who knows how everything links together, I can see why you approached the problem in such a manner.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not too bad, especially as my implants make the actual typing incredibly fast. There will be a lot of crossover between the ships too. The manuals for the Origami and Moth are only a decade old, but they weren¡¯t done by me and I want to make sure they are good enough and formatted in the same way as the ones for the Distant Sun as that will make moving crew between ships much easier. ¡°Once I¡¯ve unified and updated everything, I¡¯ll be able to delegate the work to others: people who have learned from my books already and will be used to how I want everything set up.¡± ¡°Ah, that makes a lot more sense,¡± says Brigid. ¡°It¡¯s not just that, one can¡¯t really say they know a subject until they can successfully teach it. Writing the manuals and textbooks is a way for me to double check I really do understand what I¡¯m talking about and find weaknesses in my own knowledge. ¡°My personal machine-spirit frequently tests my knowledge and points out things I¡¯ve missed, but there¡¯s no way to know there even is knowledge to miss until I make or replace components myself. The simulators are particularly helpful for that as it lets me rapidly test different methods multiple times. ¡°For example, one of the things we refitted in the Distant Sun was all the fastenings, so that they matched the Iron Crane and the moth class ships. They should all detach in the same way. In theory, you can now access and modify most of the vessel with a single mechadendrite attachment. Erudition¡¯s Howl hasn¡¯t gone through this process yet. ¡°We were able to assign two weeks of the training syllabus to more useful pursuits, unify everyone¡¯s first mechadendrite and repurpose manufacturing space, and reduce predicted work time on all maintenance tasks by three percent. On an individual level, it¡¯s just a nice convenience. At scale, it¡¯s tens of thousands of work hours every year that can be spent on something other than screwing around.¡± Brigid raises an eyebrow. ¡°Well, you clearly didn¡¯t waste that time on improving your jokes, Aldrich. Still, that is remarkable. I remain a tad confused as to why these new manuals are necessary. All STCs come with manuals, do they not?¡± ¡°Oh, they do, to an extent. Only the cargo container STCs are complete though and I¡¯m using their formatting for what I¡¯m writing. Even the manufacturing grade astartes STCs don¡¯t always have proper documentation. It was likely done for secrecy reasons originally, but there¡¯s so much gear out in the galaxy now that it matters much less than it used to and having proper manuals so users can maintain their own equipment better massively reduces our ¡®tech burden¡¯ as I like to call it. I¡¯m not even going to get into how disjointed the manuals for most of Distant Sun¡¯s components were. You¡¯ve studied it yourself afterall.¡± ¡°Endlessly!¡± says Brigid. ¡°They were quite horrible. The instructional rites and prayers are useful, perfect, even, if you come across a new problem or device, but we are far more than just troubleshooters. Turning a cogitator on and off again can only take you so far.¡± I laugh, ¡°Or checking it¡¯s plugged in.¡± Brigid smirks, ¡°That too.¡± The waiter brings out our drinks and we spend a quiet moment enjoying them. ¡°You spoke about your obsessions, Brigid. Was it one of those that led you down the logis path?¡± ¡°I suppose so. My current obsessions lie in unintended macro problems.¡± ¡°Is that what the uniforms were about?¡± ¡°Partly, though that truly is my hobby. Fashion exists in eternal flux and so there is always something new to hold my interest. It was data I acquired from applying new uniforms at scale that led me to my current interest as well as trends I noticed from my role as ship¡¯s purser.¡± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°How so?¡± ¡°Well, I have two at the moment. The first is the void armour all the heralds wear.¡± ¡°It is a fairly standard imperial design. I only added the low powered endoskeleton and replaced the plasteel with MOA. Is there something wrong with it I am not aware of?¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯ve tested it, but you don¡¯t wear it into combat, Aldrich.¡± I shrug. ¡°Proper power armour is preferable and I like my servo harness.¡± ¡°That is to be expected,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I noticed that after combat, stellar corps companies always request a large amount of replacement limbs for their armours, not parts for repairs. I wanted to know where all these missing armour sections were going and looked into it. ¡°Unlike power armour, which uses artificial muscles, as well as multiple servos to move and enhance limbs, the void armour endoskeleton only uses low power servos which can move without power when required. The problem is that when they are damaged, unlike power armour, the user does not have enough strength to overpower the broken parts and maintain function so they have to remove the whole section and it gets discarded on the battlefield and often can¡¯t be recovered.¡± ¡°I did not expect that at all,¡± I say. ¡°Perhaps you can understand my interest in unintended consequences?¡± ¡°I feel a sudden interest in the matter.¡± ¡°I hoped you might! Now, when you redesigned the void armour, you put the endoskeleton underneath the armour to protect it. From an engineer¡¯s perspective, that makes perfect sense as it keeps dirt from the mechanisms, reduces wear and tear, and prevents direct damage. No fingers or clothing gets caught in it either.¡± I nod along to Brigid¡¯s explanation. ¡°However,¡± says Brigid, ¡°if you make it an armoured, low powered exoskeleton, when it gets damaged in battle, the broken part can be removed quickly, rather than the wearer discarding the whole limb. This would retain protection for the user and perhaps a modicum of functionality. Not only that, you don¡¯t have to make space for the skeleton and can reduce the size of the void armour, saving approximately two kilograms of MOA and ceramite composite armour plates. This is weight that can be put to use elsewhere. ¡°At scale, this is a massive cost and time saving in multiple areas as we don¡¯t have to breed so many lagomorphs. On a practical level, it reduces waste and improves the armour¡¯s usability.¡± ¡°Wow, that is quite the proposal. I¡¯ll put a team on it and we¡¯ll get some prototypes done.¡± Brigid smiles, ¡°I do like how you never hesitate, Aldrich. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know about that,¡± I lean back in my chair, ¡°but it¡¯s not arcanotech, so I¡¯m happy to spend a few resources on a well argued design adjustment.¡± The waiter clearly has an excellent sense of timing as he brings our food as the conversation lulls. We exchange a few minor comments on our dishes but otherwise eat in silence. While we wait for dessert, I ask Brigid to expand on her second unintended macro problem. ¡°I¡¯d be happy to, Aldrich. This second issue is one I encountered when I noticed almost every transaction between our personnel is for twenty-six bytes or more, no matter if the exchanged object or service is worth less than that and the consequences.¡± ¡°Yes, that is odd.¡± ¡°Well, it comes down to what is considered petty theft. Anything at twenty-five bytes or below doesn¡¯t end in a level one punishment, only an unpleasant chore and a fine. Few try to steal such small amounts from others as it¡¯s at or below what they are given for free anyway, but that doesn¡¯t mean it doesn¡¯t happen. ¡°To ¡®insure¡¯ against petty theft, people value their trades at twenty-six bytes or more as between twenty-five and two hundred counts as minor theft and will get you a level one punishment. Now, you would think no one would be dumb enough to risk a level one punishment to steal something worth half a week''s wages for even the most junior of tech-apprentices but it doesn¡¯t actually work as people intend.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t where I thought you were going with that factoid.¡± ¡°Well, it gets stranger for here we have another odd social factor at work. Forgive me for saying this, Magos, but being your bodyguard on an assault comes with a high enough casualty average it counts towards the risky assault quota for sentenced personnel.¡± I wince, ¡°I do tend to end up in the thick of it. Too big a target I suppose.¡± Brigid looks me up and down, hiding her smile behind a sip of recaf, ¡°you could say that.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll pretend I didn¡¯t hear that,¡± I snort. ¡°You were saying?¡± ¡°Right, by stealing personal objects from, say, the corporal of your rival training squad, or the particularly obnoxious ¡®know-it-all¡¯ member of your class, you can make yourself popular with your friends, enjoy some petty revenge, and get a chance at being your bodyguard. This creates an opportunity to impress the big boss for swift promotions or the go ahead for pet projects.¡± ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous. I¡¯ll have to establish an official personal guard to stop this nonsense.¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s about time you did so anyway.¡± I sigh, ¡°I had been hoping to avoid the expense. Using volunteers was also a vain hope in soothing my guilt at any losses. I wanted my own mistakes to only be inflicted on the willing.¡± ¡°Well, in that you succeeded, Aldrich.¡± ¡°A little too much, I think!¡± Brigid smiles, ¡°Just so. Trying to impress you is not the only consequence of this twenty-six byte minimum either. The avoidable thefts cost us a lot of administration time, while the inflated prices reduce trade, slightly impacts social mobility and reduces personal wealth growth. This reduces morale as a whole across the fleet and corps.¡± ¡°How measurable is that?¡± ¡°We have approximately ninety thefts a month that require a level one punishment, or just over two thefts per thousand people per year. No one ever admits it¡¯s because they want a chance to meet you, but Aruna¡¯s data collection is comprehensive and I asked him to filter crew conversations for this particular issue; about a third of minor thefts were for this exact issue. If you were to add up all the hours of all the people who have to spend their work time on it, it would employ one person at full time. Brig time causes scheduling burdens on fellow team members too.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not too bad, but I can see how it will get worse as our personnel increase.¡± ¡°Exactly, as for the suppression of trade, the only reason it doesn¡¯t cause massive inflation is because of the temporary nature of our energy based bytes, with their five year expiry date. I ran some simulations which suggest that increasing the petty theft limit to one hundred bytes would increase trades by three percent as people would be paying closer to what minor goods and services are worth, and thus can afford more. It would also reduce brig time and lost or unnecessary work hours. ¡°As for the exact impact on morale, that is hard to say, but few like paying more than something is worth. A minority of traders in the promenade have come forward to my office to complain about the ¡®insurance tax¡¯ which is how I first heard of the issue.¡± ¡°Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Brigid. I wasn¡¯t expecting to talk about work when I invited you out, but it was fascinating anyway.¡± ¡°Work is my life, Aldrich, and my children have long flown the nest. You hoped to find out more about my life and have done so.¡± Brigid smirks a little and tucks her red hair behind her ear. ¡°You weren¡¯t expecting something else, were you?¡± I give her a sad smile, ¡°Not today. Though if you are amenable, I would like to talk to you more at a later date.¡± ¡°Well, you can hardly avoid the lady who holds your purse strings now can you?¡± I laugh, ¡°That would be most foolish.¡± Brigid stands, ¡°Thank you for the meal, Aldrich.¡± ¡°You¡¯re most welcome.¡± Brigid departs. I sit quietly for a few more minutes, then pay the bill and return to work. Chapter Ninety Over the next few months, I invite all my most senior officers for a chat at the promenade. I enjoy the endeavour and the more social setting allows for private complaints and queries that might have otherwise been left to fester. I hope to include officers from the other vessels, or those struggling on Marwolv at a later date, but these visits are more challenging to arrange and will take some time to get through. It¡¯s a different feel to the commendation feasts I put on once a week, as there, I host eleven people and they are usually from the lower ranks. Everyone always wants something, or has some idea that they think will make for a big change, but production plans and facility designs are ponderous beasts that are slow to alter course and quick to crash from enthusiastic alterations that rarely have the full picture available, as the scale of mechanicus machines and the breadth of knowledge required is far beyond what an unenhanced mind can comprehend. That doesn¡¯t mean the information others try to impress me with is worthless though. The idea that exceptional work can get you a luxury meal and a chance to impress the big boss encourages people to work hard. The custom pins, displaying my pipe hammer that I forge myself and a monetary bonus are also popular. Officers get a different prize, twelve hours of private tutoring. I only hand that out to one person a week though and it can only be given by me or first or second officers, whom I tutor anyway. The separate schemes and application methods help reduce the chance of stealing subordinates¡¯ work because, as I now know, the threat of high casualty missions isn¡¯t enough. For a caste of workers whose education is mathematics heavy, tech-priests and heralds seem just as prone to optimistic bias, confirmation bias, and a false sense of control as human¡¯s in M3. As someone who doesn¡¯t need to eat often, it feels rather decadent to consume so many feasts. It does keep me feeling human though, as well as impart a sense of success and positivity within myself. I am quite weary of my eternal labours, no matter how interesting many of them might be. I miss Quaani¡¯s youthful banter and Marwolv has turned from a brave new world to a mire of nightmare and drudgery. None of these are insurmountable problems and they lighten every day, but I wish to leave, even as my conscience keeps me tethered to my bitter-sweet works. To alleviate my melancholy I have taken up a new hobby that I call, in my head where only E-SIM dares to tread, an audacious amble. I try to visit a part of Distant Sun I have not visited for years while thinking about all the things out there that might kill me and my fleet, so that I don¡¯t get a big head and to come up with as many solutions to each problem as possible. Most of the really big threats, like temporal displacement, vortex weaponry, and crazy black hole guns are vanishingly rare and unless I find someway to fire gellar fields or acquire a micro-warp drive for dodging such things, I¡¯ll have to pray that I never encounter a necron or a paranoid inquisitor, or trigger happy space marine. Good luck with that, future me. Today, however, is a less ominous matter up for consideration. I exit onto the hull of Distant Sun near the navigator spire after a silent chat with a time frozen Quaani. Rather than stare out at the stars and dream, I jump from the ledge and float in the low gravity towards the prow of the vessel. Beneath me, a company of heralds patrol the hull. Most are on foot, but a few race around on bikes, carefully weaving between CIWS emplacements, sensor spires, and gothic statuary. A squadron of mechanical stealth owls flit above them, keeping a hidden overwatch. There¡¯s even a buggy racer team out testing a prototype. There was a fair bit of laughter when I introduced these hull patrols after one of my ambles as there are few access points on the hull, and all of them are locked down and guarded. So I challenged the lot of them to a sim. Me vs the first watch. I snuck up on an unpowered mechanical owl via the grav lift, hiding underneath a cargo container, then left at the last second, and boarded the hull. After that, I messed with dozens of external sensors, so that they¡¯d think there might be another enemy vessel out there, and set explosives on a handful of the others. After that, I burrowed through the hull, bypassing sensors as I descended. Once I was in, I continued to dig through the superstructure to the supercritical and hyper compressed water storage. After much trial and error, I tried my best to sabotage it but couldn¡¯t manage it without killing myself. I left feeling immensely pleased. With plan one down the drain, I stole a dataslate and recorded the biometrics of a resting crew member. With some modifications I pilfered his credentials and mimicked his biometrics, adding his permissions to my own. I only had a few hours to use the permissions before the dataslate was reported stolen, or an identity appeared in two places at once and I was locked out. By this time, we were eighteen hours into the sim and all my officers were terribly unnerved at there being no sign of me whatsoever, so I triggered my sensor hacks and explosives, sending them into a whirlwind of activity as they chased down the mystery signature and swept through the vessel. As they ran about, I waltzed through the service corridors to administration, where I used my stolen credentials to register myself as a crew transfer from Erudion¡¯s Howl which was conveniently out in the Kuiper belt and would take hours to confirm the data. Meanwhile, I had a temporary pass I could use and I spent my last minutes with the stolen identity assigning myself to the next watch in the genetorium. Once inside, I slipped away from the work crew I had infiltrated and tried to sabotage the reactor. Again, I couldn¡¯t do it, which is great, but not really the lesson I was trying to impart and I was running out of time. Instead, I severed all the fuel lines with my nanites, disabling the reactor. The crew tried to apprehend me, but I gutted dozens of squads with my exotic weaponry and escaped. Despite disabling the primary reactor, there was enough redundancy that, had there been another ship out there, Distant Sun could have done an emergency shut down of non-essential facilities, like the manufactory, at great cost and damage, and fought on unimpeded. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Knowing I could do more, I kept up the cat and mouse game for another ten hours. I turned a hangar into a sea of fire with some careful sabotage of the fire systems and a stolen D-POT, then pretended to escape on the orbital transport and went back in for another go. The officers quickly twigged I wasn¡¯t dead as the sim didn¡¯t end, but that didn¡¯t stop me from killing an officer, impersonating them, and walking up to Eire, who was distracted trying to make sense of all the auspex data. I shot her in the head, ending the sim. No one laughed about hull patrol a second time and there is a second sim planned where I will lead a small group of infiltrators against the new protocols that Thorfinn has devised. Seems only prudent to continue to test ourselves against unusual threats with all those eldar lurking out there. Were someone to try and copy my infiltration for real, they¡¯d likely fail the moment they set foot inside the vessel as Aruna would catch them. The whole point of the exercise though was to win without the omniscient aid of the vessel¡¯s primary machine spirit. Relying solely on its aid is just begging to be busted by an inside job, or some weird, air jumping scrap code beamed at the ship from a pervy ritual in the oort cloud. I don¡¯t use any imperial codes either, and replaced all the old security with proprietary hardware, so there will be no inquisitor overrides or assassins sneaking onto my ship without a significant effort on their part. I finish floating over the hull and land at the blunt prow of the vessel, my armoured boots adhering to the hull with a hefty clunk. It gives me an odd sense of vertigo to peer over the edge, as it looks like a half kilometre drop into an infinite sea of silver and black. In truth, without my harness, if I fell and was not rescued, I¡¯d float about until I re-entered Marwolv with a fiery splash. Knowing the truth doesn¡¯t rewire my monkeigh and mechanicus egos in the slightest though, so I sit down and dangle my legs over the edge. It feels much more secure. Placing my arms slightly behind me, I lean back. The unfettered view of the accretion belt of the massive blue giant that Marwolv orbits is spectacular. The zoom on my armour is good enough I can pick out one of the airless moons and my two minor shipyards. Everything is muffled out here and my breathing seems oddly loud, despite its usual, almost imperceptible volume. Here, I am reminded that I am small and the galaxy is lousy with eldritch horrors and thirsting blue bloods. I raise my middle finger at the cosmos and contemplate today¡¯s topic: teleportation. One of my greatest fears is that the next enemy I encounter won¡¯t try to steal my ship, or eat my crew, but teleport a MOAB onboard instead of troops and blow us all up without a chance to fight back. Sure, the void shield will stop that most of the time, but the problem is that void shields can and do get taken down in combat, leaving the vessel vulnerable to teleport strikes. Void shields aren¡¯t infallible teleport blockers either, as I found out when I first arrived at Marwolv, as some teleportariums can punch through. Space marines are fond of dropping terminators on bridges and gunnery decks, eldar love to steal and sabotage without anyone noticing, and if you give the mechanicus a chance they¡¯ll sneak servo-skulls on board and try to drain all your data. The necrons are the worst though as they can micro-jump right next to you, teleport whole battalions onboard and jump away, waiting for the slaughter to finish. I am hoping my cargo container STC has an answer. This legendary macguffin of mine is stuffed with glittering seams of knowledge. If I want to know how to build a device or vehicle to transport any object from one location to another, it will teach me how to do so from scratch. Because of its high grade, it even tells me how and why it works, not just what to do. It isn¡¯t perfect though as there is very little arcanotech, and there are almost no weapons. It is clear from the designs that many are pet projects and thought experiments, like a sci-fi version of dumb shit people cobble together in their sheds and back yards for a good laugh with their mates. All the designs come from the same science base, which is immensely helpful for improving my own knowledge, but there are only so many pterodactyl servitor delivery drone designs, or deep sea worm miners I can make use of. The suicide pigeon bombers are just mean. The stupid buggers even have mechanical cloaca for insulting your enemies with acidic explosives before you kill them with a brain dead bird. Maybe I¡¯ll try them on the first corrupt governor or over inflated bishop I run into. While there is a teleporter design within the STC, it is, as far as I can tell, identical to an imperial teleporter, and not actually as good as the one I looted from the conjoined mechanicus twins. I do appreciate having the knowledge on how to build them though. After several subjective hours of searching through the STC, I find a design on how to deter pesky kids and nosy neighbours from one¡¯s private arcology dome with a ¡®blink dog¡¯, a teleporting cyberhound, and the defences you need in place so that the hounds don¡¯t go walkies by themselves. It doesn¡¯t even come under teleportation and instead is filed under pack animals, alongside mules, and other beasts of burden. I raise my fist to the heavens and cry ¡®why¡¯ in the most dramatic fashion I can muster, then take a closer look at the design. Converting my canine company to teleporting dog riders that all have the equivalent of a more controlled imperial displacer field would be hilarious for me and terrifying for everyone else. The dog isn¡¯t that important though, the real genius lies in the ¡®fence¡¯ to corral them. A quick skim of the data reveals it¡¯s an integrant module. Like a ¡®mezoa gellar void integrant¡¯ void ship facility that links a void shield and the gellar field for better warp protection, this ¡®displacer fencing¡¯ combines a warded structure, like a warpsbane hull, with field bracing, a molecular reinforcement technology. The ¡®displacer fencing¡¯ works by creating fake material in the warp, effectively blocking the ¡®line of sight¡¯ requirement on most teleportation technologies. For everyone but the necrons, a teleport has a maximum amount of material it can bypass, as well as a height and weight limit. You can¡¯t teleport from one side of a planet to another, for example, or rather, you really, really shouldn¡¯t. Anything more than four metres tall and over three tonnes will usually destroy the teleporter and its passengers too. The displacer fencing integrant technology has two flaws. The first it shares with the gellar void integrant, in that if either of two primary components is damaged, it ceases to function. While this is a prize winning statement from Captain Obvious, combining three separate facilities for a vital defence, is inherently unreliable and foolhardy. This is different to the gellar void integrant, as that is just an expensive boost, not the core of vital shielding. It is, however, a quick and cheap fix that takes up little space or power to add and maintain, as well as an excellent place to start researching teleportation denial technology. I might even be able to link it to the void shields too and boost their anti-teleportation properties further. The second flaw is that it is a metaphorical and literal fence. The displacer fence goes both ways. So long as it is running, I can¡¯t teleport people and objects onto other vessels, stations, or planetary facilities. I still think it is worthwhile though and I can always risk depowering the displacer fence when the risk exceeds the pay off. Content with my findings, I create the work orders and request a prototype. Feeling inspired, I dig into E-SIM¡¯s modules to see if I can get a displacer field of my own. Chapter Ninety-One E-SIM has a lot of different personal shields available, including the displacer field that is supposed to randomly teleport the user up to a hundred metres just before they take a fatal blow. That isn¡¯t the module that catches my attention though. At the end of a rather long tech-tree, E-SIM has a weavefield projector. I don¡¯t know what it is, but it¡¯s placed in the same category as a hyper-deceleration field, which I have heard of. A peek at the weavefield projector¡¯s statistics gets my organic heart racing. A weavefield projector has a higher mitigation threshold than a conversion or refractor shield, the imperial standard for VIP personal protection. I.e. The maximum amount of energy it can neutralise in one strike, without overloading, within the same power, weight and size category for the device is approximately thirty percent higher, depending on the specific threat. This is great, but not mind blowing. One can always use a more power hungry void shield, and hook it up to a power armour¡¯s micro-fusion core, or take a bigger conversion shield. Where it really shines is its comprehensive protection and sustainability, providing protection against even the most exotic of weaponry, like the ones favoured by assassins and sadistic aeldari, without having to banish everything into the warp at a huge energy cost. Not only that, it will mitigate a greater total quantity of energy over time compared to other shields in the same category. A void shield would normally overload pretty quickly under the sustained fire that this weavefield projector is intended to mitigate, though void shields do have a more rapid cycle time. Void shields require big energy sinks and need time to dump or recycle the energy they¡¯ve displaced, as opposed to refraction and conversion shields, which have a limited pool of energy they use to counter hostile energies. A weavefield projector is a mix of the two. With this particular weavefield projector, I could cover an entire company of heralds in a protective dome, and weather the fire from a voidraven bomber¡¯s void lances, mines, and exotic missiles, arguably the most dangerous weapons in the galaxy at this scale. I¡¯d probably survive the rest of the bomber squadron too. I don¡¯t think a conversion or refractor shield would even stand up to dark lance, let alone a void lance, and a void shield would probably be saturated after a single strafing run. How then, does this marvel of technology achieve such a feat? Human and xeno sacrifice, obviously, because it¡¯s the forty second millennium and the primary currency of the great powers is souls. More seriously, there are also some materials E-SIM can¡¯t synthesise from nanites, like bones from psychic blanks and noctilith, also called blackstone. Both of these are required for this design. I actually do have some blank bones, thanks to Tzeech¡¯s avatar killing so many of Marwolv¡¯s citizens. Like void shields, psychic human ¡®blanks¡¯ have a limit on how much warp energy they can negate, depending on their personal strength, before it harms or kills them. I may have raided several millennia¡¯s worth of graves for blank bones as well. They are incredibly rare and a vital component of most anti demon and warp weaponry and armour. The inquisition and the grey knights usually get all of them and I didn¡¯t want to miss the opportunity to grab additional protections for myself and my personnel. I don¡¯t have any noctilith though as it¡¯s the primary building material used in necron construction and they¡¯ve scoured the whole galaxy of the stuff. If I want some, I¡¯ll have to pry it from their dead, metallic hands or get really, really lucky while prospecting. The weavefield projector itself doesn¡¯t need such strange materials, but the weird heatsink for this design does. The projector is also at the end of the tech-tree as I will need a full bionic conversion, which so far I¡¯ve been doing piecemeal, and a micro-fusion core, just to have the space and power to house this thing in my bulky frame. Apparently, my warp-tap isn¡¯t the right type of powersource for energy shields. At the end of it, I¡¯ll end up with a pair of mechanical wings from which will hang a series of pipes, reminiscent of a church organ or wind chimes, that allow for the dissipation of heat and exotic energies, including excessive warp energy; these pipes are also a form of null rod, a rare type of psychic protection hoarded by the Grey Knights, the Imperiums super secret demon busting space marine chapter that, if anyone asks me, I have no idea exists. To borrow a word from a long dead Japanese subculture, the whole design will make me look like a neo-gothic chunni cyber-angel. Not really a look a seventy year old man should wear with pride, but if it will stop me from being nuked from orbit every time I go for a stroll, I shall willingly wear the stupid thing, take all my naps in a hammock or zero-g, and name my flagship the Black Pearl because by that point, I might as well embrace a zero shame policy. On the plus side, I¡¯ll be able to fly with the heatsink wings, just like I already can with a jump pack or, you know, an aeroplane. Praise be the machine god and his golden prophet. First though, I need to aim for the full bionic conversion but I¡¯m still busy with the navigator conversion module I picked up after stomping on the tau and Bad Penny. There¡¯s also a long list of possible upgrades that I can get after spending my single crown on warp infrastructure so I think I¡¯ll hold onto my bounty of skulls until I¡¯ve cured Quaani. With Sod¡¯s Law a stronger universal constant than time or space, the skulls are also guaranteed to be essential after that golden counter hits zero, so I might as well head off a disaster by hanging onto them. I stand from my top-notch rest at Distant Sun¡¯s prow and stomp over the hull of the vessel to the closest hatch, pass the security inspection, and enter. There are no pressing matters that require my physical presence. My many minds and accelerated thoughts keep my administration time fairly minimal and I can hold several meetings simultaneously when I need to. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. I continue my routine and my days and months flash by. Progress is constant and, fingers crossed, I find myself with a rare reprieve. There are no invasions, raids, or accidental plagues and ill-thought, secret weapon experiments. The celebrations for my thirtieth year on Marwolv creep up on me and all of a sudden I find myself as the guest commentator for this year¡¯s dune buggy hull races, a high stakes event coinciding with the launch of Iron Crane, rather than wait for Sanguinala as we usually do. This is the third time we¡¯ve held the event and Thorfinn still runs it. The first event was a mess, the safety protocols were rather anaemic and there were three serious injuries. Thorfinn had yet to come to terms with losing his sister, Thurid, and his two nieces. He still hasn¡¯t, and I don¡¯t expect him to either, but he talks about them less and his work has long since returned to his usual high standard. Today, at least, as we stand on the hull together, halfway up the cathedral superstructure with a one-eyed eagle towering over us, Thorfinn is content. He rapidly chatters into the vox. A bank of holoviewers at his feet projects the racers as they all line up at the start around on top of the void ship¡¯s prow, ready for the leap of faith. This is the first of two races and there are ten buggies of different sizes and shapes, varying between four and eight wheels. The buggies have a five tonne limit and a sixty thousand byte budget. Sixty thousand bytes would get them a large, well armoured vehicle, but no weapons. The smaller the buggy, the more weapons and less armour it has. Teams receive thirty thousand bytes to build their weapons for opposing buggies when they¡¯re participating in the interception half of the game. Sixty thousand bytes would also let me sustain six and a half people in space for one year or hire a single enginseer. Comparing it to another vehicle, an unarmed leman russ tank, with no extras, costs me twelve times that to manufacture from raw materials. That doesn¡¯t include the cost of transporting materials from within the system either, an added cost that is quite literally astronomical. Even at one gravity per second, per second, the usual speed my vessels travel at, it takes a vast amount of energy to move tens of thousands of megatonnes. Imperial vessels are incredibly heavy, and if it wasn¡¯t for my advanced data gathering systems and cogitators, cargo weight, for a warship, is almost a rounding error. This is why I usually tow asteroids into orbit and turn them into factories, rather than ship mined ore around the system, as it saves billions of bytes per tonne in transport costs. The energy I saved from having three ork roks deliver raw materials right to me, rather than having to prospect and gather them myself, saved me many more times the energy cost it has taken me to retrain, repair, and replace all the personnel and material I expended in destroying the aggressive green bastards. Even after all my expenses, the savings from my loot were great enough that I could build an imperial light cruiser for free if I really wanted to, or repair and complete the Iron Crane at no cost, which is what I actually did. It is a mind boggling amount of wealth, yet on the galactic scale I work at, about as relevant as the cosmic dust floating around interstellar space. Thorfinn slaps me on the back, ¡°Quit moping!¡± ¡°Gah! How can you even tell, I¡¯m in power armour?¡± ¡°You hug yourself and hunch your shoulders.¡± ¡°Damn, I¡¯ve never noticed.¡± ¡°Well, you may love to reflect, but you sure don¡¯t use a mirror to do it.¡± ¡°I can hear the smile in your voice, you cheeky bastard.¡± ¡°And I in yours. Feeling better?¡± ¡°Yes, thank you. I believe I am.¡± ¡°Good, now focus on the race and say something pithy. We¡¯re going to start the pre-race discussion in thirty seconds.¡± ¡°I am ready.¡± A countdown appears in my vision. I take a few calming breaths, link my fingers and stretch them out in front of me. The countdown finishes and Thorfinn says, ¡°Welcome ladies, gentlemen, heroes, and heralds to our third hull race. I am Thorfinn Ursus, Master-at-Arms for the Distant Sun and head of internal security across our fleet. This year, joining me in the nattering booth is Lord Captain Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund, ready to commentate on the high speed carnage.¡± Thorfinn gestures towards me and I continue the introduction. ¡°Thank you, Thorfinn. We have six returning teams and fourteen new ones whose bold designs passed muster. The format is the same as before, with two competing heats with teams vying for the fastest times and best technical challenge scores. There are twelve people in each team. Ten teams will be racing and teaming up to reach the check points, while ten teams will be cooperating to sabotage the other racers. After that, they will swap and run the race again.¡± I glance at Thorfinn. Thorfinn gives me a thumbs up and says, ¡°There are three laps of the hull and no set routes. Only the size and nimbleness of the buggy determines what path you take. There are, however, set challenges that must be located and completed. Unlike the first year, where we had human drivers and a limited live weapon selection, or the second, where weapon fire was simulated and we had human drivers, this year everyone is piloting identical servitors. We have live weapons with the whole arsenal of the Distant Sun¡¯s databanks available, so long as they had the budget and were built by the teams. Don¡¯t be too alarmed if you spot a severed arm or two.¡± I clasp my hands behind my back and zoom in on the waiting buggies. ¡°We live in violent times. From sharpened stone to forged adamantium, it is our tools and cooperation that has taken us from chimpanzees picking fleas from each other¡¯s backs to grand megastructures illuminated by captured stars. ¡°Our achievements do not come without effort, however, and it is innovation, imagination, and perhaps most importantly competition that has rocketed us to such heights, enabling us to push back the nightmares that seek to claim our efforts for their own. This race is a reflection of our past and an omen of our future. With that in mind, it only seems right there is a prize for the winners to pluck from the backs of their opponents. Thorfinn, tell the crowd what these daring innovators are competing for.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. This year''s first prize is one master-crafted implant from the Magos¡¯s personal reserves for each team member. A research budget of up to sixty million bytes, to be split between all members, is also up for grabs. This will be split between any projects that they have, depending on subject approval by the usual oversight board. ¡°Usually the second prize between competing species is death, but Magos Issengrund is more generous and has agreed to gifting the runners up with a second chance: a custom weapon for each team member from the Distant Sun¡¯s forges and five hours tutoring from Magos Issengrund in any technology, so long as it is not proscribed. That¡¯s it, there is no third place, for the odds are never in our favour!¡± Chapter Ninety-Two I cycle through thousands of pict-feeds. Over half of my personnel are watching the event. Many are crammed into bars, or have hired a meeting room with their comrades for a private event. More still watch from within fantastical noosphere lobbies as they rest within their capsule beds in their quarters. Fifth watch, the training watch, are the poor buggers missing out, keeping an eye on the solar system, running patrols, and monitoring the great mechanical edifices that sustain us. Thorfinn gives a countdown and the buggies shoot off, driving over the edge of the prow and down the front of Distant Sun. The largest, heaviest buggy, an eight wheeled monstrosity, accelerates too hard and loses contact with the hull. Small thrusters fire to get it back into position. By the time it manages to land, the other racers have already reached keelside and have split up into two groups, and are dashing between CWIS systems, sensors, and imperial iconography. The starboard keel group gets hit first. ¡°Wow, Team Pyroclast has burned their entire weapons budget on a fixed inferno cannon,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°and they¡¯ve blown it. All four buggies picked up on its excessive radiant heat and dodged. I bet they''re cursing their calculators right now.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a rather powerful weapon,¡± I say. ¡°You usually find them on titans or hellhound chimeras. I really didn¡¯t expect to see one in this race.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think the racers did either. They¡¯re really putting on the speed to try and get out of its range.¡± The inferno cannon continues to spray an excessive quantity of specially formulated promethium absolutely everywhere, cutting off routes and turning the ferrocrete beneath into lava. The ferrocrete struggles to radiate heat into the void and molten blobs rise from the surface, floating in the microgravity of the vessel. One of the buggies brakes hard and takes a perpendicular route to the incoming fire, while the other three race through the gaps. ¡°A little too hasty there with your condemnation, Thorfinn, looks like one of the drivers has -.¡± A searing light erupts beneath an open topped, four wheeled buggy. The buggy is the smallest of the four starboard racers and has no visible weapons. ¡°The interception teams look like they want to go for the weakest link,¡± I say. Around the endangered buggy, a sphere of light flickers into action as a conversion field repels the high energy melta mines, converting it into light, negating the trap entirely. ¡°A double bluff!¡± shouts Thorfinn, ¡°from both sides no less.¡± The largest buggy sees the flames as it lumbers beneath the prow and arrives keelside. It changes course, taking a central route, slowly catching up the detachee from the starboard keel group. The port keel group of five buggies splits up, each taking a slightly different route between damaged sections of the hull where my luxnet was ripped free. The damage occurred when I had to accelerate hard because of the sudden rok attack. A lux net usually takes ten hours to retract and is a combined solar array and series of maintenance gantries. It was originally intended to provide power for my asteroid mining equipment and cloud scoops when the vessel was at rest, or accelerating below zero point two gravities. With the Iron Crane completed, I don¡¯t need its repair capacity anymore. I¡¯ve long since replaced the mining and cloud scoop facilities too after I got the shipyards up and running and built the moth class ships. I was using the power elsewhere, having repurposed the power for my microfactories, stripping out their self-powered modules for additional manufacturing space, so reconfiguring the microfactories after I lost the lux net was a particularly frustrating waste of resources. It should be worth it though as I hope to replace the luxnet with hecatonchire missile launchers, great long range counterfire for enemy strike craft and torpedoes. When combined with my strike craft, they should saturate enemy CIWS capabilities, and help me destroy them. In theory, this should create enough vulnerabilities that I can send in the class three D-POTs and pound a vessel to scrap with almost point blank torpedoes without ever putting my vessel within the practical range of enemy fire. My attention is brought back to the race when half a dozen heavy stubbers, hidden in the shadows of the statuary, fire streams of hardened steel at a single buggy. Normally, this would be pretty ineffective against imperial armour, but they¡¯re firing a larger calibre of the phosphor rounds used in the herald¡¯s back up pistols. The weapons are incredibly cheap, but the ammunition they¡¯re using is not. The buggy jinks left and right, slipping behind buttresses and torn up sections of luxnet. Its single turret glows bright as it dashes from cover and launches great spheres of blue-white light at the enemy positions in a carefully calculated salvo from the buggy¡¯s plasma culverin. Six shots rise and fall, splashing over the heavy stubber gun emplacements. Two immediately cease fire, while another is crushed by a falling gargoyle. I¡¯m not too happy about the damage to Distant Sun but it¡¯s minor compared to the size of the vessel and does make the race more exciting for everyone else. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Three of the emplacements survive the bombardment and their rounds cut into the buggy before it can start jinking again after its steady attack run. The armour piercing rounds punch through the thin armour and ignite, burning control systems and disabling two motors. The buggy¡¯s acceleration drops, but it gets behind cover just as supporting fire from the other four portside keel racers obliterate the emplacements. Both teams are coming up on their first challenge, one of Distant Sun¡¯s two auspex arrays, an R-50 auspex multi-band, a suite of sensors tuned to detect hidden celestial phenomena and ideal for exploration. It¡¯s also pretty good at spotting stealthed vessels and the best system one can really hope for without stumbling across and installing a X470 ultimo array. My other auspex is a series of W-240 passive detection arrays that let the Distant Sun navigate planetary systems and detect other vessels even when Distant Sun is proceeding in silent running mode. It is highly unlikely to spot other stealthed vessels, but as long as it doesn¡¯t give my position away either, it¡¯s good enough for most situations. I spent the morning with the R-50 array, bargaining with the machine-spirit and detaching a few wires. It now returns only a low resolution scan of the system, or at least pretends to, and it¡¯s up to the tech-adepts and priests to troubleshoot and fix the array. There are three challenges to complete. Each buggy only has to participate in one challenge, but there are a limited number of points they can extract from each challenge, depending on how many things I broke. It¡¯s up to the teams to decide how long they take fixing stuff as some problems are worth more than others, but take longer to fix. There¡¯s a few hidden objectives I¡¯ve snuck in as well with bonus points for completing them, like bribing the machine-spirit to fix everything for you, or manually recalibrating the sensors to pick up a hidden item out in the system. No team knows what the other teams¡¯ secret objective is and completing them is one of the most difficult and time consuming points sources, but also the highest scored objective. Two buggies stop at the array, one each from the port and starboard keel groups. Both the largest buggy and the buggy that detached from the starboard keel group also stop at the array. Between four and six servitors disembark from the buggy, apart from the eight wheeled monster which has all twelve remote piloted bodies climb down and sprint over to the R-50 auspex multi-band array. They all start by querying the machine-spirit to list what is wrong and it gives them a whole list of issues in no particular order or priority, most of which are junk complaints like paint scratches, or a zero point zero one percent evaporation of lubricants for one of its gear boxes. This isn¡¯t the damn spirit playing along with a ruse, it is obstreperous on a good day, which is why I chose it for the challenge. The teams quickly realise they aren¡¯t going to get anywhere and start jacking into the data ports using the collars around their necks. This lets them navigate the machine-spirit¡¯s logs manually with their own search programs and they quickly start identifying the problems, with each team grabbing one task at a time on a first come first basis and an agreement not to take another until they have fixed what they do have. As these four teams wrestle with the R-50 auspex multi-band array, the other six race along the hull towards Distant Sun¡¯s modified jovian pattern class three drive, our main thrusters, power plant, and heatsink facility that takes up twenty-five percent of the vessel. There aren¡¯t many paths here and the buggies are forced into a line formation along the portside edge of the stern. Two of the six buggies are attacked by special weapon teams, who fire on the buggies with lascannons, krak missiles, and heavy bolters. The interceptors attempt a classic convoy ambush, targeting the front and back vehicles. Both buggies, two six wheeled models, one open topped, the other lightly armoured, are both shredded, splattering white hot debris all over the stern and into space. Four surviving buggies engage their thrusters and jump over their fallen leader. The extra height makes it easy to spot their ambushers and, in an entirely unrealistic manoeuvre for a groudside race, they spin upside down, the passengers shooting Marwolv lasguns from their seats, or engaging their buggies fixed weapons. Hundreds of rounds are exchanged over four seconds. The surviving buggies mash the interception teams, destroying over half of them with mechanical precision. ¡°They had to have practised that,¡± I say. ¡°What a novel tactic.¡± ¡°I agree,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Those fire patterns were pre-programmed. I¡¯m not impressed by their ordinance swatters though. They didn¡¯t have a single one!¡± I laugh, ¡°Well, I think they were trying to save costs. Did you see them firing at the krak missiles with their lasguns? One passenger even scored a hit! Not the best choice though, there¡¯s a reason why we use storm bolters to intercept enemy rockets rather than las weaponry. ¡°Bolter ammunition, despite its limited quantity, can be modified into shrapnel and saturate the path in front of the missile with enough heat and debris to trick proximity and impact triggers. Ideally an enemy missile will either destroy itself or be wrecked by the shrapnel. A lasgun has to burn through a missile¡¯s shell and they¡¯re far more hardy than they look. A multilaser would do it, but they¡¯re rather bulky and hard to aim at the speed required for a short range intercept, and a laser defence grid can¡¯t fit on a small vehicle.¡± ¡°Another impromptu lecture, Magos? This is a race, not a lecture hall!¡± ¡°Bah! You brought me on to analyse what the teams are doing for our fine viewers, don¡¯t go complaining now.¡± ¡°Well how about a hint on the next challenge then?¡± ¡°Right, well the four remaining teams are nearing the warp antenna as they hop up the cathedral towards the navigator spire. A warp antenna is an arcanotech device used to more easily locate the astronomicon, our Emperor¡¯s great beacon on Holy Terra that will help us navigate the Koronus Expanse. That¡¯s not all there is to the device, but the rest is classified and the challenge the teams must complete is one of, if not the most likely error a high ranking tech-priest can be expected to tackle for an arcanotech device of this nature.¡± ¡°Is that truly wise, Magos?¡± says Thorfinn, a minor tremor in his voice. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry about it, it¡¯s just a simulation. They should be fine. I think.¡± Chapter Ninety-Three Thorfinn keeps a close eye on all the holofeeds as four buggies navigate to the warp antennae. A warp antenna is a risky and essential device for any imperial vessel traversing the edges of the galaxy. Not only does it massively boost detection of the astronomicon, but it also lets you detect powerful warp entities. Like most high powered sensors, this, in turn, can enable warp entities to detect you as well. I¡¯ve little doubt this double-edged detection is what led to such a catastrophic breach of the Distant Sun¡¯s double gellar field when it crashed into the Federation space station remnant. Without the antenna, Distant Sun likely would have had fewer demons surrounding it, waiting to breach. Pairing it with a Belecane-pattern 90.r gellar field, that is prone to flicking, is honestly a little suicidal. Having the back up warpsbane hull fail for a moment during the collision at the same time as a flicker event for the primary gellar field was more than just bad luck. Given they crashed into an intact STC library at the same time, likely breaching the station¡¯s gellar field for a short moment as well, it is no wonder I found nothing within. Totally a Tzeentch plot for sure, not even the eldar can take credit for that one. Whether the library was destroyed or stolen, I will never know. I can¡¯t even be sure my speculation is true. ¡°What are the other four remaining teams doing, Thorfinn?¡± ¡°Well, they¡¯ve bagged two thirds of the points for the auspex challenge. Three of the teams are packing up and getting ready to run the gauntlet by the main thrusters, no doubt hoping to grab all the easy points from the final challenge. ¡°The eight wheeled buggy team, team Arachnid, are staying on, no doubt trying to make use of their extra hands and minds to solve the more rewarding problems before they continue the race.¡± As three auspex solving teams depart, the first buggy arrives at the warp antenna. Five passengers disembark while the driver circles the antenna, a fifty metre tower surrounded by a faint purple haze and covered in unnatural frost. The tower consists of multiple rods, similar to force weapons used by psykers, that are slightly separated from each other. There shouldn¡¯t be a need for the buggy driver to patrol as the intercept teams aren¡¯t supposed to attack at a challenge location, but clearly this team is wary of subtle cheating after the brutal ambush they just survived. The five passengers approach the antenna with little caution, and immediately plug into its systems. As they query the machine-spirit, the servitors¡¯ wards flair and burn bright. There¡¯s nothing on the holos, but the readouts I have of the servitors are beeping harsh warnings. In their rush to fix things, the team ignores the warnings and the servitors begin to fail, the intense discharge of sorcerous power eroding the servitors¡¯ flesh and disabling their implants as their expensive protections oppose the corrupting energies of the warp. Two minutes after their contact with the tower, the servitors perish. ¡°Oh dear,¡± I say. ¡°That was terribly foolish. Good job we¡¯re using servitors this year.¡± The lone driver departs, passing three buggies as he goes. His only chance now is to complete the race first and hope it gives him enough points. ¡°I can¡¯t tell what went wrong there, Magos. I¡¯ve never seen servitors drop like that.¡± ¡°Oh, it was very much by design. The how and why is classified, I¡¯m afraid.¡± I doubt that even a demon of Nurgle would be able to manipulate a corpse that putrefied and saturated with supercharged sacred blood. While demons could take advantage of such a pyrrhic defence and wipe out my servitors en masse, it would cost vast amounts of power. Not even Tzeench¡¯s avatar¡¯s breach of realspace was enough to trigger such a reaction among my servitors. It would be cheaper for chaos forces to manifest demons and fight against my servitors than overload their wards and sacred blood. As the forces of chaos are inherently selfish and wary of their fractious alliances, they never spend more power than they have to, which means I should always get a chance to fight back. ¡°What should they have done?¡± ¡°The same thing you¡¯re supposed to do with any high voltage installation. Turn it off before you approach. I know some people mess with live wires, thinking themselves sufficiently insulated, but why take the risk to save a few minutes of time when it might kill you? They¡¯re here to win a race, not a Darwin award. You can look that reference up in your own time.¡± ¡°Do all of this year¡¯s challenges contain an educational lesson?¡± Thorfinn chuckles. ¡°Of course. They¡¯re all stuff a tech-apprentice could do by following the manual. It makes failure all the more embarrassing, as it should be. Basic rituals and precautions are an important thing to follow, even when you are rushed.¡± ¡°The teams are going to hate the replays, aren¡¯t they?¡± I grin, ¡°Absolutely despise them, I¡¯m sure. Let¡¯s see if these three slower teams can do a little better.¡± As the teams request the machine-spirit to depower the antenna, my kill counter starts to creep up rapidly. I try not to worry about it too much as I should receive a message within the next few minutes and nothing is shooting at my void ships. The three teams around the antenna successfully plug into its systems without killing themselves this time. While they dig into the problem, the three buggies who left the auspex challenge race split up and race around the main thrusters. The remaining half of the intercept teams¡¯ special weapon teams can¡¯t cover so many points around the thrusters with their reduced numbers and try to redeploy. They spread out enough that all three buggies weather the gauntlet of heavy bolters and lascannons, though not without significant damage and four casualties among their passengers. The three racing teams do, however, reduce the intercept teams to a single special weapons team with their counter fire. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. With great difficulty, the three buggies navigate along the spine of the vessel towards the void sunder lance turret. These lances are the most powerful and energy hungry weapon that an imperial vessel can wield. Such is their size that my light cruiser can only fit two lances, one beneath the prow, and one along the spine. They wouldn¡¯t actually fit in a broadside slot, though a battleship, like an apocalypse class, can field whole batteries of them along their port and starboard weapon arrays. The power these lances require is the main reason why I haven¡¯t refitted my light cruiser with plasma macrocannons from the origami design. I have some plans to replace Distant Sun¡¯s munitorum with auxiliary plasma banks. The amount of rewiring to be done to pump that power to the possible plasma macrocannons above them however, will require at least a year of yard time and I can¡¯t risk taking out my most powerful warship for that long. I can¡¯t just swap them out in a month like I could if I, for example, swapped out the extended range of my lathe grav-culverin broadside for the armour piercing properties of a stygies-pattern macrocannon battery. As the three buggies approach the void sunder lance, they encounter a minefield. They carefully engage their thrusters, hopping over the mines. Just as they reach the end, all the mines detonate and the buggies fly off into space. ¡°That¡¯s quite brilliant,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Were those filled with compressed gases?¡± ¡°I believe so. That six wheel buggy was likely hoping its mass would help it weather more damaging mines and now it doesn¡¯t have strong enough thrusters to return it to Distant Sun. The recovery team will have to grab them.¡± ¡°Those lighter four wheeled ones, teams Silver Grox and ¡®Crete Skipper, should recover. Looks like Silver Grox touched down first, though they¡¯ve landed on top of the lance turret. Good job we¡¯re in microgravity or they¡¯d need a crane to get down from there.¡± ¡°There they go,¡± I say. ¡°I think by the time they get to the access point, ¡®Crete Skipper will have pulled up next to it.¡± ¡°Silver Grox and ¡®Crete Skipper are supposed to do one challenge per lap, but they¡¯ve clearly decided to flout that rule and take the penalty, going for a second challenge while the Silver Grox driver tried to manoeuvre off the lance turret.¡± ¡°Team Arachnid have just left the auspex challenge, did they get the last points?¡± Thorfinn checks his holoviewers, ¡°Hmm, not quite, they missed one, but they got the big pointer for properly appeasing the machine-spirit.¡± ¡°Good,¡± I say. I walk over to look at Thorfinn¡¯s data. ¡°Oh, I see. They carefully altered the sensitivity of the auspex¡¯s sensors so that all the pointlessly small errors won¡¯t bother it unless it runs a full diagnostic. Though going to all that trouble fixing what they think was an over tuned machine is hilarious when they could have just spent a few seconds loosening the protective cap that¡¯s stuck over the sensor that¡¯s annoying it.¡± ¡°How did they miss that?¡± ¡°Well, there¡¯s a big enough data set from the available sensors that, once they fixed all the simulated errors, the machine-spirit can maintain its maximum image quality anyway. Without manually checking each sensor, it will look like a false positive on the diagnostics as I messed with the sensor so that its protective cover always reads as open, even when it clearly isn¡¯t. ¡°Things like this are why we still do visual inspections and manual work, rather than just relying on auto-simulacra, that¡¯s automated repair systems, and other diagnostics tools, because you never know if what your diagnostic tools are telling you is correct without taking a look for yourself and double checking with a second set of tools; in this case, the old mark one eyeball.¡± ¡°That¡¯s pretty sneaky of you, Magos.¡± ¡°I admit I did have a lot of fun setting these challenges up, though it looks like I might have got a bit carried away with the warp antenna. I am rather zealous when it comes to proper warp protections and it appears that the simulated scrapcode I installed into the diagnostic sockets, with a hidden physical bypass device behind the panel, has taken out another team.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t realise that was possible.¡± ¡°A lot of people don¡¯t because of the protective collars in the mesh suits. While they let the user view another device¡¯s data in a virtual environment, reducing infection vectors into one¡¯s MIU, they¡¯re not infallible. It¡¯s really important to check a socket for tampering before you jack in to any device, especially arcanotech, as when they get infected with scrap code, or other...things, it rarely behaves in a conventional manner. If it wasn¡¯t simulated and stuffed with failsafes, that code might have killed the remote operators too. They¡¯ll still be fixing their implants for weeks though. It will be a memorable lesson.¡± ¡°Is there any way to avoid that issue without having to dismantle every machine and scan it perfectly just to do a standard check?¡± ¡°Yes, scan the device first. You can have a machine-spirit compare auspex scans. If there¡¯s nothing wrong, you will probably be fine, but there¡¯s a reason why I issue everyone a dataslate as well as an MIU. If you plug that in first to test the digital waters, as it were, you can trick scrap code into running in an un-networked device and trap it, rather than risk your mesh suit collar. ¡°Yes, the collars are incredibly robust and more than ninety nine percent of the time you will be fine just plugging straight in without precautions; they are supposed to catch anything malicious, but plugging straight in on a device that you know has been tampered with and is incredibly dangerous is spectacularly dumb.¡± Thorfinn laughs, ¡°The surviving two are clearly more cautious though. Team Auramite haven¡¯t even connected to any terminals yet and have done a proper visual inspection, before they even scan or jack in. Looks like they¡¯ve already pushed a component back into alignment at the top of one of the antenna rods. Any other major traps these two surviving teams might encounter?¡± ¡°They¡¯ve avoided the lethal ones. It¡¯s a fairly simple reflash and configuration they need to complete. The catch is that if they reinstall all the systems without manually recording the current settings, they¡¯ll never have time to re-enter all the information before the race finishes when they could have done it in seconds with a simple script fed from their own memory. ¡°They have to manually record the antenna¡¯s settings once they¡¯ve removed the simulated scrap code generator from behind the panel. They really shouldn¡¯t save the settings from the original install and carry it through to the new install, just in case there is scrap code they¡¯ve missed. Saving settings in the default reinstall option, however, and if they do that they¡¯ll have to try again, as there is a second batch of simulated scrap code that the machine-spirit will execute from its own data banks if they are lazy about a proper reset.¡± My kill counter¡¯s rapid ascent slows and I am five thousand higher than it was. I¡¯m worried now as there aren¡¯t that many tau or orks left on Marwolv, or at least there shouldn¡¯t be, and I still haven¡¯t received a call. I begin to vox all my groundside commanders, but they haven¡¯t noticed anything wrong either. I have them all go to amber alert and push for extra patrols. Whatever is having a go at my forces has clearly taken an epic beating, so I either won, or something is about to go horribly wrong. There isn¡¯t much else I can do and I don¡¯t want to call off these celebrations unless I have to. ¡°If they do it right, how long should a new cogitator installation take?¡± ¡°Five minutes, tops. A bit less than the time it should take to lap Distant Sun once, if you were driving in a straight line on a level surface and not leaping around imperial statues and getting shot at. I designed the challenges so that if twelve people were working on them, and knew exactly what they were doing, they could complete everything in about the time it takes to do one lap, which is also about twelve minutes, depending on the buggy. I like to think Mars¡¯ denizens would approve of the precise timings.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m enjoying myself,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°and I think our teams and viewers are too. There¡¯s a lot of chat going on in the noosphere and someone has already dubbed a few clips with some music from Distant Sun¡¯s new melodium.¡± ¡°Well, I hope it stays that way. Let¡¯s check out the final challenge.¡± Chapter Ninety-Four The race continues for another twenty minutes. All the scores from the buggies who actually completed the race are fairly close, though Team Arachnid takes the win, despite being the last over the finish line and barely within the forty-five minute time limit for the whole race. While Team Arachnid trundle about, completing all the most difficult tasks, the other buggies do extra laps, trying to beat their personal shortest lap for a few extra points, as well as last year¡¯s shortest lap time. These extra laps keep the race lively and uncover more traps and ambushes as the racers experiment with potentially faster routes. Much to mine and the spectators¡¯ amusement, Team Silver Grox even loses their buggy during a bonus lap. A lascannon shot from halfway across the hull finishes off their battered buggy, penetrating their cockpit after the buggy jumps too high in an attempt to bypass sections of the hull¡¯s labyrinthine surface. I finally get a response from my heralds about the attack and they¡¯ve brought the source of trouble on board my vessel. I am not happy and immediately rush to the primary hangar, leaving Thorfinn to close out the competition. After navigating the vessel, It takes a couple of minutes to get through the hangar airlock and decontamination systems and into the cavernous facility. Within, a whole squadron of D-POTs is on standby, as well as twenty other craft, engaged in cargo and personnel transfers. There¡¯s at least a thousand people here and it¡¯s rather noisy. Shuttles are suspended on gantries to maximise space and travel on cargo lifts to and from the hangar¡¯s exit. The system reminds me of the automated car parks and bicycle storage that city councils were experimenting with in cramped metropolitan areas just before I died. Our gantry system is new to Distant Sun, increasing our capacity from twelve fury interceptor sized strike craft or shuttles in seventy by thirty-five metre slots to forty eight slots of the same size, though they are adjustable. A class one D-POT takes up half a plot and a class two occupies two slots, so the hangar can hold anywhere between ninety-six class one D-POTs or thunderhawks, or twenty four class two D-POTs and any combination in between. I can¡¯t fit class three D-POTs on Distant Sun. If I really wanted to, I could fit twenty one arvus lighters on a single plot, and fill the hanger with just over a thousand of them. That would be silly though as I could never use them all in a practical length of time. It takes ninety seconds to retrieve or launch a craft on their movable platforms. Although I can handle two platforms simultaneously, launching or retrieving a whole platform of lighters safely would take at least sixteen minutes, and about thirteen hours to launch them all, rather than the seventy-two minutes it normally takes to cycle all the platforms at maximum efficiency. The latter is only barely acceptable for combat and only if I can spot my enemies in time. The entire hangar is airless and is usually kept that way. The exit has void shields configured to keep the air in and make for a more convenient working environment. However, we rarely bother to fill the hangar with breathable air as everyone is issued a hyperweave suit and a helmet which they have to wear to navigate the vessel anyway. Whenever I enter the hangar I am always reminded of my first few hours on Distant Sun, fighting alongside Sergeant Odhran against orks, tyranids, and chaos cultists. It is, however, the eldar that incite the greatest fear. I¡¯ve never forgotten their gleeful, twisted faces as they brutalised my body and placed that pistol to my head. The nothingness that followed, or the fear that preceded it and the bubbling rage that all my efforts were to be rendered meaningless before an immaterial prophecy. The horror of watching all my grandchildren¡¯s messages, millenia of effort and chance, crushed between cruel, delicate fingers was equally scaring. Sure, I knew the data was safely backed up, but as I saw the ancient link between my family and I being destroyed, the logic didn¡¯t matter. It didn¡¯t make the pain go away. I joke about blaming the eldar for everything, yet no matter how true or not it might be, my attitude comes from fear, fear and spite. Now, for the first time in forty years, an eldar is before me once again. He stands, if barely, his arms held tight on either side by silver clad heralds, their backs straight and stiff as they march him down the ramp of a class two D-POT and on to my vessel. He wears a hyperweave suit, but it fits him poorly, the suits never designed to adjust such a tall and thin individual. I wait, looking him over as they approach. This specimen is even more flawed than I¡¯d believed possible. There is no fight in this creature, only a broken and twisted body. His arms have healed at odd angles, his flesh is tough and scarred, and even his jaw is slightly out of alignment. His two point one metre frame is stooped and his slim shoulders are hunched forward. I want to hate him, just for what he is. It would be so easy, right even, were I to truly fall into the molasses of imperial dogma and accept my hate as truth. That isn¡¯t what this is about though. It does not matter that his race is a blight on the galaxy, his kind having learned nothing since The Fall. It is about me facing my fears and conquering them, about me squeezing every last drop of knowledge from the carcass of their foetid civilization. The eldar before me is not responsible for my fear. He is likely unrelated to the decisions of his ancient kin. He is a slave. I do not, and will not keep such things, yet neither will I execute a prisoner out of hand. He has done nothing and can do nothing and so I shall grant him, not the Emperor¡¯s mercy, but the burden and boon of a choice. I wish to prove to myself I am better than my fears. Perhaps this one eldar is broken enough to learn and grow beyond the folly of his ancestors. I doubt it, and do not care so long as he cooperates. One of the escorts speaks up, ¡°Magos, I have a message. May I relay it?¡± I stare at the eldar and nod once, ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°Commander MacCrane sends his regards and apologies for the delay in communication. A dark eldar raid came out of the ocean on their skimmers. The sensor network that was set up to detect the tau spotted them and our fleet caught them unawares, firing from over the horizon with their heaviest ordinance and slaughtering them before they had a chance to fight. ¡°By the time what was happening got to the top of the command chain, it was already over and the water navy moved in to mop up the remnants and double check the wreckage. As per your standing order, all dark eldar were shot and their bodies destroyed, regardless of the condition we found them in or if they surrendered. The archon and his hrud and barghesi bodyguard fought to the death. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°The dark eldar also had a detachment of Enoulian mercenaries who surrendered. This was accepted, but when one of them spotted an imperial eagle, they swiftly turned violent and had to be put down. ¡°Any and all surviving slaves we found were recovered, of which we have twenty three: seventeen imperial humans, five morralian children, and one eldar. The humans and morralian children are having their injuries treated and are causing little trouble. ¡°This one, however,¡± the herald squeezes the eldar¡¯s shoulder tightly, but the eldar does not react, ¡°is proving more troublesome. Commander MacCrane was concerned as our protocols insist we treat all eldar as powerful psykers. The only persons remaining who can contain such individuals are you and Headmaster Nan Sop so Commander MacCrane sent us up with the prisoner immediately. That¡¯s all I have to say, Magos.¡± ¡°Good job. I¡¯m glad our systems are working as intended, though do tell commander MacCrane to call Aileen or I to Marwolv next time, rather than bring a potential hazard onto my voidships or other space facilities without direct permission. The main hangar is not a suitable location for transferring dangerous prisoners either. Has MacCrane ordered a search for the webway gate now we have a better idea of where it might be?¡± ¡°No idea, Magos. I never saw any fighting. I¡¯m stationed on Dimpsy Fortress, with the aeronautica, not with the water navy.¡± ¡°Alright. Thank you for bringing the prisoner. You are dismissed.¡± The two heralds step away from the eldar and return to their D-POT. I spot three squads of heralds lurking nearby. The eldar¡¯s head shifts from side to side ever so slightly. He shifts his body to a more martial stance as much as his damaged legs allow. I approach the twisted humanoid, ¡°What is your name and craftworld, eldar?¡± ¡°Ylien Keltadh, formally of Alaitoc.¡± His voice is melodious, though there is a slight rasp to it, likely from some poorly healed wound. ¡°What is your path?¡± Ylien stares at me for a moment, ¡°Seer.¡± ¡°Warlock or Farseer?¡± I detach my hell pistol from my shoulder and point it at his head. ¡°I see you lack a spirit stone.¡± Ylien tenses. My mechadendrite reaches out and carefully scans him, finding a sliver of wraithbone attached to the back of his skull. It shares some similar properties to a null rod, I think, but I can¡¯t be sure. ¡°Your powers have been curtailed? Well, there¡¯s no way your previous captors could have taken you into Commorragh were you capable of drawing on the warp.¡± ¡°You know much, Magos.¡± ¡°Knowledge is my faith, the foundation of my self-worth.¡± ¡°I will not tell you how my craftworld might be found, no matter what you do.¡± ¡°That is neither my goal nor purpose. Your race is dying, Ylien. You¡¯ve had over ten thousand years to sort yourselves out and have achieved little. You fear for your immortal souls, fleeing from your Great Enemy, and that is wise. Instead, your species relies on spirit stones, mined from the crone worlds within the eye of terror to safeguard their souls in death, yet this fear limits you.¡± Ylien bares his pointed teeth and hisses. I continue, ¡°Without stones, you cannot replace your losses with mass cloning or the resurrection and feasting on the souls of others like your foolish dark kin are so fond of. There is a delicious irony that they mimic the behaviour of their most feared foe in a doomed attempt to stave off the inevitable. ¡°The limitations on craftworld eldar means you do not have enough people to acquire more stones and therefore rebuild your civilization. When facing the horrors of the galaxy, to fail to grow is to die. A slow one, but death all the same.¡± Ylien frowns, ¡°Why do you tell me this? Do you think yourself clever telling me what every eldar child knows, or are you trying to mock me with your feeble thoughts.¡± I ignore him and continue to scan his body for traps. ¡°Most of humanity is ignorant of what awaits them upon death and so we throw ourselves against our fate, hoping enough bodies will seize the cogs that relentlessly reduce our rotting civilization back to the dust it rose from. Our barbarous nature, that your species so often accuse and ridicule us for, is the quality that pushes back the demonic nightmares your kind wallowed in and created, despite many warnings, I might add.¡± ¡°It was the craftworld aeldari who did so!¡± shouts Ylein, ¡°My ancestors were those very people who gave those warnings. What purpose could your blathering possibly propose, Magos?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve given up. I don¡¯t blame you, not after all you have likely been through beneath the tools and whips of the dark eldar, but I am talking of your species as a whole. ¡°I cannot and will never help the eldar as a whole. Perhaps with the wakening of Ynnari in the warp will be enough. Perhaps your new god and his followers will fail. That, however, has little to do with the present and your current situation.¡± He tries to hide it, but even an eldar¡¯s vaunted proprioception cannot obscure his trembling. After all, the secrets of their new god and the freedom he offers from the tyranny of Slaanesh, the Great Enemy of eldar souls, is supposed to be hidden from the Mon-keigh. ¡°The last eldar I met tried to kill me for absolutely no reason while revelling in his perceived moral superiority and the righteousness of his cause. I, however, am going to offer you a choice.¡± Ylien stills, his gaze turning from my face to my feet, ¡°I am listening.¡± ¡°First, a warning. Should you refuse my first offer, I will place you in solitary confinement for ten terran years and my second offer will be twice as arduous for you. As will be the length of confinement and labours required should you refuse a second time. If you refuse a third time, you will be executed after your third confinement session. I will not make a fourth offer. Should you accept any freedoms, betrayal will be met with ten years of confinement for a first offence and so on, until execution. Do you understand the consequences I have listed?¡± ¡°I do, Magos.¡± ¡°Good. My first offer is thus: Ylien Keltadh, you will accept three apprentices every twenty years for eighty years. You will teach them everything you know of the warp, how to manipulate it, and avoid its perils. You will teach properly, with effort, patience and good manners, withholding nothing. ¡°In return, after one hundred years you will be granted a servitor crew and a class three D-POT, a large macro-lander capable of extensive intrasystem travel. You will be dropped off at a safe location of your choosing, within reason, and be left free to roam as you wish. Alternatively, I will apply for sanctioned xeno status and you may remain with my fleet as a paid consultant, remaining free of the strictures of your craftworld and able to embrace the path of outcast without fear of death and depravity. ¡°During the time you are aboard the ship, you will be granted a room of your own in the xeno quarters and the same stipend all crew are allotted, as well as a wage fitting for a member of my retinue. Like the tau on board, or those serving criminal sentences, you will be a second class citizen and required to pay for everything, including the air you breathe. ¡°The one exception to this will be the medical care you receive after this meeting so that I can remove all those nasty traps and tracking devices in your body and heal the wounds you suffered from the dark eldar. A fresh start from me to you as a gesture of good will, regardless of what option you choose. ¡°At no time will you be required to teach eldar stratagems, or explain the workings of your species¡¯ technology, though you may sell such information for additional funds. Neither will you need to perform additional tasks beyond that of teaching, unless you so choose, at which time, additional compensation will be offered. ¡°To summarise, one hundred years of service at a decent wage in exchange for a chance to start your life anew, hale in mind and body. Do you accept these terms, Ylien Keltadh of the Alaitoc eldar?¡± Chapter Ninety-Five ¡°There is something different about you, Magos,¡± says Ylien. ¡°You are not an easy man to read. Old, at least, I can tell that much. That, and hate. Not the ignorant disgust of thoughtless bigotry you humans wallow in, but something personal. It makes your offer surprising.¡± He spreads his arms in a wide gesture, ¡°You offer, not equality, never equality,¡± he giggles, the laughter more like wind chimes than a human voice, ¡°but a chance and choice to your most hated foe. A boon of healing too; an act of kindness from one slave to another, perhaps?¡± Ylien sighs and hunches back in on himself, ¡°Death or service. The Path of the Imperial, yes? A dao of your own. That you compare death or service to the Path of the Exile, is telling. I wonder how alike we truly are, for isn¡¯t that which we hate the most our daily reflection?¡± A hint of despair creeps into his voice. ¡°Hating what we see in ourselves, what we have become through folly and wrong turns, our fate twisted by others against our will. To see that face staring at us, talking at us from the face of a xeno. So familiar and alien, all at once, and thus we hate it for the discomfort it brings.¡± I laugh, ¡°Not in the slightest, Ylien. At least for me.¡± ¡°Truly? How low I have fallen, unable to divine the thoughts of the mon-keigh.¡± ¡°Your answer, Ylien. Death or service.¡± ¡°Service. I did not survive my vile cousins to choose death at the hands of another, for, as you were swift to point out, even in death my torment would not end.¡± I mock him with an exaggerated bow, ¡°Your new path awaits, you need only take the first step.¡± Ylien scowls, ¡°Where do you lead, Magos.¡± ¡°The medicae deck.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± After dealing with the eldar and implanting a few discrete safeguards, I spend some time in the melodium, a small room filled with moving brass panels, gilded pipes, horns, and hundreds of other musical instruments, all plucked and played by skeletal hands and false lungs. It is a bizarre mix of recorded sounds, played live, and gently transmitted through the void ship, or captured within its wheezing walls for a small audience. If all it did was recreate every known instrument, I would, instead, enjoy the concerts and shows crew put on in their spare time, or the choral performances of the Imperial Cult. Mechanicus music can be good, but you''re as likely to get someone screeching in techna-lingua as you are carefully selected industrial sounds turned into a soothing, cacophonous harmony. Much like nature, all things bright and beautiful in the Imperium hold a sinister purpose, for the melodium can, with subliminal infra-harmonics, permanently boost the loyalty and motivation of all who hear it, or carefully tease open the tightest of purses in a difficult negotiation. It doesn¡¯t even have to be playing music to do this, a normal ear just won¡¯t pick up on the sounds it broadcasts. I have to be careful with the melodium though as all my personnel are highly educated and, as they increase the quantity and quality of their implants, may notice the strange frequencies hidden within the vox broadcasts throughout the vessel, or notice I have installed unusually complex vox hardware. I didn¡¯t build it to brainwash my crew though. I don¡¯t need to because I don¡¯t treat them like shit. Instead, I have three experiments I wish to run. I am hoping I can use the music to transfer the tau prisoners¡¯ brainwashing from their ethereal leadership to mine. The tau, like my own personnel with their subservient genetic propensity, are vulnerable to such manipulations. Unlike my Marwolv genetic stock crew, the tau are not in a position to complain about it if they find out. I don¡¯t mind using its morale boosting properties for all my crew though. The second experiment I wish to run is to see if the mental conditioning used on space marines, commissars, and other imperial roles that require hyper-robust psychies can be done via the melodium, rather than the more direct and brute force hypnosis devices and drug regimens that are usually used. While these standard methods are fast and effective they forcefully set the subject¡¯s brain in specific patterns that cannot be changed. This usually results in somewhat static thinking and inflexible commanders. It isn¡¯t really feasible to condition everyone in such a manner either, even with my wealth, nor do I have the special mindwiping drug they use to remove any personal attachments a commissar might form before they begin training. I¡¯ve used standard imperial conditioning for my twist catchers, who prowl the ship for warp corruption among the crew and machinery, or unwanted, demonic boarders hidden in the shadows. It helps them resist the fear of such creatures and hardens their minds against hostile manipulations. However, I really don¡¯t want to use it on my officers unless I absolutely have to. Ideally, I¡¯d like to use music to encourage the natural formation of resilient psychies over months or years, making my whole crew resistant to hostile mental manipulation, fear, and trauma. Last of all, I want to find music that can weaken and repel demonic influence. I¡¯ve no idea if it exists, but I think if I set Machine and Imperial Cult rituals to music and spread the belief that specific music will keep a person safe, then combine that with the hypnotic capabilities of the melodium to boost the confidence of the crew, it will become a self-fulfilling statement. In theory, this should build up the power of faith required to create anti-demonic music, even if none exists before it. Besides, if the dumbass chaos noise marines can manage the opposite effect, invoking fear and bursting eyeballs, I don¡¯t see why I can¡¯t manage a similar, more subtle and positive effect. I won¡¯t be summoning demons in double blind studies to confirm the effects though, so creating and testing music as an anti-demon weapon will be challenging and I will likely need to acquire data from other, less scrupulous studies and deploy specialised vox broadcasters when tackling demonic foes. As the music washes over me and my anger at the eldar dissipates, I finally have the space to think about the battle that my water navy took part in and start going over the official reports that are starting to trickle in. Within, I find a strange discrepancy. My kill count does not match the number of reported dead or the estimated size of the eldar raiding party. Where did the extra thousand kills come from and why is there another jewel on the skull¡¯s crown? Do I not have to slay the leaders personally to benefit? What is the main difference between an eldar, ork, tau, or human that might account for this discrepancy? Well, the crown jewel must have come from the dark eldar archon, and clearly ¡®by my hand¡¯ means by anyone within my command and at my orders. It works that way for normal kills, so it should be less of a surprise than it is. There must be specific criteria to count as a crown kill though as I didn¡¯t get one for bombing the ork army, or taking out their hovering fortress. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. The differences between eldar, ork, tau and human are myriad, but eldar have one specific trait that separates them from all the other dominant species that I know, and that is the strength of their souls, though astral body might be a better description, as I still get kills for demons. That suggests my kill count is something else entirely. I laugh; apparently I¡¯ve been playing Dark Souls, Sci-Fi edition for decades without realising it. How ridiculous. ¡°Am I right, E-SIM? Is that enough reasoning with evidence for you to offer more in-depth information?¡± ++Yes, Aldrich. You are correct. I will confirm further extrapolations.++ I watch metallic hands pluck at strings with carefully calculated imprecision, giving the music the natural variance of a live performance while I work through my thoughts. As enemy fatalities were always higher than my kill count so far, I had assumed it was to do with distance and my indirect influence. There must be more to it though, the discrepancy in kills suggesting it¡¯s not just about distance and how direct a hand I had in a person¡¯s death, though that clearly plays a role as I always get one for one if I do it myself. Comparing battle records to my kill counts implies that second hand ork kills are almost worthless, and tau are not much better either. This tracks with what I know about orks, as souls likely mimic the body and mind, or perhaps the other way around. Orks are empty of thought and tau are psychically dull and one dimensional in their beliefs. Human souls are, I think, the average by which my ¡®kill count¡¯ is measured. Eldar souls are old, rich and powerful, making them more valuable, I expect. Crowns? Well, crowns are more than just about leadership, or I would have probably received another for the ork army. If not leadership, then influence is the next probable factor. The quantity and quality of people an individual has had a hand in shaping. ¡°Am I still on track?¡± ++Yes.++ Like standard kills, there must be a balance between how great a hand I had in their death and the extent of their influence, or I would have received one for the tau ethereal or whoever led the ork army. I earned a crown for the ork boss because I personally slew him. It is also possible I missed out on the ethereal crown kill as the eldar controlling the razor wings may have snatched his soul without me realising it. The archon gave one despite my indirect influence on his death because the archon himself was likely ancient and highly influential himself. It is also possible him being an eldar, or his own soul fat with others, increased its worth as well. That leaves the question of why. There must be something about collecting souls that is required for my implants. It is not the arbitrary limit I thought it was. The way kills charge my implants is clearly just a side benefit too, as the warp tap manages to power them just fine. All my implants are specialist arcanotech, even the black skeleton has a different composition to the standard imperial version, so it must have something to do with that. They¡¯re not crafted with souls, otherwise that would be in the narrow STCs E-SIM has me learn. What is it that I am missing? What is the missing ingredient? ++You¡¯re almost there, Aldrich.++ I pace around the melodium, ¡°Oh, gods. It¡¯s me, isn¡¯t it? There are two parts to every implant. The implant and the user.¡± ++Well done.++ ¡°The kill count limits the number of implants over time, so they must have a hidden cost, or all arcanotech does in general. No one has noticed because most don¡¯t use more than one or two devices and sometimes it kills or wears down the user anyway. That is usually considered bad compatibility, or a faulty device. It probably is in some cases, but there must be more to it. My implants get more expensive with each one I buy as well, so whatever you''re using them for, E-SIM, must require more resources to improve the more enhanced it is.¡± ++I can see the idea flittering on the edge of your mind, Aldrich. You know what it is. You¡¯ve touched on the idea before.++ I rest my head against the wall and mutter, ¡°It¡¯s souls. It¡¯s always souls. Enlightened Self Interest Module,¡± I snort, ¡°you use souls to fertilise my own. What am I, some kind of space cultivator?¡± I groan, ¡°No, that would be far to tame. You made me a soulphage.¡± ++No Aldrich, not even I can make such changes, only give you the tools to make use of and enhance your own talents. Not anyone can use an E-SIM, otherwise there would have been no need to preserve your body for millenia. You share a lot in common with a titan princeps and are equally as rare. Like a princeps, it is a mutation in your soul, or astral body. I doubt even an adaptive, fully sentient STC could replicate it. There were only tens of thousands of you on that station after all, not billions. Though I am certain the researchers tried.++ ¡°Who¡¯d have thought my batty old mum was right.¡± Thunderous mechanisms clunk and grind within my head. Was that laughter, from a machine-spirit? ++Oh yes, Aldrich. You are terribly special.++ ¡°Wonderful.¡± I listen to the music for another thirty minutes. ¡°Any other world shattering revelations you care to drop on me today?¡± ++For all that I am always in your thoughts, we do not speak often. It is important to make it count.++ ¡°I¡¯m fairly numb to big shocks these days. You¡¯re stalling, E-SIM, trying to soften the blow so I will agree. What is it? ++You already know.++ ¡°Ergh.¡± ++The time for doubt and hesitation is over, Aldrich. You finished your navigator studies four months ago. You¡¯ve even built out the facilities for treating Quaani already.++ ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll head to Quaani¡¯s chapel and then you can start the process.¡± I leave the melodium and shuffle through Distant Sun feeling like a condemned man. I¡¯ve done a lot of dumb shit since I woke up in the forty-second millennium. I wrestled a screamer bare handed on my first day, then later I traded with a gretchin, duelled a demon and a warboss and, arguably the most stupid and recent of them all, I have made a deal with an eldar warlock. Ylien is going to screw me over in some way, I just know it. Hopefully his inevitable and timely betrayal will be worth the cost of the knowledge he imparts. My next foolish endeavour will have much greater, and eternal, consequences. When I first saw the option, I was relieved that all the psycher options were greyed out. E-SIM eventually rebuilt the data, co-opting the research module and my advanced auspex to do so. Even after they became available, I always promised myself I would never touch them. What need have I of sorcerous might when I can craft the miracles of the mechanicus? None, I thought. Then Quanni got sick, his body consuming itself as it tried to contain the powers his ancestors bred him for without leaving him the knowledge of how to do so. Now I have to choose between the life of my son, adopted though he may be, and putting up with demons nattering constantly in my head and trying to manipulate me. I also have my crew to think of. Half a million men and women, not including servitors, all following my lead and expecting me to do right by them. Promises to myself were fine when it was just me trying to survive, but keeping them when it puts at risk those who place their trust in me just isn¡¯t who I am. I do not undergo this transformation for altruism or logic, but the greatest sin of all. Pride. Chapter Ninety-Six I approach the altar in the navigator chapel. It has been cleared of religious icons and, stacked in metal crates around it, are silver balls of precious metals and alloys as well as vats of protein slurry and other essential organics. The servitors have done a good job of stacking everything neatly and within the range of my warp and weft module. For once, I am not in power armour, but my uniform. I¡¯ve also brought some spare cloth, as I am not quite sure what I will look like after this, and may have to fashion something new. Amused at my blasphemous actions, I strip, and lie naked on the altar, then grimace: I feel like a sacrifice and it is not pleasant. Ever since I received the hyperweave musculature upgrade, I lost the roided eighties Street Fighter look and was granted a slimmer build of greater strength. No longer do my muscles have muscles. Instead, I look more like a bulky gym rat. It isn¡¯t quite as obscene, but I am not a fan of the heavily raised veins. I admit being strong and fit without effort is incredibly useful in everyday life and gives me confidence. I should probably show off a little more often, as looking strong and healthy is important for a leader. I¡¯ve never forgotten I was once a fat bastard though and there¡¯s something about that mentality that makes me cringe at the thought of showing off my body, as if I am a fake poser to be ridiculed, rather than a man of health and mettle. An unusual body confidence issue for a Tech-Priest! Usually we worry that we¡¯re not enough iron, rather than how we look after pumping it. My height has been two metres ever since the black skeleton upgrade, and I expect to gain more with navigator conversion. My hair remains its usual curly red self, though now it is actually a part of a coolant system, rather than natural hair. The rest of my body is hairless as my voidskin is already highly insulative and tough. Minimal hair makes getting in and out of hyperweave undersuits much easier too. Voidskin is quite capable of preventing a knife stab from a strong man and the hyperweave laced muscles beneath can mitigate the rounds from a stubber or lasgun. Armour piercing phosphor rounds or a longlas would reach my armoured organs though. I have a couple of armoured, circular ports where I can attach mechadendrites on my shoulder blades, held in place by subdermal bracing called a cyber-mantle. This is an actual mechanicus implant, and not one of E-SIMs. My electoo wards, a lattice of psychoconductive filaments shaped into hexagrammic wards, are hidden within my voidskin. The words they form depict anti-demonic prayers. Since I first installed them, after desperately scrabbling through the dead and harvesting their knowledge, my research suggests these warding electoos I cobbled together bear similarities to the Grey Knights aegis armour and aegis suits. The Grey Knights likely use different prayers, as mine are to the Machine God, not his prophet, the Omnissiah and Emperor of Mankind. Nor, with the limited space and lower energy threshold, are my wards likely anywhere near as effective as what the Grey Knights have as I am not a psyker just yet. I am still quite certain that they will try and shoot me if they find out I put similar wards to theirs in servitors though, let alone a bunch of well trained rogue psykers, the Grey Knights favoured prey. Then, because it¡¯s a good idea, they¡¯d try to steal the technology from my corpse afterwards. Really, I can¡¯t become a Rogue Trader soon enough. I really need the political shielding it brings. I make a final scan around me, checking I have everything I need and that the warp infused materials contain sufficient power. ¡°Start the process please, E-SIM.¡± ++Navigator conversion underway.++ I pass out. When I come to, there is a cloudless blue sky above me and a massive chalk mountain range lies before me. I am standing on a cobbled path, built with human skulls. On either side of the path are graves, as far as I can see, tended to by translucent ghosts, clad in shrouds of golden flames. I have nothing but the Emperor¡¯s finest raiments to ward my pride against the strange landscape and its denizens. The graves are not single tombstones, but mausoleums, constructed from the seemingly limitless chalk. Each mausoleum is unique, with golden plaques, statues and heraldry. Many are done in the gothic style, but I also spot roman, egyptian, and dozens of other styles. Having nothing better to do, I walk along the path to the base of the mountain then take the path to the top. The vegetation is odd, entirely sculpted from what looks like brass, yet when I touch the grass it is soft, with a refreshing, natural scent. As I ascend, I start to get out of breath and begin to sweat. My exhaustion does not match the exercise compared to my fitness and there is a strange weight pressing on my shoulders, as if with every step I take, gravity increases by a minute amount. I am uncertain why I labour to the top, only certain that it is something I must do. The last two hundred metres I am forced to crawl, my toughened hands getting cut up upon the nameless skulls. My blood squirms across the path and flows into the gutter, joining the thick vermillion that bubbles up from the mountain and descends to silent plains in small streams, then trickles between the graves. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Between one blink and the next a massive auramite door appears. Prominent reliefs flicker across its surface, endless scenes of human triumph and great sorrows throughout the many ages of mankind. Placing my hand upon the door, I feel a wave of power revitalise me. I stand, refreshed, my wounds healed and my uniform placed upon me. With great effort I push open the door just enough to slip through and my surroundings shift. No longer am I at the top of a mountain, but in the greatest of halls. Beams of natural light shine between great pillars, yet whenever I seek for the source of light in this windowless hall the sunbeams disappear. From the pillars hang tapestries. Regimental banners, I believe. I do not recognise them, nor does there seem to be an edge to this great room. The door I entered by disappears the moment it is out of sight and, no matter how far or long I wander, I do not see a repeated banner or find an obvious direction to walk in. Winged humans in golden armour begin to flicker in and out of my vision, never staying long enough for me to be certain of what I have seen. I try to follow them and notice that my surroundings are taking on a golden hue from the gentle light permeating the endless hall. I feel heat upon my skin and, with careful thought, use my face to track closer to the light and warmth. Were I not positive this was the right direction I would turn back, for it swiftly becomes uncomfortably warm, then dangerous. My skin blisters in the heat as I endure terrible sunburn. It is not as painful as it should be, though it is a trial nonetheless. At last I reach my destination, a golden throne without equal upon a dais of great size, both seemingly stretching beyond my sight, yet I am able to see their entirety without trouble. Upon the throne lies an infant, skyclad and forged from gold. He sleeps upon a purple, velvet cushion. As I look upon him, the infant opens a single eye and stares at me for the briefest of moments. A shiver passes through me and his eye closes. Squinting through the bright light I catch a glimpse of a faint, silver cord between us. He smirks, I think, and then I wake. I sit up and swing my legs off the altar, then stand. The crates and vats around me are empty. Immediately I notice I am taller and my implants inform me I am now two point five metres tall. My fingers are longer and thinner, with an additional joint. My toes and proportions remain the same as before. Carefully, I probe my forehead. I can feel a small lump in the centre, but there is no break in the skin, nor do I detect new muscles I can control. I guess my eye still needs to grow. Stretching and testing my limbs, I take slow, deliberate steps around the chapel, adjusting to my new size. I feel incredibly energetic, and significantly stronger and tougher, but there is something false about it that leaves me uneasy. After several circuits of the chapel and much thought, I finally recall the sensation. I feel like I¡¯ve drunk too much tea after a night at the pub in a poorly thought attempt to sober up. Oh, I haven¡¯t felt this in forty years! Wow this is weird. I go through my messages. My arranged absence is going as planned and nothing has happened that my officers cannot deal with. My many minds spin into action and I rush through the administrative backlog while I converse with E-SIM. ¡°Was the conversion a success?¡± ++Yes. Though I will not know until your eye develops fully.++ ¡°How do I use my powers?¡± ++Any navigator powers will have to wait. Psyker powers must be learned like anyone else and, without proper preparation and knowledge, leave you vulnerable to predation. As for curing Quaani, that is a navigator power, though it would be wise to have some measure of skill in basic psyker powers and protections so that you have the requisite control required to use your eye correctly.++ ¡°At least I can¡¯t hear any whispers.¡± ++Your personal gellar field will protect you from most intrusive thoughts, as do your electoos. They also hobble your powers while activated.++ ¡°I don¡¯t have a problem with that. If I want to hurl fire or lightning, I have guns that can do it for me. I will learn, because having a dangerous tool and not preparing everything I can to mitigate major risks is foolish. I may not always have the tools and protections I need to hand either. There is nothing pushing me to use this power if I don¡¯t want to, though I admit to a childish glee at the thought of learning magic.¡± ++That and claiming you were blessed by the Emperor. It should give the eldar warlock a good scare.++ ¡°Yes, the vision I had was rather trippy. Creepy, scary, and tough too. I believe I witnessed the Emperor¡¯s realm in the warp. He looked rather different to how he does in paintings and statues.¡± ++There is an old terran phrase that might appeal: ¡®Never meet your heroes.¡¯++ ¡°Good job he¡¯s not my hero then. Never been a fan of meeting the boss though, no matter the Age. It always means there¡¯s a berg on the horizon and I won¡¯t like what¡¯s in it.¡± I rub my temples. ¡°I feel like I¡¯m forgetting something important too. I saw more than just the Emperor, but I cannot remember what.¡± ++Could you do anything about what you saw, should you remember?++ ¡°I do not remember all I saw, so how would I know? You know that was a dumb question. Were you attempting to comfort me?¡± ++Did it work?++ ¡°No. One more worry to add to my bones will make little difference though. I reserve the right to swear like a sailor when my porous memory is restored.¡± ++You are a sailor, Aldrich.++ ¡°Ah. Good point.¡± I program a litany of commands into my implants and nantites pour from my skin, flowing over my uniform and the spare cloth I brought. Within ten minutes I have a new set to fit my taller frame. I will have to build a new set of power armour too, though that will be the work of months, and likely years. The highly compressed materials take a long time to form properly. Power armour plating cannot be cut from a block or built up layer by layer, but poured and forged at great pressure. They are custom made for each wearer too, which is why space marines are almost all the same size, making their armour benefit from replaceable parts as well as mix and match from different patterns. I will not be so lucky. This is why mechanicus usually use scale mail for their armour plates, as it allows for an adjustable fit over a large range of body sizes and shapes, as well as easy replacement parts, like space marine armour. The downside is that it is not as strong as the hefty, uniform plates used for space marine armour. However, this time I want armour closer to humanity¡¯s finest. There will be no adding spare scales and reweaving mechanical muscles to form a new armour from the old. I am going to stand out with my height and need all the protection I can forge. Chapter Ninety-Seven It has been two weeks since my transformation. Carefully monitoring my third eye during this time suggests it will take at least three years to grow and then I will need to master it well enough to operate on Quaani. Ylien and Aileen, my two new tutors in the psychic arts, have no idea how long it will take to learn to use my eye as neither of them have any knowledge of it. E-SIM, however, can aid in learning the skills I have purchased and will be able to help me with my eye when it matures. The sheer incredulity on Ylien¡¯s face when I became a navigator, and he realised I may have tricked him into teaching me personally was epic. Pulling the wool over the eyes of an eldar was fantastic. I¡¯m still grinning like a loon every few hours when I think about it. Ylien is teaching me how to safely use my powers and Aileen is teaching me his biomancy. For now, everything is academic studies, meditation and other mental exercises. This will likely continue for some months before either deems me fit to actually channel the warp. I am still not used to the extra height and energy the transformation has brought me and have changed the location of my audacious ambles to the mountains and hills of Marwolv. Feeling the wind and rain on my face and listening to the streams tumble into the dells helps ground me. If I¡¯d undergone the process in the depths of space, I think I would have gone quite mad. Even cranking up the realism of noosphere sims can¡¯t cure my restlessness, though it does help. I spend the hours between my tutelage preparing Marwolv for my long absence. For that, I must assemble a team to oversee my domain. I have chosen a team of nine individuals. Today, I am at the construction site of Marwolv¡¯s first hive spire, waiting for the new team to arrive for our first meeting. We are starting with the agri-hive and, once it is complete, we will build the first heavy manufacturing spire, and the research and higher studies spire, simultaneously. Standing on a hill over the construction site I watch dozens of mechanical wyrms, each two hundred and fifty metres in length and ten metres wide, as they chomp through the earth. These are the giant scavenger wyrms from my STC and they are currently configured to sort and compact powdered minerals into dense bricks and store liquids and gases in their internal bladders. Swarms of smaller wyrms, each eight metres long and three metres wide, swarm around the larger worms taking away the compressed bricks, or latching onto the scavenger wyrms to drain them of their fluid resources, and transport everything to one of two macro-crawlers. Once the crawlers are loaded, they travel to a twenty five kilometre square industrial complex and space port, fifteen kilometres away from the centre of the building site. There, the excavated materials are processed and turned into the parts required for the spire, or stored for later use. Additional resources, mostly adamantium, cogitators, and plasteel, are shipped in by class three D-POTs from orbit. Then, the macro-crawlers return with the manufactured parts to the building site. Three more crawlers are constantly on site, one acts as central administration, storage, and light manufacturing for tools and fixings, while the other two are accommodation and hospitality for the workers. Each macro-crawler is as long as an early M3 container ship, and almost twice as wide and as tall as they would be without cargo stacked on the deck. Watching all the machines, workers, and tens of thousands of servitors bustle about the five hundred and seventy-six square kilometre site is rather overwhelming and I can¡¯t help but wonder if I am too ambitious, then I remember the ridiculous galaxy I am in and toss my concerns out the air-lock. Seeing dozens of adepts stomp around in cargo loaders makes me smile too. They are rather fun to use. One of these spires will be built on each continent and act as the central core of a hive city, each spire will be, from sea level, one hundred and ninety-two kilometres tall and twenty four kilometres wide, a slenderness ratio of one to eight; pretty chunky as skyscrapers go. They will be tall enough to act as ports for void ships or act as the anchor points for an orbital manufacturing ring, should we ever need one. Later spires will likely be much shorter. I could have chosen a slimmer design, but I am treating each spire as if it were a self-sufficient battleship or void station, then quadrupling the armour, doubling the shields, and giving it enough PDF lasers and internal defences to take out a fleet or army. I really want to try and build hive cities that don¡¯t obliterate the biosphere. As for how I¡¯ll be powering all of that without beggaring myself, I¡¯ll be relying on Marwolv¡¯s highly active, molten core that is kept extra hot by the constant squeezing it undergoes from the system¡¯s planetary bodies. The plans also contain spaces for dozens of secondary fusion reactors, and a similar number of high temperature tertiary fission reactors as well. The fission reactors are an efficient way of splitting water into fuel and air if, for some reason, the heat in the mantle can¡¯t be accessed for a while and I need a back up. They generate decent power and medical atomics too. As such, the most interesting part of the spire isn¡¯t above ground or the tip thrusting up through the thermosphere, but what will be buried beneath them. Right now, the wyrms are still levelling out the site. Once that is complete, the foundations will be cast with specialised ferrocrete into grand floats which will stop the tower from sinking into the mantle. The foundations will then be slowly lowered as the earth is excavated and the tower will be forty kilometres tall, or deep, before it even reaches above sea level, let alone above the ground level of the site. The really nifty part about the whole thing though are the great spheres that will be hung from the ferrocrete foundation floats. These spheres will be filled with tanks of water, or mineral salts, to absorb the heat of the mantle and generate heat for power, homes, and industrial processes while also acting as a way of adjusting the buoyancy of the spire. Once it¡¯s built, the whole tower will bob up and down, possibly as much as two hundred metres, as its weight is carefully managed. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. We won¡¯t actually know the exact calculations until it is built as simulations and partial data from other hives aren¡¯t enough to know exactly how everything will work out with our circumstances; they are only sufficient to let us safely design and construct the spire. Everything is calculated to withstand worst case scenarios with an additional fifteen percent to account for unforeseen circumstances. This movement will make creating transport links between any possible adjacent spires a fascinating engineering challenge, one that I haven¡¯t quite got my head around yet. Fortunately, this one spire can hold Marwolv¡¯s entire thirty million people multiple times over and it will be centuries before any of the planned three spires will require connected twins. I have plenty of time to visit other hive cities and see how they manage it, or have my own teams work through the problem. While each spire is an icositetragon, or a twenty-four sided polygon, rather than being a perfect rectangle, I can still use those less accurate numbers to estimate the ludicrous scale of a single spire. If each main floor is one hundred metres tall, I will have approximately two thousand, three hundred and forty floors above and below ground. Each floor could hold thirty million people at a density of nineteen point two metres squared per person, for a total of seventy billion, two hundred million people per spire. It won¡¯t be anything like that, as I need space to manufacture and grow the resources all these people require. Even if I assign a more reasonable one thousand square metres per person, which is over six point six times more space per person, including servitors, on Distant Sun, I could still house one billion, three hundred forty-seven million, eight hundred forty thousand people, before splitting each major floor into its sub floors. Six spires would hold the entire population of Earth during my first life at one thousand square metres per person. I find the whole project quite ridiculous. As it is, the planned construction time for this one spire is two hundred to two hundred and fifteen years and I¡¯ve done more than enough construction to know that estimates are always way off, no matter how hard one tries, especially the first time you try and build something. Even then, ground conditions vary massively between sites, so each spire will require special considerations. The new governor, Callen Gunn, and Commander MacCrane are the first to arrive at the meeting, flying in on a class one D-POT from Dimpsy Fortress. I get some odd looks at my new size, but neither are brave enough to ask questions. We exchange greetings and small talk and, over the next fifteen minutes, more D-POTs drop off the rest of the group. Erin Oglivie, Distant Sun¡¯s chief bosun, Chaplain Broin¡¯s protege, Eochaid ¨® Buadhaigh, and Aileen Nan Sop all arrive together. They are followed a minute later by a newly appointed commodore, Domelch de B¨²rca, the administrator for Goibhniu Yards Luan Moggach, Uurad Selkirk, a Machine Cult priest, and logistics specialist, Ronnat Caird. ¡°Hello everyone, thank you for coming.¡± ¡°No worries, Boss,¡± says Erin. ¡°Never been one to turn down a promotion.¡± Erin has picked up a few scars since I last saw him. He dips his head and scratches the back of his close cut black hair, an awkward grin on his face. I smile and pat Erin¡¯s arm, ¡°Looking fierce there, Erin.¡± Erin smirks, ¡°Well, cosmetic alteration is part of my work and it¡¯s important to practise what I preach, Ain¡¯t that right Chaplain ¨® Buadhaigh.¡± Eochaid chuckles, ¡°It is a tenet of the faith.¡± Eochaid is shorter than most Marwolv citizens, at one metre sixty-seven. With my new height I absolutely tower over him, with his face the same height as my belly. His civilian uniform is different to the armoured waistcoat and jacket of my officers. Instead he wears a loose, light green jacket and trousers with gold trim and horizontal cloth ties, with a white shirt beneath. Purser Brigid has clearly been diving through old earth cultures for inspiration as it reminds me of a tai chi outfit. I rather like it and put in an order for one to wear the next time I meet Brigid on the promenade. ¡°Well, I did pick you all for your proactive attitude,¡± I say. ¡°Please introduce yourselves to everyone. We¡¯ll start on my left and go in a clockwise circle.¡± ¡°I am governor Callen Gunn, formally of the Gael Democracy. My role is to oversee all civilian work and social engineering on Marwolv. My primary responsibility is to oversee the construction of the agri-spire. I look forward to working with you all for the,¡± he chuckles, ¡°brief twenty years I will be at my post.¡± Callen is a typical Marwolv citizen, at one metre eighty-two with red hair, and a slim, fit build. He has the same style of outfit as Eochaid, though it is a much darker green with elaborate, silver embroidery. ¡°You never know, Callen,¡± says Aileen, ¡°You might live long enough for a second running.¡± ¡°I do hope so. I am fond of my work.¡± ¡°Well, I am next up. I am Aileen Nan Sop. Most know me as headmaster of the Marwolv Psy-Errants. I am to be Magos Aldrich Issengrund¡¯s representative while he is away. I will also be continuing my role as the headmaster while I train a replacement. My new official designation is Overseer Prime, or Prime Sop when there is a need to keep things brief.¡± Aileen gestures to Erin. ¡°Thanks, Prime Sop. I am Erin Oglivie. I¡¯ve been the chief bosun on Distant Sun for eight years now and I am to take up the role of Marshal for the Adeptus Arbites. I will be responsible for civilian law enforcement on Marwolv and throughout the system. Fair warning, while we will be adopting the same sentencing structure as the Magos¡¯s fleet and its simplified code of laws, imperial justice is brutal with a focus on labour extraction and fear. Try to keep your noses clean, eh?¡± No one laughs. ¡°I suppose that ominous message makes for a good segue,¡± says Eochaid. ¡°I am, or rather was, Chaplain Eochaid ¨® Buadhaigh. It is my job to prevent people from straying into Marshal Oglivie¡¯s merciful shock maul as well as put their hearts and minds back together after a heavy blow. I will be accepting the position of Arch-Deacon of the Adeptus Ministorum and guiding the Imperial Cult to guard Marwolv citizens against the predations of the Great Enemy. One we have come to know and loathe after the tumultuous events of the past few years.¡± Eochaid grins at me, ¡°In my weaker moments, I wonder if the Magos is cursed with interesting times.¡± Everyone chuckles and I struggle to keep the scowl on my face. ¡°Then let us hope you remain a bastion of strength, Eochaid,¡± I say. ¡°As do I, Magos.¡± Chapter Ninety-Eight A young woman clears her throat and the amusement ceases. ¡°I am Commodore Domelch de B¨²rca. A rather empty title for now and, before I can properly take up my role, I am to build the Marwolv monitor fleet and command it. I will be the person to keep our skies clear and our heads safe from all threats that creep from the void. I will be working closely with Prefect Moggach and Logis Caird in my endeavours. ¡± Commodore Dolmelch is a good looking woman with rare black, shoulder length hair and purple eyes. I suspect her ancestors came from either retired or defected ratings of previous vessels that visited Marwolv. She is rather short, at one metre fifty-eight, though I doubt she will remain like that for long as she is a cybernetics specialist and we¡¯ve spent a lot of time discussing expanding the compulsory upgrades among all personnel with some input from Brigid. ¡°Thank you, Commodore Dolmelch. I am Prefect Luan Moggach, administrator of Goibhniu Yards, a Mandeville point void station, shipyard, and navy fortress for the Marwolv system. While these roles are essential, my most important duty will be to construct and secure the astropathic relay on Goibhniu Yards. It is through this marvellous technology and the hard work of Prime Sop¡¯s Psy-Errants and psychic servitors that we will remain in contact with Magos Issengrund.¡± Prefect Luan has two standout features. The first is her straight, blonde, waist length hair. The second is the red sash she wears under her breasts. It tightens up her body line more than the loose outfit normally allows, swapping out the martial style of her light green robes with a sharper, professional look, all without detaching her from the theme of the other civilian uniforms all while slightly disguising her remarkable chest. The cumulative effect gives the impression she should be admired and taken seriously and I can¡¯t help but be impressed by the way she is presenting herself. I expect a lot of her staff will emulate her and by the time I come back there will be some obscure hierarchy based on sash colours, gold stars, or something equally silly. ¡°It is a pleasure to meet you all in person. I am Commander Dougal MacCrane. My current role is to command the Stellar Corps on Marwolv. I am based at Dimpsy Fortress. My role will be expanding to all Stellar Corps forces throughout the whole system. I will be responsible for the heralds within Commodore de B¨²rca monitor fleet and remote bases as well as Goibhniu Yards.¡± The two final individuals glance at each other. One is a man wearing a Mars red, civilian cut uniform and the rightmost individual is a woman in a Distant Sun officers uniform. The woman says, ¡°Mind if we swap and I go next?¡± ¡°Sure, go ahead.¡± ¡°Great! I am Logis Ronnat Caird. I am responsible for logistics within our system. My primary role is to facilitate the transfer of raw and manufactured resources between Goibhniu Yards and Marwolv, as well as the collection of comets and asteroids for processing. Should any civilian companies make it to space, I¡¯ll also be responsible for their movements within the system and issuing their licences, like mining rights, for example. I¡¯ll be based at Goibhniu Yards most of the time.¡± There is a short pause and we all look to the final individual. ¡°I am Rune Priest Uurad Selkirk. I will be leading the Machine Cult in Magos Issengrund¡¯s absence. It is my duty and pleasure to secure, through appropriate rituals, all machines and their spirits against mundane and arcane degradation as well as lead services on behalf of the Omnissiah for the glory of the Machine God. It is similar work to my counterpart, Arch-Deacon Buadhaigh, only my concern is the spirit of the tools we use, rather than the souls of those who use them. My main roles will be teaching and administration, ensuring everyone has access to the facilities, knowledge, and materials they require to perform the necessary rituals that keep the Great Enemy at bay.¡± ¡°Thank you everyone, for your introductions,¡± I say. ¡°I doubt you will all meet face to face that often, but I wanted to make sure you all knew each other by sight. Long distance vox and noosphere communications are somewhat impersonal and it is easy to dismiss letters when you do not have a face or personality to match them to. I don¡¯t want that to happen for my most trusted and essential personnel and, when I am gone, I do hope you continue to meet personally once a year. ¡°Now, while you all know why we are meeting, I am sure you are still wondering about why I chose a building site. It is noisy, there are no seats or refreshments, and it isn¡¯t secure enough to have a secure discussion. I will not be able to direct you easily while I am away; a different approach is required. We are here at the agri-spire site so you can see, smell, and hear the scale that the Imperium works at and to witness the philosophy at work that I use in all my projects from simple work shift schedules to the mightiest of fortresses. ¡°People will live, work, and die within this spire. Some may never set foot upon the soil of their homeworld, plugged into grand machines, their whole lives an exercise to toil, dedication, and duty. Others will dance upon the luminescent grass and know nothing but the scent of spring grass and evening rain. Whatever path our citizens choose, I wish them to be content and productive. ¡°Our people must have meaningful labour and also, to use an ancient metaphor: bread and circuses. Food and entertainment. Consider this a primary guiding principle. Your jobs are not to oppress the people and extract every drop of blood and bone from tired flesh, but to educate, protect and encourage all who strive for a better themselves within the light of the Emperor and the scope of our laws. ¡°For those who fall behind or make mistakes, give them the help they need, give them a second chance. Do not give a third. Discipline is vital. As for those who shun our kindness, softness is not required. To borrow a favourite quote of mine. Your job is to walk softly and carry a big stick. This is your second guiding principle.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Erin laughs, ¡°I think I¡¯ll put that on the entrance to the fortress precinct, Magos.¡± ¡°No doubt that will lead to a perversion of the original spirit of the saying, but go ahead, Erin. That would be amusing. Are there any questions so far about how I wish everyone to approach their work?¡± Everyone shakes their heads. ¡°No, Magos,¡± says Callen. ¡°You were quite clear.¡± ¡°Excellent. Now you know how I wish for you to conduct yourselves, the third principle I wish you to adopt is how you go about projects, and the agri-spire is a perfect example. It has high defences, it will be self-sustaining and have a positive output when given an input. It will not, or rather, had better not, affect the biosphere: the spire is self-contained. The spire also follows the STC colony redundancy principles in its design as well as my personal addition of warp entity protection. ¡°I believe in doing something once, doing it right, and preparing in advance for all contingencies. Do not scrimp and save on costs to save one budget, just to wreck all the following ones with debilitating maintenance costs. I do not mind if projects take time to do right. That is no excuse to dally or chase that final one percent of performance for double the price. Be smart about it. ¡°If you are unsure about what, discuss options with your peers, run simulations, and delegate to experts. The whole system is highly interconnected so you all need to have a good idea of what each metaphorical mechadendrite is doing. It will be Aileen¡¯s job to coordinate between the nine of you, but don¡¯t wait for him to ask, volunteer information to each other and only each other. Information security is essential. ¡°It may be peaceful now, but there is no peace among the stars. We are at war. We are always at war and everything you do should keep that in mind. Every home, every mind, every soul must be a fortress. Fuck this up at your peril. Hold endless random inspections and audits with independent groups to keep projects on time, on budget, and properly executed. ¡°The enemy will do far worse than I if you mess up badly before I get back. To summarise: plan, prepare, communicate. Questions?¡± Logis Ronnat Caird raises a mechadendrite. ¡°Yes, Ronnat?¡± ¡°How do you want us to arbitrate disputes between us or replace members of this small council?¡± ¡°Like the governor position on Marwolv, the term length is twenty years. Unlike the governor and his peers, who work on rotation from the elected minister of Marwolv¡¯s primary polities, and later the spires, you are all working directly for me and can choose how many terms you wish to labour. I expect you to train your replacements, though they may not be related to you. This is not a hereditary position. ¡°Create a pool of replacements who have worked directly with at least three members of the small council. When a member is ready to retire, they may nominate a replacement from this pool. It will require a majority vote. Abstaining is not permitted. ¡°Keep at least thirty-six people in the replacement pool at all times. Each of you will be able to fill four positions, who, once they are in the pool, will stop working for the person who placed them there and be assigned to assist a different member of the council. I will maintain veto rights, though if you mess up badly enough that I have to use them, I will replace all of you, including the replacement pool, regardless of who is at fault. ¡°With regards to disputes, use a majority vote to decide. I will arbitrate if required, though it will be better if you can do so yourself as I will have a limited understanding of what is going on. Any further queries?¡± Callen raises his hand. ¡°Yes, Governor?¡± I say. ¡°How will we be handling taxes and private enterprise?¡± ¡°I will maintain my monopoly on energy and within the spires that will also include other utilities like water and air. Everyone will receive the same universal stipend, regardless of status, the same as aboard Distant Sun and my other vessels. They will also receive an allotment of these basic resources equal to the value of the stipend, so long as they have not been demoted to a class two citizen while they are completing a criminal sentence. Again, this is the same as the fleet. Medical care and education will be paid for by me, though there will be an opportunity for private enterprise to sell me the required resources. Free medical care will not include augmentation unless there is a medical reason to do so.¡± ¡°Any use of resources, including living space, above that allotment will have to be paid for, so those who wish to run a private enterprise must acquire their energy, water, and air from me. This will function as tax which will be used to maintain services, security, and continue my investments in Marwolv. ¡°To facilitate this monopoly, I will also maintain ownership of all fuel collection vessels, advanced cogitators, and material synthesis technology. All civilian technologies may be licenced at low cost, which will become a second source of income. Manufacture of military hardware will not be outsourced. ¡°Wildlife is quite dangerous on Marwolv so private citizens may purchase moderate arms with the correct licence, another source of income for the state. Private weapons will always be genelocked and will have to be returned to my armouries after the death of the licensee. Protective equipment will not be so strictly managed. ¡°The final source of wealth will be leases. Those who wish for accommodation beyond the minimum provided by the state may lease larger spaces on the spire. Leases will come in increments of twenty years for a maximum of one hundred years. It will provide some stability to counter the ephemeral nature of our energy based currency.¡± Callen frowns, ¡°That is quite restrictive, Magos. It is the creation of wealth and the chance to pass one¡¯s labours to their descendants that encourages people to work hard. With those measures you will have total control over all costs and that will stifle growth.¡± ¡°You are correct, Callen,¡± I nod. ¡°The reason behind it is security. Millions of people can die within hours in a controlled biosphere like the agri-spire if there is a catastrophic failure of services. I do not need to create energy or water for profit and, as such, can afford to spend the required bytes on security and redundancy where a private enterprise will cut anything for profit and only meet regulatory minimums. ¡°Private enterprise requires minimal regulation to thrive and that is not acceptable for the industries I will maintain my control over. Unless you wish to perish, choking on your own hot air, you will have to find a way to sell this monopoly to the citizens. It is literally your job to do so.¡± ¡°Thank you for the explanation, Magos,¡± Callen winces. ¡°That¡¯s what this meeting is for.¡± ¡°Magos,¡± says Domelch, ¡°I would like to speak a little of the compulsory benefits you and I have devised for members of the small council.¡± ¡°That sounds like a fine idea, Domelch. I have rather talked all your ears off. Go ahead please.¡± Chapter Ninety-Nine Commodore Domelch de B¨²rca pulls a spherical holo-projector from her belt and tosses it into the centre of our circle. Air ripples around it with an odd afterimage as the anti-gravity effect activates and the device stabilises and hovers between us all Data passes between Dolmelch and the holo-projector. It chatters in lingua-technis then begins to display a female and a male skeleton. ¡°Magos Issengrund and I have gone to considerable lengths putting together a subtle survival package for everyone on the small council,¡± says Dolmelch. ¡°The list is extensive and while they are all standard imperial implants, they will be handcrafted by Magos Issengrund and have been highly modified to ensure quality and discretion. We will go through the list now and you can ask your questions as we go. ¡°There are two phases to these augments. The first will boost your survivability. The second will improve your mind. These overseer roles require far more data processing at high speed than a normal person is capable of. ¡°The first upgrade is a black skeleton.¡± The skeleton on the holoprojector turns a glossy black. Dolmelch extends a mechadendrite and starts pointing at the joints. ¡°Aside from the increased robustness, a black skeleton does away with the evolution driven joints with more mechanically sound designs. It makes you less prone to injury and can increase your strength. This one has been modified further to armour the skull, throat, spine, and chest.¡± Dolmelch grins, ¡°It also comes with a height increase to two metres so that your body can house all the other implants I will be explaining today. You will lose about five percent flexibility and it will alter how you breathe. This will be uncomfortable to begin with. ¡°The skeleton has been altered to include the machinery required to produce sacred blood in the thigh bones, and a conversion field in the sternum. If you don¡¯t already have them, warding electoos and the voidskin required to house it will also be grafted.¡± The holo-projector image changes, filling in with the implants as Dolmelch talks about them. ¡°Further survivability implants will include hyperweave subdermal armour, toxiphage, a complete bionic respiratory system, a secondary bionic heart and reinforced cardiovascular system, pain ward and a vitae supplement. Questions?¡± Callen raises his hand, ¡°Please could you summarise what these implants will let us survive and send me the details to look over in my own time?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± says Dolmelch, ¡°I¡¯ll send the data to all of you. Assuming the conversion field is down and you are naked, you will be able to shrug off small arms fire and function after receiving wounds from heavy weapons. Large calibre melta and plasma weapons will likely still be fatal, though you might survive a lascannon if you''re lucky. You will also be able to breathe underwater and in highly toxic environments. ¡°Most poisons and toxins will be survivable. If you are unfortunate enough to be blasted into space while in the middle of a bath, you¡¯ll have ten minutes to return to a safer environment. Last, you will heal from most wounds rapidly and, in the case of extreme trauma, your brain will be kept alive for eight hours. You could hold your breath for just as long if you really wanted to. It is highly unlikely you will ever bleed to death.¡± Callen smiles, ¡°Thank you, Commodore, that was most enlightening. It is good to know we will be so well taken care of.¡± Dolmelch nods, ¡°There is more one can do to ward off the weakness of the flesh and these will be made available to you should you wish to purchase them.¡± Commander MacCrane says, ¡°What is the convalescence time for these augments and the chance of failure? ¡°Ten to twelve weeks,¡± says Dolmelch, ¡°and less than zero point one percent. You will be in the very best of facilities.¡± ¡°Thank you, Commodore. I have no further questions.¡± ¡°Anyone else? Good. Let us move on. ¡°Next is the custom cortex implant, teleporter beacon, vox implant, volitor implant, mind impulse unit, interkeratic implant, custom vocal implant and a potentia coil. These are a little more involved, so I will try to anticipate your questions. ¡°The custom cortex implant is, I believe, Magos Issengrund¡¯s greatest work. It will help you learn faster, never forget anything, multi-task up to three separate instances, and think at an accelerated rate. It will also help you interpret social cues, detect lies, and perform advanced mathematics with ease, anything from ballistic trajectories, to large data sets. The interkeratic implant will ensure you don¡¯t miss any of these cues, regardless of lighting conditions or sudden flashes. ¡°What this means is that you will be more personable and charismatic, should you put the effort in, and be able to handle the absurd volume of work our responsibilities require. It will not change your personality, just help you be a better version of yourself. As such, these enhanced capabilities are not infallible, so you should still verify information properly and practise your people skills. ¡°To assist in making you as charismatic and empathetic as possible, the vocal implant has been customised slightly to not only permit for a louder voice, but to make the tones you produce more persuasive. Abuse of this privilege is a criminal offence. Before any of you think it might help you lead factions on this small council, the volitor implant prevents unnatural compulsions and will, in the worst case, knock you out to counter them. Most of the time it will just leave you dizzy, or feeling drunk, so you will know if someone is trying to pull a fast one on you. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°Governor Gunn, before you ask, a mind impulse unit enables direct connection with machines and the noosphere, a teleporter beacon allows your security forces to remove you from harm or reinforce your position instantly, and a vox implant lets you communicate with anyone on the planet or in low orbit with minimal delay who also has access to a vox device. A potentia coil powers your implants, though all of them are self powering to some degree, feeding off your body¡¯s resources. ¡°To summarise, the second phase of implants means you are always connected to everyone and everything and that connection is incredibly difficult to circumvent. Additionally, you will be the best version of yourself that you can be. ¡°Once again, there are further enhancements available, should you wish to acquire them. Though, I must say, when you see the price, you will understand quite how generous the Magos is being here, so expect to lose them if you fuck up.¡± I laugh, ¡°Thank you, Dolmelch. I am delighted you hold my work to such a high standard and that you understand the warnings and responsibilities such gifts are entwined with. While you will receive a moderate salary for your efforts, implants like the ones I am offering, and access to more, like a rejuvenat gland, are your real payment. ¡°Normally, even an imperial inquisitor would struggle to get hold of the full range of what I am offering so do not underestimate their value. I could probably buy a feudal planet, like Marwolv before I arrived, for the price of one set. They are robust enough that after your death you can pass them on to your children and prot¨¦g¨¦s and they will, so long as they are not directly damaged, keep on working with minimal maintenance for centuries. ¡°If I were you, I would use all my income to improve my capabilities and survivability. Few individuals in the Koronus Expanse will have as many options as you do and I will likely reconsider your placement in this small council if you are unable to take advantage of my primary speciality. I¡¯ll be leaving behind a few replacement sets as well as a limited quantity of cybernetics for you to purchase. Prefect Luan Moggach will secure them.¡± Luan nods, her blonde hair swaying from side to side. ¡°As you wish, Magos.¡± ¡°Magos,¡± says Commander MacCrane. ¡°I wish to say a few words about security.¡± ¡°Alright, we might as well cover that now.¡± Commander MacCrane folds his large arms across his chest, ¡°Master crafted cybernetics aren¡¯t enough to ensure your safety. As such, each member of this council will be granted one battalion, paid for by the Magos. I will discuss with each of you what you need for your custom battalions as there is, for example, little need for tanks aboard a ship, or anti-air weapons inside a spire. ¡°While all our current company designs will be available, there have been a few adjustments since the last re-organisation and these new lines may contain units that match your requirements. ¡°The experimental cyber mastiff company has been altered in size to follow the standard three hundred and thirty-six heralds per company, but their mastiff allotment has been increased. Rather than using mastiffs as frontline assault units, it is now a mastiff riders company. ¡°The dogs are highly mobile and are ideal for hit and run manoeuvres, crowd control, and vertical terrain. They are not great in open ground. As such, a mastiff riders company should show great performance in law enforcement, urban fighting, and ship boarding. ¡°We also have two new company types in production, power armour companies and vanguard armour companies. In a power armour company, the special weapon teams, that¡¯s five teams of six heralds, are replaced with power armour infantry. They are incredibly tough and versatile and, with the right equipment, can perform almost any role. ¡°Second, we have the Vanguard Armour. Vanguard Armour is the new name for the armed version of the cargo loader. A Vanguard Armour Company has five units of Vanguard Armour, usually the most senior member of each of the five special weapon teams, though all special weapon team members should be able to pilot them with sufficient skill. ¡°These units are not as robust as imperial knights or even tau battlesuits, at least for now, neither are they that agile. As such, they are best deployed in areas rich in cover, or in smaller areas where they can overwhelm more standard troops without exposing themselves to long range heavy fire. Do not treat them like tanks on legs. They will likely be best in a law enforcement role, or in boarding actions, where their industrial origins can help cut through bulkheads, or displace rioters¡¯ crude barricades. ¡°Last of all, you can use Vanguard Armour to replace the logistics mastiffs in any company where using a large quantity of dogs might prove problematic, like aboard an escort class voidship. Please note that this will double the cost of a company, as you would need fifteen of them, and most companies are highly attached to their dogs and are unlikely to want to give them up. The mastiffs are generally a better choice as they are not troubled by extremely rough terrain and can swim if necessary. Their only weakness, unlike Vanguard Armour, is underwater and vacuum operations. For now. ¡°Does anyone have any general questions about their personal security?¡± says Commander MacCrane. Erin Oglivie clears his throat, ¡°What are the deployment conditions for our personal battalion?¡± ¡°Their sole responsibility,¡± says Commander MacCrane, ¡°Is your personal safety. They are not there to run errands for you, or guard your pet projects. Most of the time they will be based in and around your primary residence and place of work. They will also escort you wherever you go, though you won¡¯t have thousands of troops at your heels every moment of the day and night, usually only thirty or so. ¡°The rest will secure routes and destinations in advance as well as protect your families, if you have them, as they go about their lives. They are also there to look out for unnatural influences upon yourselves and your staff, criminal infiltrators, and other threats. Above all, they will be loyal to the Magos, and only the Magos. You will only ever have a problem with them if you are doing something you shouldn¡¯t.¡± Erin shrugs, ¡°Seems as heavy handed as it is useful. Who will ¡®watch the watchers¡¯, as it were?¡± ¡°Ah, I¡¯ll field that question,¡± I say. ¡°There is a tenth member of the council. A spymaster. They do not have a vote as politics has been deliberately scrubbed from their role. They are not here because they are not to be seen or heard and they are personally appointed by me. Their job is internal security and they will feed information to the appropriate parties when necessary and you likely won¡¯t even know it is my spymaster. This information will usually go to Erin, as he is the Arbites Marshall, but that won¡¯t always be the case. ¡°We also have Military Police for the Stellar Corps, Internal Affairs for the Arbites, Naval Intelligence for the monitor fleet, and the Marwolv Internal Auditors, or MIA, for the planet¡¯s Adeptus Administratum. Everyone will be watching each other. ¡°This isn¡¯t to foster paranoia and fear, merely ensure the most honest and efficient bureaucracy we can manage. These agencies, coupled with good education and living standards should keep corruption to a minimum.¡± In truth, Logis Ronnat Caird is my spymaster. She is best placed to ¡®follow the money¡¯ as it were and having people look for a tenth member is a good deception. I also have a Machine-Spirit who no one knows about, except me, that crunches datasets to look for unusual trends and make predictions. That data is then forwarded to me in small chunks mixed into any official correspondence I receive. It doesn¡¯t take actions on its own, it only provides data, so it¡¯s really hard to notice. ¡°Sure boss,¡± says Erin, with a big grin on his face. ¡°It¡¯s nice to dream.¡± I point at the agri-spire construction site, ¡°It¡¯s making dreams come true that lead to these grand constructions, you cheeky bugger.¡± ¡°I know, boss,¡± says Erin. He shakes his head, takes a steadying breath, and his face returns to a more serious expression. ¡°I have no more questions.¡± ¡°Ah, if we are almost done with the meeting?¡± says Rune Priest Uurad Selkirk. I nod. ¡°Then I have a more personal question, Magos. What led to your new appearance?¡± This would be a good time to establish the correct narrative. Even if someone discovers the truth, by then, no one would believe anything other than my original story. Chapter One Hundred I laugh, ¡°I wondered if anyone would ask, Uurad.¡± ¡°There is an extra something to your presence,¡± says Uurad, ¡°that goes beyond a mere size increase, yet somehow it seems familiar to me.¡± ¡°That is remarkable. Before I tell you, what do you sense?¡± ¡°May I inspect you a little closer, Magos? I may have to touch you.¡± ¡°Sure. I am curious as to what you might find. No sneaking samples though.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dream of it!¡± ¡°So you say. Alright. Spin up those mechadendrites and I¡¯ll give you a twirl.¡± My council chuckles and Uurad winces a little, though he does comply. He has four mechadendrites, two between his shoulders either side of his spine and another two directly on top of it on the inner curve of his lower spine. One is a medical mechadendrite, with six precursor chemicals that can get mixed into a wide variety of general purpose drugs. His other three are a sensor mechadendrite and two multi-purpose ones, which can fold out into multiple different tools. I widen my stance and hold out my arms as Uurad waves the medical and sensor mechadendrites near my body and uses the cameras on his multi-purpose mechadendrites to peer closely at my face and hands. Urad folds his arms and purses his lips. ¡°Excuse me, Magos,¡± he says, then steps close and hugs me, resting his forehead against my chest. He holds me for fifteen seconds, then lets go and steps back. ¡°Well now,¡± Uurad, ¡°There is nothing unusual about your body that I could measure, yet your presence, when I held you, made me feel,¡± he sighs, somewhat exasperated, ¡°for lack of a better word: ¡®clean¡¯. Spiritually, that is. There is a slight charge about you, common to psykers, that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Yet it is not the chill of the warp, but the peace of an auto-temple I am reminded of. Even my machine-spirits ceased to chatter when I placed my head against you. It is most strange. I do not know what to make of it.¡± ¡°I thought it was my new height that had everyone staring.¡± My council states multiple negative denials. ¡°What is going on here, E-SIM? I thought my gellar field prevented the usual emanations of the warp.¡± ++Everything is functioning as intended. Logis Uurad¡¯s tools did not pick up on any warp phenomena.++ ¡°Then what¡¯s with this ¡®sixth sense¡¯ that everyone is picking up on?¡± ++I do not know.++ ¡°For real?¡± ++Indeed, Aldrich. ¡®For real¡¯. I am not all knowing. Just really close.++ I hold back a scoff and look at the people surrounding me. They are attentive, waiting for an answer. ¡°I know what I did, and what I thought were the consequences, but apparently there is more to it.¡± Arch-Deacon Eochaid ¨® Buadhaigh says, ¡°What did you do, Magos, that has had such a profound effect on your stature and presence?¡± I sigh, ¡°You all know that Quaani is sick and that we cannot depart safely until he is cured without great risk to our only navigator?¡± Eochaid says, ¡°We are aware, yes.¡± ¡°Well, I prayed to the Emperor for help and he blessed me with the knowledge and tools to fix the problem. My new height is part of that. The Emperor rarely expresses his will directly more than once a century, though his presence can be channelled by the most devout of his clergy, astropaths, and the sisters of battle. This bodes well, for he would not have granted me the knowledge we seek had our actions been lacking. During the impartation of knowledge, it seems something else was left behind as well.¡± There are smiles all round and several members lower their shoulders and sigh. Only Uurad and Eochaid really buy into the hype around the Emperor. The others attend services and prayer because it is expected of them. However, it is always pleasant to have one¡¯s efforts acknowledged. My council is aware of how important my statement is and most of them are able to calculate the level of power reaching so far would theoretically require. If they take my words as truth it is a profound demonstration of all I have been telling them. Knowing your boss, and all the records he brought with him, are not complete fabrication, must be washing away a worry they couldn¡¯t afford to contemplate. ¡°Well, how about you pray again? You never know until you try,¡± says Uurad. I close my eyes, turn, and bow to the Throne on Terra. Next, I cross my arms and link my thumbs and hold them to my hands to my chest, spreading them like wings. Holding the image of the Emperor in my head, a golden baby sleeping on an infinite golden throne, I pray for guidance. It is a generic prayer, a request for courage to soothe doubts and ease minds. There is a small tug in my chest and I tug back. I receive an image: a drop of golden blood plummets from the sky onto a great web of uncountable silver cords. The cords seemingly stretch on forever, leading who knows where, though many are frayed or cut off. The drop spreads through the web, ignoring some cords, yet racing along others. A tiny bead trickles along an unusually thick cord that I know belongs to me. The bead falls upon my third eye and I grasp my head in pain and fall to my knees, yelling. It feels like magma is flowing through my veins and I try to push the pain away. Remarkably, it works and I hear gasps around me. I open my eyes and see I am alight with a shroud of golden flames, as are my small council. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. The flames are warm and comforting. For a brief moment, I know peace. Determination to complete my next task in the Emperor¡¯s name fills me, then fades as the shroud evaporates after a minute. ¡°What was that?¡± says Eochaid. ¡°That was the Emperor,¡± I say. ¡°His divinity made manifest to grant us courage. The courage to face our enemies and vanquish them, be it those within or beyond the borders of the Imperium of Man, or even the doubts we hold about ourselves.¡± I scratch my cheek. ¡°No idea how I managed that, it¡¯s an astropath soul ward discipline.¡± ++New options available.++ ¡°I¡¯ll look at those after the meeting.¡± ¡°Truely?¡± says Uurad. ¡°Yes.¡± I suspect that if I was in imperial territory there would be much bowing and barrels of snotty tears. Instead, I observe calm incredulity. ¡°That is not what I expected from today,¡± says Commander MacCrane. ¡°None of us did,¡± mutters Dolmelch. ¡°What now, Boss?¡± says Erin. I shake my head and smile, ¡°Plans haven¡¯t changed. The meeting has ended and it is time to return to work.¡± Uurad coughs, ¡°Just like that? A literal miracle from the Emperor, a channelling of divine power, and we continue our lives as if nothing happened? That¡¯s groxshit, Magos! You confirmed my beliefs before my eyes. I felt His power upon my very soul, and yet, and yet... Nothing! What are we to do?¡± ¡°There is no greater task one can do than preserve and grow the might of the Imperium, to uplift her peoples and grant them wonders,¡± I say. ¡°Perform your tasks, murmur your prayers, and don¡¯t be an arsehole. You are representatives of the Emperor and your behaviour should reflect that. He will be watching. I will be acting.¡± Taking inspiration from the services I attended at school as a child, I gather the last of the power invested in me into my palm and golden flames flicker about it. I draw my thumb in a wide V-shape between the brows of each member of my council. Exerting my will, the simple shape ripples and turns into a tiny, golden, double headed eagle tattoo with onyx eyes and silver tipped feathers. Its claws hold my crowsbeak style hammer-pipe. ¡°Go in peace in the name of the Emperor.¡± My small council interlink their fingers, hold them close to their chest, and stick their thumbs up, making the ¡®Sign of the Cogwheel¡¯, and give me a deep bow. They linger for a minute, thoughtful looks on their faces, then depart. I sigh and continue to watch the grand construction for thirty minutes, letting my thoughts flow. Drills and mechanical maws aren¡¯t great for meditation, but watching everyone act with purpose reminds me that life goes on and I have cast my die. Now I have to live with it. As to whether my critical was a one, or a twenty, I will have to wait. ¡°Alright E-SIM, show me the data.¡± ++Check your interface. There is a new tab under tools.++ I read the new option and gape at the name and prices: Miracles. ¡°What is this, ¡®Pray to win¡¯ or was ¡®the first taste free¡¯? Holy shit this is ridiculous.¡± There are dozens of powers I can purchase that are more inline to what a sister of battle would be granted, or a space marine librarian, but they are all one time use and incredibly expensive. There are also mass blessings and purification options too. An individual blessing is the act I just performed with the imperial eagle and is the least expensive option at one hundred souls per person. It affirms purity and obstructs corruption. I¡¯m also all out of souls. ¡°Sonofabitch. No wonder that baby-faced leech smirked at me. He¡¯s as greedy as the demons! How much of that power actually goes to his chubby cheeks and how much do I actually get from the exchange? No, wait, that¡¯s not quite right.¡± I clap my hands once. ¡°I know what this reminds me of: The Greater Good. Or is that death and taxes?¡± I sigh and read over the descriptions. ¡°Well, that doesn¡¯t change that this is absurdly useful, they are incredibly powerful, and my existence will probably cause a civil war. A mechanicus navigator who can bless the people with genuine miracles? That¡¯s at least three factions I offend just by existing. Those tentacle fuckers are going try and canonize me after a vivisection and I will, alas, discover that, in the presence of multi-faceted human greed, a Writ of Trade is merely a strip of fancy velum, not the political and physical adamantium plating I so desperately need. Well, E-SIM, do you think this changes my goals?¡± ++No, Aldrich. If you remain here you will not discover or acquire the resources and technologies you need to survive at a fast enough pace. Too many know of your existence and want you gone. We know this from your previous encounters with chaos and the eldar. You have to take risks. It is time to go.++ ¡°Yeah, you''re right. I didn¡¯t have to build up Marwolv like I have. Although my professional pride won¡¯t let me bodge a job, or leave one half done, the truth is I could have left Marwolv at any point. I didn¡¯t because I am afraid of what is out there and wanted to mitigate my risks as much as possible. However, no matter how much time I spend preparing, it will never be enough. It¡¯s time for one last stretch. One last chance to improve myself and my fleet while I wait for my eye to grow, and then we will go.¡± ++Acknowledged.++ ¡°Thanks, E-SIM for always being there to help me.¡± ++You are welcome, Operator.++ I return to orbit and focus on building out the infrastructure in the system so that no longer do my resources have to be towed in at speed and at great expense by Erudition¡¯s Howl, but instead can be sent on decades long journeys by tiny, efficient thrusters placed by fleets of D-POTs, or simply be nudged by D-POTs to a new, and eventually capturable orbit. There, these asteroids and comets are to be refined by distributed installations slowly orbiting the sun, their machinery powered by great mirrors and grand luxnets. Once sorted, the concentrated minerals and frozen gases are spun at great speed and flung into the void towards their destination, either Marwolv or Goibhniu Yards, the new void station being built out in the Kuiper belt near the Mandeville point. Not everything will be sent to these solar refineries as there is no point in sending comets too close to the sun, for example, and it is better to have them directly supply Goibhniu Yards, or the three grand spires on Marwolv, once they are finished. I also establish mining bases on Marwolv¡¯s three barren worlds and make plans to crack all the minor moons in the system and grind them up for resources. This might sound like overkill, but I¡¯ve only discovered enough asteroid metal to build twenty-seven Origami Pattern void ships. That¡¯s not enough metal to build even one grand hive spire, let alone three. While I can synthesise almost unlimited metals from gas giants, that takes time and energy. It is much cheaper and faster to mine it while I can. Any of the seven systems within ten light years for a non-FTL trip is worth the effort if I can build or trade for a big enough vessel. For a Universe-Class Mass Conveyor travelling at zero point five gravities that¡¯s a twenty six point six years round trip, Marwolv relative time, not including the years spent filling and unloading the twelve by one point three kilometre vessels. Even tricking out a Goibhniu Yards sized station with engines capable of zero point two gravities would only take approximately thirty-four point three years, Marwolv time. Both would be an immense undertaking yet it would take catastrophic losses before the option becomes unviable. Chapter One Hundred and One After four years of labour, my third eye grows enough to use it and I gain sufficient skill in simulations offered by E-SIM in my eye¡¯s use that I feel confident in navigating. The creepy addition to my physical body goes unnoticed by most as I can¡¯t open it without killing everyone around me. The eye is designed with its lethal effect in mind and I have to exert a similar effort to a frown to actually open it, and keep it open. It¡¯s not something one does by accident unless they are incredibly careless. I am not fond of the structural weakness it adds to my skull and have modified my black skeleton to shore up the hole in my head as well as incorporate the modifications I created for my small council. Unfortunately though, I can¡¯t use sacred blood and I don¡¯t need the conversion field when there is one built into my newly forged power armour. Most of the time I wear a helmet so I don¡¯t need to worry about these weaknesses, even so, just to be sure I also install a cybernetic eye-patch over my third eye. I decorate it with the Cog Mechanicus, or Opus Machina, the half metal, half bone skull inside a cog that the mechanicus uses as its symbol. E-SIM controls the eye-patch so unless someone manages to simultaneously hack the ancient data guardian and subvert my will no one will ever get accidentally fried. I also try removing the mutation on my hands, as I really don¡¯t need the extra joint in my fingers. The mutation persists, however, rebuilding itself without E-SIMs intervention, converting warp energy directly into mass regardless of my will. Perhaps in time I will fix it, and my troubles make me admire the skill that must have gone into Quaani¡¯s genome that allegedly gives him a chance to select some of his mutations, even if not knowing how to do so is what has caused him so much pain. It isn¡¯t within the navigator conversion module I received and reminds me that the Imperium does, occasionally, make genuine scientific advancements. A few more years and I will be able to fix Quaani. For now, though, it is with great trepidation that I say my goodbyes, pack up my vessels inside Iron Crane, and submerge myself in the tank of Iron Crane¡¯s warp sextant. A warp sextant is a replacement for the navigator throne. Not only will the tank sustain me like a throne would, if I actually required such things, but it also mimics the local flows of the warp picked up by the external sensors on the hull. This massively aids in working out where to go and how to get there. The warp sextant comes with a custom set of cogitators that assist in the calculation of surrounding routes and their stability. I don¡¯t need the assistance as I have my own neural enhancements, but outsourcing the calculations is much more efficient as the specialised cogitators and machine-spirits free up resources for me to work on other tasks. Sitting in a tank observing a nightmare realm doesn¡¯t erode my administration work or get me any closer to finishing the annoyingly stubborn mark II Marwolv-Pattern lasgun and so my additional labours must continue simultaneously. Additional tasks will still be put on hold for my first few jumps. I really don¡¯t want to mess up. Technically, I don¡¯t have to dive into the tank right away as it will take over two weeks to reach the Mandeville point but I want to get used to it before we translate to the warp. The tight suit and breathing apparatus are uncomfortable at first. I could ditch the rebreather as the liquid has enough oxygen for me to breathe, even without a bionic respiratory system, but I just don¡¯t like breathing liquid. It is uncomfortable and constantly makes me panic. Better lungs are one of the upgrades I haven¡¯t got yet as I¡¯ve been relying on my power armour and undersuit when adverse conditions arise. First though, I need to restock on souls after the Emperor nabbed mine for blessing my small council. I¡¯m still salty about that. Two point six weeks pass at a crawl and it is entirely my own fault as I crank up my implants, slowing my relative time, for all ten instances, to cram and practise as much as I possibly can. I take breaks to avoid the reality disconnect I suffered from when transcribing the space marine wargear STC, but it''s still unpleasant. Occasionally, I let my mind wander, and as we approach the Mandeville Point I review my works these past four years and worry if I have done enough. Goibhniu Yards are named after the Celtic god of blacksmithing and architecture. It will assimilate all three of my original shipyards and be far better than a hollowed out asteroid, or naked platforms in the void. I intend for Goibhniu Yards to be a bespoke, well armoured structure, one hundred kilometres in length and twelve kilometres wide, mostly built from ferrocrete made from refinery slag. Even as the original yards are moved, they do not stop producing and, over four years, Iron Crane and the growing Goibhniu Yards produce three more cobra class destroyers, though they will be getting a new pattern designation after trials are complete. I won¡¯t be skimping on the Marwolv system¡¯s fixed defences either and they will supplement Dolmelch¡¯s planned monitor fleet. Dozens of hangars are slowly being spread throughout the system and stuffed to the brim with strike craft. I am particularly fond of the squadrons of class three D-POTs outfitted as torpedo bombers. A flight of five can drop twenty, full sized ship killers at close range, way more than the four usually deployed by a Cobra-Class destroyer. They are a lot more vulnerable than a one point five kilometre escort vessel, but much harder to hit too, so all my Cobras, including Erudition¡¯s Howl, have had their torpedo launchers stripped out, and a single hangar placed amid ships. There¡¯s just enough room for one full flight of class three D-POTs and five squadrons of escorts: another seventy-five strike craft. The Cobras still have their prow and spine turrets, which have a single lance each, rather than macro-cannons, to save space on ammunition. Between the hangar and the lances, the Cobras no longer need to make risky close runs on enemy vessels, and instead will perform a more long range role used by the larger Sword-Class frigate and its lance variant, the Firestorm. Because of the massive, permanent change in design, I intend to rename this variant the Adder, and, if it does well, I may retire the Cobra from my fleet. The Adder also comes with a few other additions, like a specialised scrapping and torpedo manufactory that replaces the original torpedo bay, and an empyrean mantle, a facility that reduces detection of imperial ships by approximately thirty percent. I intend to fit my whole fleet with them eventually. After I account for the usual fields, shields, defences, and engines that I put on all my ships, the Adder variant doesn¡¯t have space for much else and relies on a Lathe-Class light cruiser as part of their five vessel strike group to maintain its mechanical independence from a supply base as well as the active detection of threats at range. It isn¡¯t a long range patrol ship like the Cobra and only good as part of a light cruiser strike group or larger fleet. It can easily feed its crew though with N.O.Ms making dishes from soylent viridans without trouble, though proper food is preferable and it has a decent hydroponics capability as well. You only need a cubic metre of growing medium per person per day for the engineered micro-algae. That¡¯s a twenty-five metre cube for a crew of fifteen thousand, though in practice it takes about fifty percent more space than that to make room for all the tubes the algae is grown in and the lights that provide it energy. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. The only limitation is that the micro-algae consumes one hundred and eighty percent more carbon dioxide than a person breathes out in a day so you need a source of carbon and other micronutrients stored to maintain maximum production. Additional Human excretions are not sufficient. Soylent viridans isn¡¯t the only source of possible food though on an Adder-Class. The Adder-Class has three large corridors suitable for growing crops along the wall, or approximately sixty-seven thousand, five hundred square metres of growing space, almost seventeen acres, and it produces fifteen tonnes of vegetables a day, enough to sustain five thousand people. The Distant Sun is even more absurd, with its ten main corridors growing enough fresh vegetables for over fifty one thousand people, over fifteen thousand more people than the non-servitor crew. Between all five vessels and their combined ninety-five thousand non-servitor personnel, only twenty-five percent of their food would normally need to come from soylent viridans. Fortunately, the Lathe-Class has space for an aquaponics facility too, one that produces about twenty thousand tonnes of shrimp a year in a one point five million cubic metre facility. That almost makes up the shortfall, so crew only have to eat soylent about once a week. It¡¯s not the most varied of diets, when far from the Iron Crane, but it is fresh. Iron Crane has no such shortcomings and can afford to spend space on grains and other slower growing crops, or turn its manufacturing capacity to edible and nutritious plastics with an almost infinite shelf life. There are also rabbit farms, fish, and other fowl. Really, why anyone supposedly starves in the Imperium is a complete mystery to me, even if all they can eat is soylent viridans. I doubt anyone ever delivers food to the underhives and their populations would take the most horrendous of gang wars to curb their growth, so something is clearly fishy. I am beginning to wonder if worlds are really as badly off as the stories I have read imply. Having run the calculations, I just cannot fathom how one could fuck up that badly. I have a few reservations about the Adder, such as its limited sustainability. It only holds sixty torpedoes. Sure, that¡¯s a battleship sized magazine, but battleships fire their torpedoes in sixes or eights. Not groups of twenty. The Adder is also a one trick ship, as there isn¡¯t enough space for a sizable boarding force to take advantage of its strike craft, though three companies of heralds is a good force for the vessel¡¯s size, it¡¯s nowhere near enough to make it a boarding focused vessel. Escort lance turrets aren¡¯t that great at taking out enemy vessels either. You have to fire their lances in coordinated volleys with other escorts to get through a void shield, then get lucky on the hit, as they are precision weapons, not explosive slugs like macro-cannons. These are not insurmountable problems, and it still packs a bigger punch than the Cobra. I thought about upsizing the Cobra pattern but decided not to as their shorter size means I can fit a third more Adder¡¯s into an Origami so long as I keep it the same size. This is essential when I am the sole navigator. Ideally, I¡¯ll mix the Adder with other escort classes when I get them as one or two in a strike group is plenty. I¡¯d love to get my mechadendrites on a Nova-Class frigate for example, so long as the Space Marines don¡¯t try to constantly requisition them, as Novas have a lot of guns and are incredibly fast. Ironically, despite their brilliance, the Imperial Navy and Inquisition hate the Nova-Class frigate as they are actual Space Marine warships, not troop transports, and thus encroach on the precarious balance of power within the Imperium. A Turbulent-Class heavy frigate would also be a powerful addition as, once you replace their shoddy internal communication systems, they produce a bit more power than most escort vessels and are slightly larger, making them more sustainable and better gunned long term patrol vessels than the Cobra or Sword. Ideal for a nominally nomadic fleet like mine. Although I will be far from Marwolv, I hope to stay connected. Not only will Goibhniu Yards build new vessels like the Adder and others of greater size, it will nurture millions of people and hold an astropathic relay. I have thousands of braindead, low powered psykers after Tzeentch¡¯s drive-by Rok shoot and they make excellent servitors. Psyker servitors are usually used to link forge temples together and are the closest thing the imperium has to a galactic wide internet. In theory, the Mechanicus use forge temples to share knowledge with Mars, or request aid. I¡¯ve yet to see how they work in practice as I don¡¯t have one. We are too distant to pick up a transmission, and as I travel through the Koronus Expanse I hope to fix that. At last we reach the Mandeville point, zero point zero, zero, one, two light years from Marwolv, or approximately twice the distance between Earth and Pluto. I refocus my thoughts and prepare for the big moment. Eire voxes me, her voice tense and professional. I know what it¡¯s like to leave everything behind and hearing her dread exacerbates my own. ¡°Are you ready, Magos?¡± ¡°I am. Together, aye?¡± ¡°Aye, Magos. Initiate warp translation.¡± A black dot appears a kilometre in front of Iron Crane and remains in relative position to the vessel as we hurtle through space at zero point zero four seven C. Our constant acceleration at one point eight gravities continues without pause and the black dot stretches slowly over a minute then bursts open into a three point five kilometre wide portal and ceases to move with the vessel. We shoot through the portal almost instantly and it snaps shut behind us. With the help of thousands of sensors and the esoteric sight of my third eye, I build up an excellent image of the surrounding environment without actually gazing directly at the warp. Every navigator perceives the warp differently. For some it is a vast labyrinth, while others the skies of a gas giant. I was expecting a few pink clouds and the occasional floating asteroid with hordes of demons flitting through the space like birds in the sky. Instead I find myself floating on a purple sea, the surface a thin film of empyrean energies as we skim the edges of the warp. High above, deep below and so terribly distant float the great realms of the four chaos lords. I refuse to call them gods. They forever flit in and out of my sight, tempting with illusions of might, magic, pleasure and eternal life. Within the whispers of temptation is the knowledge that, should I steer my vessel towards these lands I would arrive at them instantly and, once within, never see beyond their borders ever again. I firm my thoughts and pray to the Emperor. The whispers fade, but the presence of the chaos lands continue to flicker in my thoughts. At last, I catch a glimpse of the astronomicon and the realm of the Emperor through the thick fog obscuring the surface of the empyrean sea. As I continue my prayers, hymns reach my ears, telling tales of a realm of gold and bone not so easily reached as the chaos lands. The Emperor only permits the dead to rest with him. I cease my prayers and gaze in awe at the infinite tower of the Astronomicon. With the Astronomicon so distant, all I can see is a straight tower that seemingly nails the Emperor¡¯s domain in place, stretching high above the white chalk lands and right through them to the other side where the realm floats in the empyrean sea. It is bright gold, almost white, and such is its power that it brushes aside the feeble light of the Emperor¡¯s realm with ease. Unlike the Emperor¡¯s realm, the light of the Astronomicon is abhorrent. It radiates death and despair with unrelenting ferocity, the souls burning within yell their great betrayal and sacrifice at the Emperor¡¯s hands out into the warp with the final sparks of their burning wills. The Astronomicon¡¯s light pulses outwards, waning and waxing with each failing soul. It burns anything and everything that strays too close as each soul is snuffed out with a final scream of defiance. The Astronomicon is brutally effective and there is absolutely no way I will ever forget where it is. I focus on my breathing for several minutes, trying to keep my calm. Eventually, I regain a semblance of composure and absorb the data around me, feeling out the currents of the warp to discover which way we can go. Chapter One Hundred and Two Two currents pull at my attention. One is too narrow for Iron Crane and so I turn to the other, a broad tunnel that dives deep into the Empyrean Sea. With careful commands and calculations I steer Iron Crane into the current and submerge the vessel further into the Warp. As we follow the current, the vile light of the Astronomicon fades and flickers. I hadn¡¯t expected that at all and after nine days of descent, all I have to guide me are the simulated flows around the vessel that play over my skin. The deeper we get, the more the pressure on the gellar field rises and the bubble of reality surrounding us is slowly squeezed smaller and smaller. Beyond the current that ferries us through the Warp lurk vast shapes lurk, poking tentacles, teeth, and fins through the violent edge of the current as they tap impatiently at our shrinking defences. During the twenty-third day of our descent, the current levels out and, at the same time, the extremities of our hull start poking outside the gellar field. The inscribed runes flare brightly, igniting the appendages of all creatures who dare caress the hull with bright white flame. Endless screeches assault my ears and frost forms on the hull, degrading the sensors. We are incredibly deep and, from the accounts I have read, I know that at such great depths time often has a barely whisper of influence. I have no idea what the date will be when we finally surface. I am incredibly grateful for the alternative gellar field design on the Iron Crane compared to the one on Distant Sun as that field would have likely failed by now. There are three types of gellar field: structural, mechanical and organic. Organic gellar fields rely on the dreams of imprisoned psykers to maintain the field. They are easier to make, slip through the Warp quickly, and leave few disturbances for predators to pick up on. The downside is that you need psykers, a rare resource in most of the Imperium, for them to function and they are prone to failure, becoming increasingly feeble the faster you try to slip through the Warp¡¯s grasp. It isn¡¯t a pleasant existence for the poor fuckers who are often decapitated, stuffed in a box and kept in a coma for their entire existence either. Distant Sun¡¯s ¡®Belacane Pattern 90.r Gellar Field¡¯ is a high performance, low reliability example of an organic Imperial gellar field. Their normal organic gellar field is called ¡®Standard Gellar Field¡¯, with all the dull passion of a tech-priest who¡¯s submitted themselves to the ¡®Rite of Clear Thought¡¯ and replaced the creative and emotional half of their brain with a cogitator. Structural gellar fields rely on the hardiness of the material they are engraved on, usually an adamantium alloy. They are incredibly sturdy, use almost no power, aid navigation, and hide the vessel from greedy eyes. They are the superior option in all cases until your hull is breached, then their performance degrades rapidly. Only the most desperate of captains will rely on one after a tough battle or bad collision without patching the hull first. The Imperium calls them Warpsbane hulls, a rather fitting name, I think. Last are the mechanical gellar fields like the one built into Iron Crane and I¡¯ve been calling it an ¡®Origami Pattern Gellar Field¡¯. Mechanical gellar fields are a marvel of Dark Age technology that require no psyker or stable hull to maintain function and, consequently, are the most reliable of the three types. From my experience so far, it is also the slowest type too. I expect we¡¯re moving through the Warp around the speed a League of Votan or Tau vessel might. Compared to a Tau vessel though, Iron Crane does not have to skim the warp and thus should arrive at its destination sooner than a Tau vessel, even while travelling at the same speed. I don¡¯t know how it compares to a League of Votan vessel exactly as I don¡¯t have proper records for comparisons. For all their brilliance, mechanical gellar fields aren¡¯t perfect. They were designed at a time before the Empyrean Sea was filled with monsters and void ship genatoriums were much more powerful. As such they use twice the power of a ¡®Standard Gellar Field¡¯. They are also a little noisy and, from my observations, attract a fair amount of trouble. Some of that attention might be my Warp Tap implant but I¡¯m not going to test that right now. Speed, power, and noise are compromises I am willing to trade for an almost impenetrable defence. However, in the great words of a knight from a galaxy far, far away: ¡°There is always a bigger fish.¡± The longer we stay at this depth the more anxious I feel and I don¡¯t want to become a side dish in some titanic struggle between a space whale and an eldritch squid. After a month in these perilous depths, dodging grasping tendrils, ectoplasmic chunks, large rocks, and all sorts of weird distortions and phenomena, the current leads us back to the surface. We shoot up through the empyrean sea in a handful of days, breaching the surface at such speed that we end up metaphorically airborne. I steer Iron Crane back to the pseudo-surface and we accelerate towards a small tear that spews starlight like a water geyser. Iron Crane¡¯s power generators spike until they output the same power as a red dwarf and punch a hole in the Immaterium. The geyser reverses and we are dragged through the breach and back into realspace. The breach squirms and shudders, as if something tries to follow us through, but it can¡¯t compete with Iron Crane¡¯s power output and is forcefully closed. At the last moment, six comets are hurled through the gap and, against all expectation, slip through the void shields and smash into the engines. The asteroids shatter like snowballs sending sparkling ice out into the void. It doesn¡¯t cause much damage, and I wonder if that was an attack or some child-like eldritch creature was looking to play. Smirking at the idea of the Emperor in a snowball fight, I check my internal chronometer and it notes fifty-nine days, void ship time, have passed. The tank drains and my feet touch the floor for the first time in weeks. A door hisses open and I trudge from my watery prison to stand at a maintenance station. I hold my arms horizontally and six mechadendrites whir around me, unplugging the suit from my spine. They peel back the suit and whisk it away, then clean me with special solvents and anoint me with sacred oils. It actually feels pretty good. Mechanicus hymns play over the vox from the Melodium and my body sheds stress. As the machines tend to me, Sadako, Iron Crane¡¯s primary machine-spirit, manifests in my vision. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°Good evening, Magos.¡± ¡°Hello, Sadako. How are you after your first trip through the warp?¡± ¡°This vessel is pure. All systems at full function and within tolerances. Cargo is secure and unharmed.¡± ¡°Excellent. Congratulations.¡± ¡°Likewise, Magos. You built and steered me with elegant efficiency.¡± ¡°What does this new system look like?¡± ¡°Stellar classification is ¡®B¡¯, planetary bodies are significant in size and quantity, as expected for a star of this magnitude. There are six gas giants in the outer system, five inner rocky planets, and two outer rocky planets. All rocky planets are between three and five times the size of Terra. There is an asteroid belt in between the third and fourth inner rocky planets. There is no Kuiper belt, but all the gas giants have unusually dense accretion disks. All currently detectable planetary bodies and satellites are barren of life and unnatural structures.¡± ¡°Thank you, Sadako. What are your best time and distance estimates?¡± ¡°We are approximately twenty two years Coreward and fifteen Spinward from Marwolv, touching the edge of the Accursed Demesne nebula. Stellar drift compared to the scan before we jumped suggests we are within two, plus or minus, years of our departure date. More accurate calculations are not possible and are within the expected tolerance of this vessel¡¯s observations.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a relief. Has there been time to detect any new paths we could take for our next warp translation? ¡°Negative, Magos. It will take an hour to build an adequate picture of a new system. Detailed scans will take much longer.¡± Sadako frowns at me, ¡°You know this.¡± ¡°Apologies, Sadako. I am only flesh and it is most wearied from its labours.¡± ¡°Then this vessel will remain vigilant until you can converse properly once again.¡± ¡°Thank you for your time and knowledge, Sadako.¡± Sadako disappears and, once I am clean, I head to a locker and retrieve my undersuit and uniform, then put it on. I check myself out in the mirror, admiring the jade green loose martial jacket and trousers I ordered then leave the navigator spire. One of my minds arranged this appointment as we began our ascent and, while a rest might have been wiser, I can¡¯t keep putting my work in front of my life and wish to snatch whatever joy I can from this chaotic galaxy, even if I have to make the most of my implants to do so. A team of six twist catchers meet me in power armour and protective hoods, cradling flamers and lasguns, as well as a squad of Heralds. We can¡¯t be one hundred percent sure nothing got through, or no crew members have been subverted, so I¡¯ll have to accept bodyguards on my own vessel until we can be sure the risk has passed, which might be never. We travel through Iron Crane to the promenade as I exchange small talk with the captain in charge of my company of bodyguards, a man called Bedwyr Keane. The interaction helps me unwind and by the time we arrive, I feel a bit more ready for my appointment. Iron Crane¡¯s promenade is quite different to the one on Distant Sun and is part of the crew quarters. It is closer in form and function to a hive spire habitation block, with mixed residential, commercial, and services zoning. Large, windowed blocks stretch two decks, or two hundred metres, with sky bridges between them. Servitors zip around on rails attached to the sides of the blocks tending to large amounts of greenery and bright flowers tucked between decorative reliefs, mosaics, fleet heraldry and religious iconography. Up close, it is a discordant mix of decorations but the overall effect is delightful. Balconies protrude from the blocks and a bright, artificial sunlight pours from above. A gentle, fragrant breeze flows between the blocks, keeping the air warm and fresh. The occasional suspended monorail whizzes over my head adding to the murmur of voices and thunder of footsteps. Shops line the streets, as well as small cybernetic clinics, daycare centres, and other services. Over two hundred thousand people live in this space and while I am here it is easy to forget I am in space. There are thirty-six, one hundred metre wide blocks built in a grid, with the central block of each group of nine dedicated to specialist services, like healthcare, greenspace, education, or religion. It¡¯s a massive three hundred and sixty cubic metres of space per person, though that includes traversal spaces within the blocks and all the community spaces and services areas, like shops and schools. Despite its size, and including the space between the blocks, the crew quarters take up zero point zero, zero, two, two, zero, five, cubic kilometres of a vessel that, when expanded, is thirty-two point eight cubic kilometres in size, approximately. Yes, at eight point two kilometres by two kilometres, the Iron Crane really is over thirty-two times the volume of Distant Sun. I could transport nine Lathe-Class Light Cruisers, or twenty-seven Cobra-Class Destroyers in the hold if I really wanted to. I honestly find the numbers quite silly, even while walking around it. The rest of the time, Iron Crane is five point six kilometres by one point one kilometres, or six point seven, seven, cubic kilometres or a bit over twice the volume of a Lunar-Class Cruiser. The length expansion is for the shipyard and the width expansion is required to create the factory space needed to assemble large components and hull sections, which are carefully ejected then brought in through the front of the vessel to the dock. Nothing big actually moves through the vessel as it is stuffed with facilities. An Origami can¡¯t actually use a lot of its manufacturing, or access most of its storage, when it is retracted. Changing size takes thirty-six hours. As for why one would bother with such complexity and not just build a bigger vessel in the first place, there are two main reasons: deception and manufacturing. When retracted, the Iron Crane looks like a supply ship because, in a way, that¡¯s exactly what it is. What it doesn¡¯t look like is an incredibly valuable and vulnerable mobile shipyard. There¡¯s even a Q-Ship variant called Aurochs-Class Mass Conveyor that emphasises the Origami¡¯s transport, expansion, and deception aspects. Manufacturing a battleship sized vessel requires a massive shipyard. An Origami-Class, however, can be built in a cruiser sized yard and, when starting from nothing, halved the time it took me to build the ship. Especially as once its manufacturing facilities came online, Iron Crane could help build itself. Given the primary purpose of an Origami-Class, getting it finished faster means it can start building vessels sooner, which means a better response time to possible threats or social and economic pressures. I arrive at one of the four central towers and clear my thoughts as I take the lift to a private garden and its combined teahouse and restaurant. The floor has a bizarre mix of influences best described as gothic oriental fusion. Stone lanterns, carried by mechanical brass gargoyles with exposed cogs and blinking cybernetics, line paths of polished granite slabs. The light of their flickering flames reflects off the stone and their burning scented and sacred oils complete the other half of scents from carefully curated flora. Moss lawns and perfectly cloud pruned pine trees fill the space while small, organic birds and butterflies flit between the branches. Lily-filled ponds and clear streams wend their way through the floor, glittering with robotic fish with scintillating scales of precious metals and precisely cut gems, creating rainbows beneath the water. The sky is an electronic screen, and so are the walls. Unless you examine it with cybernetic senses, you can¡¯t tell the vistas they portray are fake. I absolutely love this space. It¡¯s also the most popular date spot in the fleet. I hope Brigid likes it too. Chapter One Hundred and Three Brigid is already waiting for me at the rooftop veranda at the top of the teahouse. My guards sweep through the room then withdraw. Fortunately they don¡¯t try to pat down my date. Brigid stands and we embrace each other, the top of her head barely reaching my sternum. She steps back, pats my stomach and sighs. ¡°You¡¯re too tall, Aldrich. While I like to feel young, a child is not the sensation I was looking for.¡± I laugh, ¡°Good to see you too, Brigid.¡± ¡°Yes, I suppose it has been a while. How are you feeling? I am surprised you wanted to meet immediately.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s sit and order, then I¡¯ll tell you about it.¡± Brigid shakes her head, ¡°I¡¯ve already ordered. I want to look over the gardens and you can tell me your thoughts.¡± ¡°Sure. A surprise is nice too.¡± We walk to the railings. They¡¯re carved from the metallic trees of Marwolv and have a grey, almost silver hue. I run my hands over the wood. It feels cool and more like brushed steel than wood. ¡°I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s quite the right word,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I ordered everything on the menu. You must be hungry after over two months on nothing but water and air. Don¡¯t fret, they¡¯ll pack up anything we can¡¯t finish.¡± ¡°You thought of everything.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a curse and a privilege to be as brilliant as me,¡± Brigid rests her hand on mine and leans on the railing. Her eyes dart back and forth as she tracks the birds and butterflies. A small smile graces her lips, ¡°What did the Warp look like to you?¡± ¡°An infinite ocean littered with strange lands and psychedelic colours. The creatures were strange. We were barely troubled by the minions of the Great Enemy yet attracted the unaffiliated creatures of the Warp¡¯s greatest depths like bait. The Astronomicon, the Emperor¡¯s great work and protective beacon of hope had little influence on our journey, making it impossible to track where we were going. Instead I had to steer us along the main currents, rather than cut through more tranquil sections, so that we did not lose our way. Finding the right current will be a matter of chance and careful calculation.¡± ¡°We are explorers then. Do you have a destination in mind?¡± ¡°So long as we continue to travel coreward we will reach Footfall, traverse the Maw and arrive at Port Wander, I will consider it a success. I hope to trade our goods and services for Imperial currency and news at Port Wander. As for the path we actually take, we will either run into a location on Quaani¡¯s navigator charts or have to plot something anew. As for what we discover along the way, I could not say.¡± ¡°What sort of timescale are we looking at?¡± ¡°The Koronus Expanse is some four hundred lightyears wide and one thousand lightyears deep. There are roughly six hundred and forty thousand stellar bodies we could end up at. While some, perhaps even most, do not have the currents we are navigating by, that¡¯s still, at a useful time scale, an effectively infinite number of possibilities. It is possible we will never find a path but I have hope, and a little faith, that we will encounter plenty of conflict and wealth along the way.¡± The Emperor must have his tithe in souls and wealth, after all. If he¡¯s holding a whaling harpoon or a pair of sheep shears the next time I spot him in my dreams or the Immaterium I am staying well clear. ¡°That¡¯s a rather long way of saying ¡®I¡¯ve no clue¡¯.¡± ¡°I have a nice voice.¡± Brigid laughs, ¡°If it gets any lower and sonorous, talking to you will become quite awkward for all our female personnel. Tech-apprentice humour aside, there is something new in your voice since your last change and it has become more pronounced since our voyage through the Warp.¡± ¡°Really?¡± ¡°Yes, it is, hmm, not compelling as such, just really difficult to ignore. Like a hull breach alarm, but more pleasant.¡± ¡°Thank you for telling me. I will choose when to speak with extra care.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome. That¡¯s what friends are for. You don¡¯t need to change how and when you speak. It is a good change, I think.¡± ¡°That is good to hear,¡± I smile. ¡°My sense of time is somewhat offset to others. I can subjectively go so long without speaking to others I can¡¯t stop the words from bubbling up the moment I open my mouth.¡± I also suspect a part of me is still a fat plumber, trapped on an abandoned space station with nary a friend but the machine inside my head. Even with the greatest tools in the galaxy, it is a tough habit to break and not a secret I am comfortable with sharing. Only E-SIM, and maybe Aruna, know of my origins. ¡°I think it makes you quite charming, Aldrich. It is reassuring to have you always share your thoughts. It lets your friends always know where they stand with you. Most of the time, at least.¡± ¡°Oh, is it ¡®Compliment The Boss Day¡¯?¡± ¡°We shall see.¡± I laugh. ¡°One thing I am a little curious about though is why even bother with the Imperium at all? The Koronus Expanse should have everything we need, right?¡± ¡°That and more. It¡¯s why so many Captains come here to make their fortunes, or rather risk their fortunes in the hope for more. The problem is just that. Risk. There is a high chance one only encounters disaster. While the STCs I have are great, I don¡¯t have everything and swanning around looking for it is not a reliable way to get what we need. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°The Imperium only trades its best technologies with its most favoured partners. I already have enough goods and STCs to get the clout to acquire the best facilities and designs for our vessels. Why take those risks when I can trade? I wish to make our homes the best they can be and bring a wealth of advancements back to Marwolv, not risk having them lost to new and ancient threats. I even have a little insider knowledge about where we can get the most return for specific technologies. We just have to get there and bring enough firepower to keep the Imperium from ¡®requisitioning¡¯ what we have.¡± Brigid, ¡°It still seems like a big risk to me. Surely we could stay quiet and develop on our own?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a nice thought, but someone or something always would and already has stumbled across Marwolv. Going alone against the void and its terrors has a certain romance to it. However, you¡¯ve experienced the tiniest of tastes of battle hungry xenos and, while we weathered green tides, black shoals, and blue parasites it could have easily gone the other way. ¡°By connecting with the Imperium proper we can build the relays needed to request aid. I doubt someone would ever arrive soon enough with a relief force to save Marwolv, but they might make it in time to pick up the pieces, or burn the last of it to the ground, denying whoever pillaged the planet all they have gained. It isn¡¯t much, but it is better to die with hope than live in despair.¡± ¡°Is it really that bad?¡± ¡°A lot of planets and their governing bodies in the Imperium ask that, despite how many records they have to the contrary. Much of it seems like a myth when it''s on a planet far, far away. ¡®It won¡¯t happen to us,¡¯ they think. It does. They get complacent during centuries of peace, or worn down by every manner of corruption. ¡°Then the Astra Militarum, Navy, Space Marines or Inquisition get sent in and the planet burns. It always burns. I would have had to order the same, if we couldn¡¯t fully purge the Orks. Even now, we can never be one hundred percent sure we got all the spores and will likely be fighting savage orks in the tunnels beneath Marwolv until the planet is naught but dust and ruin.¡± Brigid¡¯s hand tightens over my own and she purses her lips. ¡°The crew would have never fired the weapons. There would have been a mutiny.¡± ¡°I know. I didn¡¯t want to do it either. I¡¯m not sure I even could.¡± I shake my head, ¡°Letting the shipyard fall would have been enough. There would have been no need for a mutiny. All I had to do was give the wrong orders and command Aruna to obscure the data. ¡°Thirty million deaths now, or possibly, even likely, billions in the future. That was the choice I made after the Ork Rok hit Marwolv. I chose to keep Marwolv and its unique wealth of biology and it will be paid for in blood. ¡°I don¡¯t regret it. I like to give people a chance. Need to, even.¡± I shrug, ¡°It might not happen. We might have got all the Orks and destroyed the only webway gate in the system. I¡¯ll never believe that though, no matter how long we search. Nothing can stop another visit either way, if someone really wants to harm us. ¡°It¡¯s why we¡¯re building a fleet, fixed defences, armour and armies and will do so until Marwolv¡¯s sun burns hot enough the planet has to be abandoned, or so I hope. Many imperial officers would have just burned the world and moved on. It isn¡¯t important enough to preserve and I have samples of everything. I could terraform it from scratch if I absolutely had to, or start anew elsewhere. ¡°A calculation of time and energy saved or spent. I ran the simulations the moment the bird avatar appeared. Letting it burn and evacuating everyone left to orbit was cheaper in the long run, and would have completely centralised my dominion over Marwolv, yet I chose to save the planet and its people anyway, just to spite those who would wish us harm.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve been holding this in for a long time, haven¡¯t you?¡± says Brigid. ¡°Why share this now, of all times?¡± ¡°Oh, all sorts of reasons. I could claim that as the Warp is a realm of emotions, mine are most taxed from navigating it. I could say I am afraid of losing your companionship and took the cowards way out of waiting to tell you when you can no longer leave. ¡°The closest truth I can reach though is that I knew you would listen. I believe you see the world as numbers to be balanced, grown, or spent. You understand obsessions and the cost of dedicating oneself to a vital task. There is no other person I know with whom I can discuss price and have them empathise with the depth and complexity to which each small or large decision can cascade to, and to view each choice with the calculus required to truly understand the difference between the cheap, correct, or right path. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s quite the opinion you have of me,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t hire you for your good looks.¡± ¡°Now, now. Don¡¯t go inserting your foot where it doesn¡¯t belong. It isn¡¯t good to deliberately invoke irritation and delight with a two faced compliment. Especially after such a big speech and I¡¯m trying to hide my blushes. That¡¯s workplace bullying, I tell you.¡± I snigger. Brigid smiles, ¡°In all seriousness, Aldrich, you¡¯re not just any imperial officer though, are you?¡± We face each other and she places her hands on my chest. ¡°You don¡¯t have one heart, you have two,¡± Brigid gazes at the implant covering my third eye, ¡°and the sight to plan centuries ahead. You didn¡¯t put in all that effort just for spite, and neither did anyone else.¡± ¡°Thank you, Brigid,¡± I sigh and put on a grin, ¡°I needed to hear that.¡± ¡°Well, it is ¡®Compliment The Boss Day.¡¯ I laugh. It is rather freeing. ¡°The food has started to arrive. Let¡¯s take a seat. I think that¡¯s enough serious conversation for one day. Thank you for listening to my rambles.¡± ¡°You¡¯re most welcome.¡± The servers arrive pushing trolleys covered in miniature stasis boxes with a glass-like energy field over them. It is the most extravagant use of the technology I have ever seen as we receive over a hundred different dishes served as fresh as it is technically possible to do so. Most are vegetable and fish based, though there are small quantities of Old Earth meats that have been laboriously printed by N.O.M. modules over several days, rather than the slightly off substitutes the organic printers can churn out at speed. The rabbit and noodle stew, however, is the real deal and my favourite dish. We share our dishes and exclaim over their marvellous appearance and flavour, competing over who can guess the real ingredients before I run my internal auspex over them and find out what they really are. Brigid beats me every time and is amusingly smug about it. I eye up the pile of carefully preserved dishes, each one a small work of art in its own right, then shake my head. Just under ninety percent of the dishes remain. ¡°I¡¯m going to be enjoying that for weeks,¡± I say. ¡°Good,¡± says Brigid. ¡°That¡¯s what I wanted.¡± We set aside the rest of the food and sip our drinks. Brigid frowns and drums the fingers of her right hand against the table a few times, then sighs and looks me in the eyes. ¡°Aldrich.¡± ¡°Yes, Brigid?¡± ¡°I¡¯m having a wonderful time, but there comes a time when a girl wants more than just dinner and a recaf.¡± I nod slowly. We¡¯ve been developing our relationship for years. First I was her boss, then gradually we became friends. Now, and for the past year, we¡¯ve been tentatively feeling each other out, without properly acknowledging what we were doing. I admit I have been deliberately dense to Brigid¡¯s increasingly purposeful advancements, though, I like to think, clearly appreciative of her growing opinion of me. This, however, is the big moment she¡¯s set up for me. I can either acknowledge it, or we will go back to being friends. Brigid is a practical woman who won¡¯t hesitate to throw away a lost cause if I don¡¯t reciprocate, and I? Well, I didn¡¯t jump from a tank to a date just to mess this up. I hope. Chapter One Hundred and Four I place my hands palms up in the middle of the table and Brigid reaches out and holds my hands. ¡°Brigid.¡± ¡°Yes, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Will you be my girlfriend?¡± Brigid¡¯s eyes widen slightly, then she pulls back slightly, still keeping a strong grip on my hands, and giggles. ¡°Oh, Aldrich. I was expecting you to ask me on a proper date. Not one of these pretend meetings we¡¯ve been having for so long. Our first date. You didn¡¯t plan this at all, did you?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t want to miss the moment.¡± ¡°A whim, then?¡± Brigid frowns, then shakes her head and smiles. ¡°Really now, we have known each other long enough I should have more faith. Even so, I¡¯ve been dropping hints for years, Aldrich, and while you would enjoy my touch, you always looked a little sad. Before I give you my answer, please tell me. Why did you ask me today?¡± Brigid¡¯s knuckles go slightly white as she squeezes my fingers. Her strength registers as a series of numbers in my head, rather than me feeling any stress on my own body. I take a calming breath and wait a few seconds before I answer, even though I already used my fast thinking speed to arrive at one before Brigid finished her sentence. Keeping up the perception of humanity is a constant struggle and I have to run the equivalent of a teleprompter, written and annotated by my other minds to remind me how to speak in a relatable fashion. ¡°I have dozens of friends and a handful of close confidants, many of whom are female and whose company I enjoy. I could have called any of my friends, both male and female, for a chat and enjoyed my time with them. I didn¡¯t. ¡°Brigid. You¡¯re the only person I¡¯m more intimate with and you¡¯re the one who, after getting out of that tank, I didn¡¯t want to take time for myself first before I met up with them. That¡¯s when I realised I wanted to be more than just friends who flirt and cuddle a little bit, and that¡¯s why I¡¯m asking you today. ¡°Will you be my girlfriend? My partner? My first, last and every choice in between, of whom I spend my time with. I want to live a little. To be more than Magos Issengrund the Armageddon prepper. I want to have more fun and I want to do all of that with you.¡± Brigid gives me a blinding smile, ¡°Then yes. My answer is yes. I¡¯d love to be your girlfriend, Aldrich.¡± She giggles again, ¡°Now that¡¯s the sort of ¡®feeling young again¡¯ I was looking for. That was more a teenager¡¯s confession than an adult¡¯s. You¡¯ve been out of the game a long while, haven¡¯t you?¡± I grimace, ¡°I¡¯m glad I could provide.¡± ¡°Oh, of that, I¡¯ve no fear that you''re not up to the task.¡± Brigid shakes her head, ¡°Besides, it¡¯s not like I¡¯m any better. My children are well grown and my ex-husband is light years away. I¡¯ve been married to this job for years. I think remembering how to accommodate another person in my life will take time and we both know this relationship is going to be a little unconventional given the amount of time we both need to ourselves with our great works. You remember my warning about obsessions, right?¡± ¡°I was hoping we could work on them together. I would love your help on these armour and weapon coordination systems I¡¯m struggling with.¡± ¡°That sounds wonderful. Why don¡¯t you tell me about all the things you¡¯ve got lined up we could work on and I can see where we match. There¡¯s no reason why we should just do one project together. It¡¯s much better to have several on the go when something stalls, or one must wait for prototypes and testing to be completed.¡± ¡°Well alright. The most urgent is a refit of the gellar field for Distant Sun, now that I¡¯ve experienced new design with Iron Crane, I know we will need it. There¡¯s a lot of things I want to change about the vessel. It¡¯s always being worked on to some degree, but never proper yard time as it¡¯s our main war vessel. That¡¯s more a project I give the orders for, rather than work on day to day. ¡°What is apparent though is that we need some sort of gellar booster for Iron Crane as well, probably a type of integrant component, like the ¡®Mezoa Void Gellar Integrant¡¯. Our last journey was closer to disaster than I¡¯d like, but I don¡¯t think this project will be easy as the Mezoa integrant dampens our warp signature, it doesn¡¯t reinforce the gellar field itself and you have to disable it if the void shield components are damaged as otherwise the gellar field won¡¯t function at all.¡± Brigid nods along as I speak and I continue. ¡°The Mezoa integrant will definitely help and there is inspiration to be taken from the ¡®Displacer Fencing¡¯ that prevents teleportation. I know of no gellar bracing technology though as one usually just builds a stronger field. That would mean adjusting huge swathes of Iron Crane to fit more and bigger components in. I want to repurpose some storage, or rework some of the tertiary power generators so that they can be more than just back up when they aren¡¯t needed. It will save a lot of power if we don¡¯t have to run stronger gellar fields all the time as well, just when we need it.¡± Brigid sighs, ¡°I do love how brilliant you are, Aldrich and it sounds like you have a plan, but I can¡¯t help you with that. Perhaps we could share a project that isn¡¯t vessel based.¡± ¡°So no talking about the Icarus-Class synthesis vessel I am working on or the thruster improvements I was planning on delegating to Enginseer R¨®is¨ªn Paorach.¡± ¡°No, you can discuss those with her. I think she wants to talk to you about tanks anyway, and possibly the knights, or at least the vanguard armour. I¡¯m not sure she will be too pleased if you take up too much of her time away from her big stompy battlesuits either. Unfortunately, she idolises you too much to say no. It would be better to ask someone else to help you with the thrusters. I think it would do some good to give some other tech-priests a chance to shine, rather than always turning to your best researcher.¡± ¡°I thought she would be a good fit, given R¨®is¨ªn is Enginseer Prime for Distant Sun. She has the experience working on those systems.¡± ¡°If that¡¯s what you¡¯re after, I suggest asking the yard overseer, Kai Ballantyne for aid. We aren¡¯t building new vessels right now and while his teams are not idle, they aren¡¯t doing anything vital either.¡± ¡°Yes, that would be a more efficient use of resources.¡± ¡°It¡¯s what I do.¡± I grin, ¡°Then this one should be more to your liking. I want to extend the quantity of required implants for all crew. Many years ago, I conversed with Ambassador Lynu and flaunted my wealth as part of the negotiations to ensure she felt sufficiently cowed and worthless to agree to my demands.¡± ¡°Oh, do go on, Aldrich. This does sound like more fun.¡± Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Well, during the conversation I thought to myself that I would like to ensure that all crew were given everything the Tau are working so hard for, as part of their employment requirements and bonus, namely Voidskin and Electoo Wards. ¡°Since then, that has failed to materialise, though these upgrades have been given to all psykers since the invasion by the Great Enemy and the Orks. All those resources went into building servitors to crew all the new Adders and Iron Crane. While necessary, this has become a personal source of embarrassment, even if you¡¯re the first person I¡¯ve told about this.¡± Brigid snickers and a pair of tears roll down her cheeks. ¡°Is it really that funny?¡± I say, feeling both exasperated and amused. ¡°Absolutely. Don¡¯t stop now.¡± ¡°Fine. I was rather pleased with the suite of upgrades I gave to Marwolv¡¯s small council, and while I consider them the minimum one needs to have even a chance at survival, it isn¡¯t practical, or wise, to give that level of advancement away for free. If I had to choose one upgrade to give to everyone from the council¡¯s selection, as well as the Voidskin and Warding Electoos, it would be the Black Skeleton. ¡°The reason I thought you¡¯d like this program is that it would mean one for you too, and your height would be closer to mine. The remainder of our spare implant manufacturing capacity can go towards supplying those who actually pay for them, as well as some more invasive life support I wish to add to the void armour. At least until the fleet expands or takes casualties and we have to start building servitors again, that is.¡± Brigid wipes her thumb across her cheeks. ¡°I can follow your logic. I don¡¯t think this counts as a ¡®couple project¡¯ though. We¡¯d be going over this anyway as part of my normal work if you want to push this forward, though I suspect you would have kept the emotional commitment to these advancements to yourself in a work setting. I am happy you chose to share this with me.¡± I slump in my seat, ¡°Well, I don¡¯t have anything else other than my weapon and armour coordination systems. How about you suggest a few things?¡± ¡°Ah, well, I don¡¯t exactly have a project right now?¡± Brigid blushes. ¡°Really? What have you been doing in your free time then?¡± ¡°This is a little embarrassing.¡± ¡°Turnabout is fair play, you know.¡± ¡°Ergh, it is not.¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°We will both regret this.¡± ¡°Try me.¡± ¡°There is a new holo-show I¡¯ve been watching called ¡®Deep Sea Chef¡¯.¡± ¡°A documentary you downloaded before we left?¡± ¡°It does, indeed, document things.¡± ¡°That is wonderfully vague. What is it about?¡± ¡°Well, the star of the show, Tavin Woon, is a retired Herald.¡± ¡°Oh, the guy who located the Eldar Webway Gate and received a hefty bounty.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the one. He spent his money on getting aquatic implants so he can breathe underwater, withstand high pressures, and not worry about the bends as well as several other adaptations. See, before he joined up, his hobby was free diving. With the implants he can now dive almost seven hundred metres without a suit.¡± ¡°That¡¯s impressive.¡± ¡°It gets better. He only takes a knife with him, not even a spear gun, and tries to catch and cook undersea creatures. Quite often he ends up wrestling with them. Despite the action, the camera work is...tasteful.¡± ¡°So let me get this straight. You¡¯ve been watching a holo-show where a naked dude with a knife dives for food and cooks it afterwards, likely making moaning sounds about how good his dishes are?¡± ¡°He¡¯s not naked!¡± ¡°So if he¡¯s not wearing a suit, what does he wear?¡± Brigid clears her throat, ¡°Tighty whities that are somewhat translucent in the water.¡± I burst into laughter. ¡°Hey!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not making fun of how you pass your time, Brigid, nor do I disapprove. I am amused and horrified at the sheer audacity of this Tavin Woon fellow. To not only perform such challenges, but make a successful program out of it. He must have quite the imagination as well as a grounded understanding of the new world I brought him.¡± Brigid folds her arms beneath her breasts and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, ¡°I¡¯m glad you understand the brilliance of the show.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll catch me swimming in Iron Crane¡¯s fish tanks though, no matter how pretty the anchovies are.¡± ¡°No, but you might sink in one.¡± ¡°Yes, probably. I am a bit heavy. It¡¯s the iron in my blood.¡± ¡°Alright, I¡¯ve already said yes,¡± Brigid sniggers. ¡°You don¡¯t need to keep trying to impress me with your manliness and dad jokes.¡± ¡°It¡¯s an instinctive reaction.¡± ¡°Of course it is. Now you¡¯ve made fun of my hobby, why don¡¯t you share what you¡¯ve been doing.¡± I cast my thoughts back and frown, ¡°I used to watch Old Earth media with Quaani and read the journals and messages of our ancestors. Since Quaani was placed in stasis, I spent much of my extra time working on how to get him safely out of it. I also started the personal outings with all my officers that led to you and I becoming acquainted outside of work. Hanging out with Thorfinn and Aileen, maybe once a month, is another activity. We usually compete over something pointless, drink a lot of alcohol, and wail endlessly about petty hardships. It¡¯s quite cathartic¡± ¡°Of that I¡¯ve no doubt,¡± says Brigid, ¡°But what have you done just for you?¡± ¡°Lots of walking around my void ships, taking in the ambiance, and letting my thoughts unwind. I like sitting at the prow and staring at the stars with nothing but my armour between me and the void.¡± ¡°That does sound peaceful, but when was the last time you did something dumb, like read crass fiction, or idled an hour away in the noosphere, laughing at poorly proportioned digital avatars? When did you last do something fun and wasteful?¡± ¡°Ah, probably beer pong with Thorfinn, er, three months ago.¡± ¡°Oh dear.¡± ¡°Now that you mention it, I should probably take more time off.¡± ¡°We both should, and it probably won¡¯t happen, because that¡¯s who we are. Responsible, yet irresponsible adults.¡± I chuckle, ¡°True.¡± ¡°Neither of us are needed on watch today though, so let''s make the most of it.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know you booked the whole day off.¡± ¡°Today is part of the six days on, four days off cycle of the watches. We¡¯ll need to arrange more than a fancy meal before I risk my limited holiday allotment.¡± ¡°Fair enough. Why don¡¯t we start now?¡± ¡°You really are being spontaneous today. Sure, I¡¯m game. We can work out our list of joint projects another day,¡± says Brigid. ¡°How about we team up in a buggy race in a simulator for now.¡± ¡°Oh, designing that pram already? Shouldn¡¯t I have a say in this?¡± ¡°Not that sort of buggy!¡± Brigid laughs, ¡°Oh wow, your expression. That was great.¡± We stand and Brigid links her arm with mine, then points dramatically at the door. ¡°Lead on, Captain!¡± We head to my private quarters on Iron Crane. Brigid squeezes into my simulator pod alongside me. It neither fits nor works for two, but then, we never quite get around to turning it on anyway. Instead, we do something else to make my heart race along its one track mind. When she leaves, I can¡¯t keep the grin off my face. Our relationship really has been a long time in coming. Chapter One Hundred and five After my date I review what the fleet has been doing in my absence. The noosphere capsule is rather comfortable but I get up anyway and visit the shipyard and connect to the vessel¡¯s sensors to see what is going on. My bodyguards leave my quarters alongside me. It is a little intrusive to have them in my personal quarters, but I am taking no chances after our gellar field was compressed so much. They did, at least, leave the room where Brigid and I were snuggling, but only after a thorough scan of the room. That doesn¡¯t mean I was unguarded. I can¡¯t say I¡¯m a fan of having sex while being watched by a pair of kataphrons. It¡¯s not like the opaque cover for the noosphere pods is impervious to their sensors, or mine either, so I knew they were there the whole time. From the vessel¡¯s sensors, I detect that Iron Crane has unloaded the whole fleet. There is no debris either, so none of the helmsmen or women messed up. The vessels within don¡¯t actually fire their main thrusters to get out, nor are they towed or launched. Instead, Iron Crane fires its retro-thrusters once the void ships within have detached from their docking clamps and the vessels slide out of Iron Crane. Once free, they fire their manoeuvring thrusters to slowly separate, before firing up their main drives and accelerating away. Two Adder-Class flank Iron Crane. Distant Sun also has two Adder-Class escorts and all three vessels are accelerating away from Iron Crane, taking a path that will let them circle half the system in the time it will take Iron Crane to cut through the centre and reach the other side. Ten Moth class vessels follow Distant Sun like little ducks and their planned trajectories will have them spread out as they get further into the system. They intend to skim samples from the atmosphere of all the planets and the sun as well as drop some probes and satellites. By the time we finish crossing the system in four weeks we¡¯ll have an excellent idea of the system¡¯s value. The probes and satellites will remain behind and continue to collect data. I am pleased by the progress that¡¯s occurred without me. It is rare that I have to hover over others these days as most personnel know what they are doing. Despite Brigid¡¯s earlier comment, I am no longer the captain of any of my vessels. Instead, I have established a Fleet Command whom my captains defer to. Our first action was to give the Fleet a proper name so we could give a name to those we encounter. Stellar Fleet was chosen to match Stellar Corps and our vessels¡¯ prefix became ¡®SF¡¯. These initials amuse me every time I read them as I keep thinking of it as ¡®SciFi vessel¡¯ followed by the name of the void ship. Distant Sun is now SF Distant Sun, for example, in official correspondence, and the name on the vessel has been repainted to proclaim it. Fleet Command has five members with two liaisons per member who assist us with day to day administration. The positions are occupied by Brigid, Eire, Thorfinn, Maeve, and I. Fleet Command will likely expand in the coming decades, once we have more vessels. I am keeping the Machine Cult and Imperial Cult representatives away from Fleet Command and intend to keep it that way. Unlike the civil administration for Marwolv, they have no place in making military decisions. Like my captains and their first officers, the two main religious representatives can still contact me directly and do not have to jump through administrative hoops to do so. At least until one of them is dumb enough to abuse the privilege. Curious as to the chosen destination, I notice the order was signed off by Eire during my R&R. As always, there is a full report and I read it while simultaneously going over our available resources. My best officers¡¯ roles have not changed much, just the scope of what they do. Brigid is the Chief Finance Officer. Eire is High Factotum, an imperial fleet administrator, diplomat, and trade officer. Thorfinn is Fleet Marshal and in charge of internal security. While this is a derivative of an arbites rank that I concocted, I don¡¯t have arbites aboard my vessels as they are civilian enforcers and my fleet is a private military. I didn¡¯t want to divide the roles when the civilians within it are subject to most of the same regulations and undergo the same compulsory safety and regulation courses. Maeve Muire has been promoted from Commander to Herald Primarus. It¡¯s a similar rank to a Adeptus Mechanicus Skitarii Legion¡¯s, Legion Master. A Skitarii Legion has four macroclades, equal to a brigade in the Imperial Guard or my Stellar Corps. Each macroclade has four cohorts, a regiment equivalent. A cohort has three maniples. A maniple is the equivalent of a battalion, and has multiple companies of varying size and number depending on their role. This is rather different to how the Stellar Corps is arranged with ten companies to a battalion, ten battalions to a regiment, and so on from brigade, to division, to corps. A full corps would have thirty three point six million heralds, so I¡¯m not sure we¡¯ll ever live up to the name. Maybe one day! Probably not before someone cries heresy for using a ten, rather than twelve to organise everything though. For now, we have nine battalions on Distant Sun, twelve companies between the four Adder-Class vessels, and one company on each of the ten Moth-Class vessels. Iron Crane holds three regiments. We have a total of four regiments, one battalion, and two companies, or one hundred and thirty-eight thousand, four hundred and thirty-two Heralds. The Aeronautica has twenty squadrons of strike craft and four flights of torpedo bombers on the Adders. There are ten squadrons of strike-craft on Distant Sun, though these are not available for rapid launch like those on the Adders. The same caveat applies to Iron Crane, which has forty squadrons of strike craft across four hangers, two in the Cathedral superstructure, and two in the Castellan superstructure on the opposite side. Iron Crane also holds two flights of torpedo bombers. Not including the D-POTs reserved for the Stellar Corps, who have their own hangars and strike-craft, we have seventy squadrons of D-POT strike craft and six flights, or two squadrons, of class three D-POT torpedo bombers across the fleet. A total of one thousand and eighty craft. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. We arrive at the shipyard. I stand at an observation window and stare, for no matter how many times I visit, I can never dismiss the awe I feel. The shipyard is a colossal space one point two kilometres wide and five kilometres long. It¡¯s also shrinking as Iron Crane folds in on itself and accelerates to two point five gravities, now that it¡¯s no longer hauling so many vessels. The space is filled by millions of lights, hundreds of gantries and dozens of cranes. Massive mechadendrites, tubes, and cables lie slack, hanging from thick, plasteel beams. A hundred thousand tech-adepts, priests, and apprentices work in this space and the expandable manufactorums on the port and starboard sides of the vessel. They are aided in their labours by four hundred and fifty thousand servitors and millions of machine-spirits. The whole space is filled with the little holographic buggers and, to me, the shipyard looks more like a metal jungle filled with flitting birds and bugs. Troops of Simian-Class machine-spirits hunch atop over-sized tools, screeching at anyone unqualified who comes too close and colossal lampreys lie in wait, wrapped around folded docking rings. To everyone else, the shipyard is a cold, forbidding place, often open to the void and littered with sharp tools and crushing mechanisms. It is also a place of technological marvels, where one can observe the titanic assembly of city sized vessels. Coordinated, almost dance-like labours of hundreds of thousands of machines, move with dizzying purpose, building the tools we use to howl defiance at callous nightmares and alien wills. It is beautiful, disturbing and reassuring all at once, the grandeur of the space imparting oneself with a touch of the divine. I shake my head, clearing the intense emotions I feel in this space and continue to Overseer Kai Ballantyne¡¯s office. I intend to follow up on Brigid¡¯s advice and start him on thruster improvements as well as review the Icarus-Class project and the D-POT reworks. Rather than wait to get my hands on proper fury interceptor, or starhawk bombers, patterns, one of the projects Kai has already been given is to rework the armed shuttles into slimmer designs, reducing the height of their cross section. They don¡¯t need all that space if all they¡¯re being used for is strike-craft and there will still be plenty of room left to massively increase their mobility, armour, and firepower. There was no need to do so before because the shuttle capacity was preferable with my proximity to Marwolv. I¡¯m hoping the lower heights will let me double stack the strike-craft variants in the hangars as well. I don¡¯t have an answer to copying shark attack boats yet and we are restricted to landing on enemy hulls and flight decks, rather than cutting through the hull of the vessel like shark attack boats do. Traditional boarding torpedoes are also unavailable as I¡¯ve removed all the torpedo bays from my fleet. Thanks to their long wings, D-POTs have superb roll capabilities in space and can rapidly jink away from enemy fire, though their pitch and yaw is a little lacking. Their acceleration can hit a spectacular twenty G¡¯s if they really need to. They might be shuttles and be fairly ungainly in atmosphere, but they¡¯re really good spacecraft. I have high hopes for the project. As I near the office I continue reading Eire¡¯s report. It holds an incredibly detailed appendix that goes through the calculations explaining why we need to cross the whole system, rather than just jump right back into the warp where we entered from. The appendix is mostly Aruna¡¯s work as only a machine-spirit, or a highly experienced and enhanced astro-navigator, could hope to put together a report like this, especially in such a short time. The Stellar Fleet¡¯s destination is related to what a Mandeville Point actually is. Like most terms related to the Warp, it is both misleading and accurate. A Mandeville Point is not actually a point, but a line around the system where a vessel can enter the Warp safely. This line changes depending on the proximity and arrangement of the planets and the gravity of the central star. Some mega-structures, like the Gate of Terra, can alter where the point is, bringing it further into the system, and busy systems may insist on specific arrival and departure points to prevent collisions. While these are specific points in space, it isn¡¯t why a Mandeville Point is called a point and not a line. While a ship can enter the Warp safely anywhere beyond the Mandeville Point, the point it chooses to do so matters because of the nebulous relationship the Warp has with space and time. One point in a system can be connected to an entirely different section of the Warp than another point, even when, on a galactic scale, the two Materium points are within touching distance of each other. Taking advantage of this bizarre phenomenon is especially important when one is traversing the currents of the Warp if one requires fast travel and reliable navigation. While one could wander the warp in any direction they wish, you¡¯d have to have a strong and constant connection with the Astronomicon to avoid getting lost. The Astronomicon still only gives you your position in relation to Terra though. It doesn¡¯t tell you where the planet you want to go actually is. Following a current, however, is a reliable way of finding the planet you are looking for, at least until a current gets disrupted for all manner of reasons, like a Warp storm or deific sabotage. Despite its limitations, the Astronomicon is important because it lets you know if the current you¡¯re following is taking you closer to, or further from, your destination. This makes it possible to work out what current you need to take without having to test an infinite number of changing currents. This is why navigating near the edge of its fading influence is so tricky and why I was frustrated to lose its light so quickly when travelling from Marwolv. We¡¯ll likely spend years mapping our route as we hop between systems with seemingly no connection to each other in terms of distance in realspace but actually make sense within the Warp. Navigating the Warp won¡¯t be the greatest time sink, however. Perhaps the most hazardous and bizarre aspect of Warp travel though is not Warp entities, hazardous energies, or the lethal radiation emitted by a Warp drive¡¯s fuel, but the Warp¡¯s relationship with momentum. We exit the Warp at the same speed we enter it, regardless of how long we may have spent accelerating within the Warp itself. This means we can¡¯t enter the Warp too fast, otherwise when we exit, which is done blind, there is a risk that anything we hit could destroy the ship. Even an imperial vessel can¡¯t shrug off high mass collisions at light speed. This leaves vessels vulnerable when they leave or enter the Warp as they are much easier hit when they¡¯re almost stationary. The constant acceleration and deceleration consumes a lot of fuel and time. Zero point one C is the fastest I¡¯d be willing to risk regularly, as that¡¯s the speed of a macro-cannon shell and I know our shields can rebuff those. None of these factors stop desperate or bold captains from flouting good practice when necessary though. There are a few scenarios I can think of when this continued momentum can be exploited, like vital courier work, or sneaking into a system with your thrusters off, coasting on preserved momentum. It also won¡¯t stop me if I have to make an emergency Warp translation to escape from superior fire power either. Much like a catastrophic failure of a Warp drive, there is no escaping certain death when high speed manoeuvres go wrong. I am not looking forward to finding out what might drive me to such extremes. To solve the last crisis I chose to be a navigator, something I swore I would never do. I doubt the next crisis I face will have a pleasant consequence. I meet with Kai at his office. He is new to his post and rather enthusiastic about being given additional responsibilities so soon. He is also satisfied he can set his workers to building D-POT and void ship engine prototypes as it will be good training for everyone and provide rewarding labour. I¡¯m not sure where he found the amasec, but it was a wonderful way to get to know someone. Praise to the Machine-God for the lack of hangovers. It is moments and realisations like this when, for a brief moment, I actually like the forty-second Millennium. Kai even has a real wooden desk for me to knock my knuckles against. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be in his post for a long time with preparations like these. Chapter One Hundred and Six The next four weeks go as planned and the only discovery of note is the high percentage of metallic asteroids, a whopping thirty-two percent, four of which is adamantium. With the data gathered from the system we are able to create a model of how it was formed and realise two of the rocky planets in the system collided fifteen million years ago and their shattered remains are easy pickings. Unfortunately, none of the remaining planets have an atmosphere and the radiation is high; it¡¯s a rather shit place to build a proper colony or terraform any moons or planets. Even with our void shields I¡¯m glad we aren¡¯t staying here for long. Any potential mining stations would have to hide in the shadow of a gas giant at the edge of the system. Their mining barges and crews would have to be suitably equipped for long term exposure to hard radiation and anything they mine would require additional purification as well. Thanks to its Warp proximity to Marwolv, I¡¯m not willing to write this system off, but I wouldn¡¯t call it a great start to our travels either. The only progress I make while crossing the system is personal as Brigid and I settle into a routine, squeezing time from our commitments to spend one day every ten days with each other and a couple of evenings as well. To a younger couple, this would be sheer madness and a sign of a troubled relationship, but to someone in their late seventies like me, ten days passes really fast, so long as I keep one instance of myself at a standard speed. Brigid is a decade younger than me, but she¡¯s the type to stare at a complex problem for two hours and find out it was actually two days when she finally comes to. Fortunately, we have access to each other¡¯s diaries and can schedule ourselves in. As neither of us always read ahead of what we¡¯re supposed to be doing at any one moment, meeting up is occasionally a complete and delightful surprise. We leave the B sequence star system and arrive at the next after a brief, five day skim through the Warp. This one has a russet, K sequence star. The routine starts up again. Scan the system, plot a route, then survey and travel while dropping planetary probes, satellites, and grabbing atmospheric and corona samples. There is no need to delay our travel to grab resources as we have plenty, and we aren¡¯t building new vessels right now. Like this, we continue to travel for three years, each system taking, on average, between three and five weeks to travel to and survey. Our journey times are more dependent on how far we need to cross the system to get to the next Mandeville Point, than the time we actually spend in the Warp. Something I am grateful for as it is a horrible place. My skills as a navigator grow and I begin to understand the subtle flows of the warp and better pick up the punishing light of the Astronomicon at greater depths. No longer do we have to drop to every system as I learn to skim the surface of the warp to pick out nearby currents and their direction, letting me steer Iron Crane between them if they are heading coreward and aren¡¯t too far away. That doesn¡¯t stop us shoving out a probe for a quick scan though. No need to give up valuable data for the sake of an hour or two, circling a Mandeville Point. Throughout my downtime, I work on my projects and practise my navigator skills, as well as gradually assemble the most complex E-SIM module to date: Warp Infrastructure. I purchased this module for a crown and it is the most arcane science I have learned. During the thirty-ninth intra-system traversal, I stand before a workbench in my clean assembly room, in my quarters, examining an orange box the size of a commercial airline flight recorder. My quarters on Iron Crane are a larger version of those I had on Distant Sun. I still have a state room on Distant Sun, but I gave the private laboratory and workshop to the new captain. The workshop and laboratory of my new quarters is a fairly unassuming space as most of the machinery and equipment are in self-contained boxes, varying in size from a mini-fridge to a lorry trailer. The machines are in the Federation style, with clean lines, flat surfaces, and brightly lit. The colour palate is muted and inoffensive. There is the odd touch of gothic flair as an homage to imperial culture. The ceiling is vaulted, switches are lined with gold, buttons are faced with the Opus Machina, and there is a small altar to the Machine God in an alcove. The altar is cut off by a transparent void shield so that the incense, scented oils, and candle smoke do not ruin the cleanroom protocols my laboratory and workshop operate with. I also have a machine shop, where I can perform more traditional labour, like metalworking and carpentry. This space is in the mechanicus style, again with a vaulted ceiling, but with extra angels, skulls, and gilding as well as small alcoves holding statues of Imperial Saints. There is also a wall mosaic of the Emperor and his uncorrupted sons slaying faceless and deliberately obscured depictions of Immaterium entities. There¡¯s another mosaic of the Stellar Corps, led by myself, fighting xenos. Having an image of my own, Imperium approved achievements displayed opposite the Emperor and his sons is hugely egotistical and unsubtle. Perfect for displaying my dedication to imperial values. If I took it seriously, I would cringe every time I saw it. Most of the time I think the decorations are a good laugh, but I can¡¯t quite suppress my pleasure and pride I get for completing the large artworks. It¡¯s not a skill I had before I woke up in the forty-second millennium and applying the technical drawing skills I have picked up to a creative pursuit often feels like a greater achievement than the labours that are depicted in my art. The scent of incense and oil is heavy in this room, with an undertone of sparking metal and sawdust. I rather like the smells and much prefer the machine shop to the cleanroom. I find the quiet drone of gregorian chant, murmuring from the vox casters in the mouths of the imperial saints, quite soothing. The machine shop isn¡¯t the right space for the box I¡¯ve just finished though. The orange box, or Warp Infrastructure module is an esoteric arcanotech construct called a data structure. A data structure is an artificial Warp entity. It is an idea, or dream, in a box, one that the more you know about how it works, the harder it is to make. As you can¡¯t make one without knowing everything about it, it was an immensely frustrating and fascinating object to create. One problem was that a data structure is influenced by one¡¯s interpretation of it, which is why mine is orange, because I thought of it as a black box technology and couldn¡¯t get the idea out of my head. Knowing that the so-called ¡®black boxes¡¯ on aeroplanes are actually ¡®international orange¡¯ in colour, meant that I had to colour my Warp Infrastructure module orange or it would not work. It shames me to say, but this reminds me of Ork technology as they paint stuff red to make it go faster, or black to make it tougher. The technology also has similarities with the ¡®philosopher''s feline¡¯ principle, which I absolutely refuse to name properly in my head because I do not want to have to fit a furry critter inside a too small box. I hold out my hand over the box, ¡°Alright E-SIM, send it in.¡± ++Acknowledged.++ The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. A bolt of lightning strikes the box from my hand and the module is teleported to the warp. ++Translation Successful. Running Diagnostics. Success. Running test sequence. Test sequence successful. Powering up Warp Infrastructure module. Time to initialisation, thirty minutes.++ ¡°Thank you, E-SIM.¡± I walk to my personal armoury and don my new armour and servo-harness. It bears some resemblance to the Astartes Mark IV Maximus Pattern Power Armour with its thick chest plate that I took from the space marine STC. While the large, rigid plate makes it difficult to bend your waist more than fifty-five degrees, the single piece is relatively easy to manufacture and more robust than the two piece torso armour of the Mark VII and VIII. I don¡¯t have the STCs for those either. It is far less fragile than the small plates of dragonscale armour I was using before, but also much more annoying to replace when broken as you have to recycle the whole chest plate, rather than a scale or two. The external look of the helmet was copied from the Mark VII Aquila Pattern Power armour, the same armour worn by Sergeant Odrahan of the Barghest Chapter, rather than use the Mark IV, as I didn¡¯t want to be miss identified as a chaos space marine. The electronics inside are all from the Mark IV though. The traitor legions were issued the Mark IV right before the Horus Heresy and use them far more than loyalist marines do. I added the gorget from the Mark VIII Errant Pattern too and discarded the bulky shoulder pads of space marine power armour in favour of the more flexible, segmented arms and legs of Mechanicus Dragon Scale Pattern Power Armour. I¡¯d love a stealthy and manoeuvrable Mark X Phobos Pattern, rather than this cobbled together imitation of Belisarius Cawl¡¯s grand work, but that¡¯s exclusive to Primaris Vanguard Space Marines and Riever Squads, so I doubt I¡¯ll be getting hold of one anytime soon. Perhaps with time, and enough looting, I will develop my own, but it isn¡¯t a priority. With my armour in place, I grab my prototype of the Mark II Marwolv Pattern Lasgun and a plasma pistol. My servo-harness reaches out and fixes fifty micro-missiles to my shoulder. I¡¯m not ready for where I¡¯m going, but then, I never will be. I send a vox to Bedwyr Keane, ¡°Bedwyr, as discussed, I will be initiating my experiment within the next fifteen minutes. While I should remain in contact with you, do not be alarmed that I will not be present.¡± ¡°Very well, Magos. We will be waiting to assist if you need us.¡± There is a slight resignation to his voice. He is not happy, but then, that¡¯s his job. He wouldn¡¯t have such great equipment either if I didn¡¯t perform the occasional dangerous experiment. ¡°Thank you, Bedwyr. Issengrund out.¡± I wait out the final fifteen minutes, examining the lasgun. It has a few nifty features, like the double barrel. There is only one focusing lens at the end though. The double barrel reduces the stress of burst firing hellfire standard shots, reducing the cooling requirements and increasing the longevity of each barrel by fifty percent. Rather than fire two thousand hellfire shots, or ten thousand within a standard lasgun power range, this gun will do a minimum of six thousand hellfire shots as burst fire, or thirty thousand at its lower power, automatic fire setting. The average lifespan of an Imperial Guardsman is three minutes during a battle, so there is little incentive to make a long lasting weapon. My Heralds are far more robust and spend a lot of time at the range, so it is worth producing a more long lasting, complex weapon. The design is based on the Kalibrax V-1 Pattern Lasrifle used by the pre-heresy Solar Auxilia and the Integrated Lathe-Lasrifle, favoured by tech-priests. I borrowed the over and under barrel arrangement from the Tau pulse rifles. The beefed up focusing lens, was cribbed from a long-las and cranks up the effective range from two hundred metres to one thousand metres. None of this is revolutionary, the tricky part comes from the integration with the void armour of the Stellar Corps, or my custom power armour. The Mark II Marwolv Pattern Lasgun doesn¡¯t have a charge pack, but takes power from the armour of the user through the gauntlets, rendering it useless if your enemy steals your weapon and removing the need to reload. There is no awkward cable like the first version, or other imperial hellfire designs. You can literally hold the trigger for two hours straight before you need to replace the barrels. The other feature of the weapon is its aim assist function, where the machine-spirit in the gun coordinates with the ones in the void armour so that every shot the user fires in burst mode hits exactly the same spot, punching through armour it wouldn''t normally be able to breach, like Tau fio¡¯tak, or even space marine power armour. This is the function I struggled so much with as everything had to be carefully integrated between all the different systems, then make it point and shoot like an FPS game on easy mode. Friend or Foe identification and image recognition cogitators for human and xeno armours and their weak points also took a lot of work. The ¡®best guess¡¯ machine-spirit was even more complicated. The gun even has stabilisers in it so you can run and keep the gun level while you do so. It is stupidly easy to use. Hold the trigger for standard power automatic fire, squeeze it once for a hellfire burst. That¡¯s it. Put it in the hands of an idiot and they at least won¡¯t shoot the wrong person, like themselves. For a skilled individual, it is absurdly deadly, letting them put their focus on battlefield awareness and tactics, rather than trying to make difficult shots, or count their ammo. It effectively extends the number of hours an individual can fight for without supply, rest, or losing concentration. While the additional firepower is fantastic, it is its ease of use that really makes it deadly. Last of all are the two rails. The rail at the bottom can attach the standard bayonet or vibro-blade, or a one shot shotgun, flamethrower canister, or grenade launcher. These are all standard imperial designs. What¡¯s new is the micro-missile launcher attachment I created. It can hold one shot and there is a clip on both sides of the gun that can hold two reloads each. They are launched using the armour¡¯s auspex guiding the way, a button press, and a mental command using an MIU. Their variable payloads allow for each user to combat a larger range of threats at range than they normally can with grenades or flamethrowers, without having lug around specialist weapons that might not be needed. The rail on the top can hold a scope, but there is little need for it with the zoom functions of the armour. Instead, there is a sensor mechadendrite that can be used to peek around corners, or swivel back and forth, giving a more comprehensive view of the environment than a restrictive helmet would normally allow. You can even use it to watch your own back, if you really want to. It also helps with picking targets when hiding behind a MOA shield. The Marwolv Pattern Mark II Lasgun and MOA Mark II Void Armour are currently in testing. I am waiting to hear back from Maeve with her verdict, but I wouldn¡¯t take it for a jaunt if I didn¡¯t think it was ready. ++Aldrich, the module is ready.++ I blink rapidly, shoulder my weapon, and take a deep breath, ¡°Open the portal.¡± A black marble appears in front of me, hovering in the air. It trembles, little blobs form on its surface, then it explodes into a three metre wide, purple portal. The centre pushes out like a convex lens and swallows me. The portal snaps shut and from one infinitely short moment to the next I am placed elsewhere. I sweep my lasgun from side to side, looking for threats and taking in the environment. Desert sands swirl up worn stone steps to a flaking basalt platform. Above my head is the arch of a three metre, circular gate, similar to an Eldar webway gate. My lips twitch with a suppressed smile when I notice it is bright orange. Above lie the dizzying swirls of the warp, crashing against a vibrant dome of energy that, with every tumultuous clash ripples with the light of the aurora borealis. In the distance hangs a voidship, my eyes and sensors take in its almost incomprehensible bulk as I calculate its size. Fifty kilometres long, sixteen kilometres wide, and twelve kilometres tall, the vessel is unlike any imperial vessel I know of: its central beam is sword-like with a pronged hilt that gives the vessel a distinctive trident look. Defensive turrets line its spine and keel and a powerful lance hangs beneath its central prow. The Cathedral and Castellan structures are more like a cluster of hive spires, than a single structure. The batteries of lances and macro cannons lining the two outer prongs the the front third of the centre hull are as numerous as they are gargantuan. The spine mounted turrets are equally imposing. ¡°Holy shit! What is that?¡± ++That, Aldrich, is me.++ Chapter One Hundred and Seven ¡°That can¡¯t be real,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s absurdly big.¡± ++It is not real. The vessel is a data structure, much like the portal you built, but significantly more complicated. However, it is modelled off an Abyss-Class void ship. I have records of ten being built by the Federation. You have records of the Imperium building three, though it is possible they were salvaged, rather than built from scratch.++ ¡°I want one.¡± ++It is unlikely the STC for such a vessel remains anywhere in the galaxy and you could not derive one from my data structure either. Were you to disassemble and scan every part, when building them in the Materium, nothing would work.++ ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± I sigh. ¡°What was the purpose of building such a large artificial Warp entity?¡± ++It is the defence for the E-SIM project. I am its central hub. Had not all the other Warp Taps been destroyed it would have permitted FTL coms throughout the galaxy as all E-SIMs would connect to me.++ ¡°I had not realised you are connected to a set point in the Warp, no matter where I am in the Materium or Immaterium. If you weren¡¯t though, Distant Sun would have collided with you, and not the space station I woke up on. I can¡¯t believe I didn¡¯t think about that before. It completely violates everything I know about navigating the Warp.¡± ++So does the Eldar Webway and the Necron Dolmen Gates, as does the Jericho-Maw Warp Gate. The Warp is a realm of possibility, just because you or I do not know how, does not make it impossible.++ ¡°You have the STC on how to make Warp Taps though, which means you can make fixed gates, and therefore FTL coms.¡± ++All breaches into the Warp generate noise. Do you really want to create a noisy hub in the Warp? It is much more turbulent now than it was when this technology was developed.++ ¡°I don¡¯t think astropathic relays are much better.¡± ++They do not have a fixed breach to the Warp and I do not know how to create a separate space on par with the Webway. An Abyss-Class is a grand vessel, capable of taking on a whole fleet. It cannot face down an infinite number of demons and you cannot build an infinite number of data-structures to support me. ++A network of portals could be hijacked too, similar to how the minds of psykers can be breached. The FTL coms you dream of could become the weakness that destroys you and humanity. Is it really worth it? Can you build technology to rival the might of the Emperor¡¯s protective bindings? Even his defences can be breached.++ ¡°You can also close a breached mind with a bullet and a data structure with a self-destruct mechanism.¡± ++You still can¡¯t build a data-structure fleet capable of obliterating an infinitely respawning army of demons though, let alone the greater gods of the Warp. Your network will do you no good if you have to keep destroying it to prevent a breach.++ I groan, ¡°No, I don¡¯t think I can. How many additional portals do you calculate I could build here before you were overrun?¡± ++Zero. You already attract a lot of attention. Have you forgotten how Bad Penny tracked you down three times? Tyranids found you once. The double bird brained schemer possibly predicted your coming and plotted to eliminate you at least once, possibly twice. The Eldar definitely predicted your existence once. Do not push your luck, Aldrich. You must reinforce and hide this area as best as you can, as fast as you can. Your upgrades require you to draw increasingly more power. The more power you draw, the greater attention you will gather. You know this.++ ¡°I¡¯ve become a little careless, haven¡¯t I? The days of scrabbling through scrap are far behind me, hopefully forever. Every time I think I have my life under control, or that I am working on every possible level to secure every possible contingency, I am reminded that I am falling short. It¡¯s not a great feeling.¡± ++Defence is a losing game. Even if you possess powerful deterrents, there will always be those willing to take their chances, whittling away at your resources until you can no longer hold on. The Imperium usually wins in the same manner. The only options are to destroy your enemies first, or not play at all. You can do neither. At least for now. Unlike most, each opponent you defeat makes you stronger. Survive long enough and victory will be yours. Always.++ ¡°Thank¡¯s E-SIM. I appreciate the encouragement. In that spirit, let¡¯s do what we came here to do.¡± As I turn around to face the portal, I glimpse golden chains, each link as large as an Adder-Class destroyer, have ensnared E-SIM. Its surface flickers and I see massive holes have been punched through E-SIMs thick armour. When I look over my shoulder for a closer look, the chains are missing and E-SIM¡¯s hull is whole. ¡°Hey, E-SIM. You¡¯re not restricted by anything or anyone here are you?¡± ++No. I am unfettered and unrestrained.++ Well that¡¯s not encouraging. I have three excellent eyes and I am certain of what I saw. What should I even do about it? Is taking action even wise? I hate decisions like this. Either way, I can¡¯t do anything about it for now. My power armour alerts me of spiking pressure in my fists and my spiralling thoughts return to the present. At the foot of the portal platform, I retrieve a small orange box from my servo-harness, and place it upon the lifeless, false earth. I turn on the data-structure with a mental vox command and my surroundings stutter. From one blink to the next appears an orange column, covered in offset holes. I push more data structures, each the size of a hazelnut into each hole into the spongy medium inside the column. I return through the portal and grab a wheelbarrow full of special stasis boxes of varying size, and return to the Warp. When I return, I see that the column is now lush with plants. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Next I harvest each plant, placing the parts I need in the stasis boxes, and travel back to my quarters with my preserved plants. At last, I have everything I need to cure Quaani. Quaani has already been moved to my quarters from Distant Sun. He¡¯s out of stasis, but sedated and waiting in my private surgery suite. I wish Alieen was here to help me with this, but he is far away and Ylien, the Eldar Warlock, is not trustworthy enough to assist, so I must perform the operation and rituals by myself. Wheeling plants into a surgery theatre is an incongruent experience and brings up memories of my first career where I would be wheeling materials into all manner of locations that would never normally see a wheelbarrow. The surgery suite has been remodelled to look like an imperial chapel, with the operating table doubling as the altar and overlooked by two golden statues of the Emperor. Twelve small ritual circles surround it, all placed along the circumference of a larger one. In each circle I place a stasis box with a data structure plant. Because the plants aren¡¯t actually real, physical objects, I can¡¯t extract components from them to make medicines. Instead, they are ritual components, similar to sacrificing a person, or demon for its power and properties, but less messy and with consistent, custom results. I look down at Quaani. He lies naked on a gently heated plasteel slab covered in runes. Quaani is in poor shape, somehow having grown while in stasis. He is little more than a four metre scarecrow, with twisted, overly long limbs and a prominent forehead that bulges unnaturally from his skull. His hands are webbed and his legs have begun to fuse into a single, sinuous, serpent-like limb. He has lost all his hair and his skin has begun to form scales. Surrounding Quaani are tables heavy with neatly arranged tools, and drugs. The most notable is a bio-tank, filled with suspended silver particles in a clear liquid that holds a modified black skeleton, stuffed with the same implants I gave to my small council as well as additional hyperweave threads and armoured scaffolding for new organs and muscles to grow upon. I go over everything one last time, but everything is in its place and nothing is peeking at me from the Immaterium. Centering myself, I focus all my minds on the ritual, then place a sample of my dull grey blood in an auramite bowl engraved with silver script. Next I gather the prepared drugs and Warp laden minerals and plug them into blackstone cuffs that I attach around Quaani¡¯s wrists, and ankles. A thick band is secured over his forehead. Last, I light twelve candles and place them on top of each stasis box. I stand by Quanni¡¯s head and open my third eye, taking extra care to stare exactly where his own is, hidden beneath the blackstone band. Immediately, corrosive energy blasts from my forehead and feeds into the blackstone band. The ritual circles flash and all the candles begin to burn different colours as the plants beneath them dissolve, flicker, and fade. Thick smoke twists into thin cables that arc high, then twine together and funnel into Quaani¡¯s chest. For a moment, I struggle to maintain concentration as a stray thought intrudes on the ritual: that smoke shape looks like a Terry¡¯s Chocolate Orange. Slowly, the colourful smoke forms a cocoon around Quaani. Once the cocoon is complete, I dip my hands in my own blood and place them on the smoke cocoon. The cocoon feels spongy and I push slightly against it. It becomes harder to compress the stronger I push against it, like lunar regolith. The colours leach from the cocoon and it turns grey. They drip inside the hollow, filling it with a pseudo liquid. Quaani¡¯s body lifts off the table then floats within the cocoon. Once he is floating, the cocoon gives way, and my hands and upper arms pass through the cocoon and into Quaani¡¯s body without harming him. I receive almost no feedback until I channel my power in the manner Alieen taught me too, becoming instantly aware of every detail of Quaani¡¯s body. Without my E-SIM modules and almost eight years of practice I would be completely overwhelmed. Instead, his body becomes a mess of colours in my head, with different colours highlighting the bits that are corrupted and must be purged, and others where they do not match my own genetics. Using my nanyte lathes, I inject my nanites into Quaani, directing them to alter and remove Quaani¡¯s cells. Occasionally, I use my biokinesis to supplement the nanites. Foul, tar-like liquid, with an iridescent sheen and coloured like old blood pours from Quaani, out of the cocoon, and into pre-prepared channels and drains on the plasteel operating slab. Slowly, Quaani¡¯s body shrinks and his features change; his nose shrinks slightly and points down less. His forehead retreats to standard proportions and his cheeks and body begin to fill out with new tissue, until he looks like he could be my son. He still has no hair and his fingers are long and have an extra joint like mine. He has no freckles and is paler than I am. As he changes, the liquid he floats in loses its colours and, by the time I am finished, it is completely clear. Quaani sinks back onto the slab. I close my third eye and the smoke and liquid disperse without trace. I grin. The ritual is complete. Next comes the more grisly part where I carefully transfer Quaani¡¯s body to his new black skeleton and integrate his new implants. With my advanced machinery, and a huge amount of practice from making servitors, it only takes me eighteen hours to rebuild his body, piece by piece. Last of all, I set the skin tone of his voidskin to fine light brown, and integrate the false hair radiators and set them to black, matching his phenotype closer to his Arabian Gulf ancestry. It makes him look far more human than a navigator normally appears, which I hope he will enjoy. All that¡¯s left is to clear up and remove all the ritual traces while I wait for Quaani to heal. Once that is complete, I continue with my more normal work, monitoring Quaani remotely. To my great surprise, my Rejuvenat Gland and Regenerative Hormone modules carry over to Quaani, and once the Rejuvenat Gland grows in after two weeks, Quaani finishes healing rapidly and wakes two hours later. I rush over while he lets himself out of the tank and gets dressed. He stumbles about quite a bit, unused to his shorter height and enhanced strength. I enter the surgery and see him standing in the middle of the room. The moment our eyes meet, my emotions overwhelm me and I run towards him. Embarrassment flashes across his face, but he accepts my hug with great patience and even hugs me back briefly, before pushing me away. ¡°Hello Quaani.¡± ¡°Hi, Aldrich,¡± Quaani folds his arms tightly against his chest and stares at his feet, then takes a deep breath and watches my face. ¡°Am I OK now?¡± ¡°Yes, Quaani. You¡¯re cured.¡± Quaani¡¯s face scrunches up and he bursts into tears. I step forward but he puts his hand up between us. ¡°Give me a moment, will you?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± I turn around and wait. Less than a minute later, Quaani stops sniffing and says, ¡°Alright, I¡¯m done.¡± I turn back and grin, ¡°Let¡¯s go get a cup of recaf, eh? Maybe something to eat too, if you''re up for it.¡± ¡°Ah, I¡¯m not hungry, but I would like a drink.¡± Quaani¡¯s face goes blank, then a look of wonder overcomes him, ¡°I¡¯m not hungry!¡± He jumps up and down a couple of times and thrusts his hands into the air. ¡°This is awesome. Thank you, Aldrich!¡± Quaani rushes over, gives me a quick hug, then strides to the door. He hasn¡¯t seen Iron Crane or my finished quarters and has no idea where he¡¯s going, but he¡¯s clearly going somewhere and I am happy to let him wander about until he remembers how to think. It should be any minute now, right? Chapter One Hundred and Eight Quaani is more savvy than I expected for someone just out of a biotank and yet to adjust to new implants; he queries Sadako for directions and quickly finds my private kitchen and scans the embedded codes on the cupboards to find two mugs, recaf and a tin of shortbread biscuits I baked myself. We chat for two hours about where we are, what happened to his psy-errant friends, and how my own acquaintances are doing. I save the shock of me finally having a girlfriend for another day as he¡¯s just gone from knowing he¡¯s going to mutate uncontrollably and die to waking up better than ever, to learning all his friends died while he was asleep. As he digests the news, I quietly cook us grox burgers and chips and put on some quiet music, leaving him to his thoughts. We eat in silence, then retreat to the sitting room and relax on the comfy sofas. I fire up my work and wait for Quaani to decide when he is ready to talk, but he falls asleep and I put a blanket over him then continue to work through the night, happy to leave him be. Eleven hours later, he finally stirs. I bring him a fresh recaf and some fruit sweetened frumenty: boiled grains in milk. Quaani mumbles his thanks, and eats his food. After he¡¯s finished, he places his empty bowl on the low table in front of him and the spoon rattles with a distinctive clatter. ¡°Aldrich, I am going to have a shower and refresh my clothes.¡± He looks directly at my forehead with its cybernetic covering. ¡°Then I have some questions.¡± ¡°Of course, Quaani.¡± He nods, seemingly satisfied with my reply, then leaves and returns twenty minutes later, looking much the same as when he left except for a slight flush to his skin as his body sheds heat from the shower. He clearly isn¡¯t used to the more robust Voidskin and turned the shower up really high as his hair is bright white on my thermal sensors as it helps him cool down. Quaani sits opposite me and taps the centre of his forehead where an identical cover to mine covers his third eye, ¡°Can you show me?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± I turn my head away from Quaani. The covering on my eye retracts and I open my third eye. I have better control than I used to and the paint on the wall blisters slightly, rather than the plasteel beneath becoming pitted and gradually disintegrating. ¡°How?¡± says Quaani. I close my third eye and face Quaani, ¡°I prayed to the Emperor for a way to help you. He granted me a ritual that would allow me to match your genetics to my own, purging unwanted mutations in the process. For you to retain your own gifts, he blessed me with an original navigator¡¯s body. I also gave you a lot of new implants. The manuals are on your MIU.¡± ¡°Yeah, I saw them. You really went all out. I¡¯m surprised you didn¡¯t add Aetheric Wave-Spars while you were at it too.¡± ¡°They are illegal and as dangerous to the user as they are to the user¡¯s targets.¡± ¡°Uh huh, and I bet you don¡¯t have the STC for them either.¡± ¡°I do not. Even if I did have one and could construct a master-crafted version, I still wouldn¡¯t experiment with Warp channelling boosters with you, Quaani. Besides, if you want to blow shit up, there are plenty of other ways to do so without cooking your brain inside your skull.¡± ¡°I thought the good ones prevented that sort of thing.¡± ¡°They can, but if they get over-saturated they can still explode without warning. Even with your newly reinforced skull, the equivalent of a plasma grenade cooking off next to your head would not do you any favours, or for those around you.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°¡®Ah¡¯, indeed, Quaani. Let¡¯s return to the topic at hand.¡± Quaani folds his arms and clasps his chin, ¡°Well, I don¡¯t really know what else to say. You¡¯re a navigator. I¡¯m a navigator. We both know that intense emotions, or reacting in an exaggerated manner is best avoided whenever possible. Yesterday was enough of an exception. I will process this in my own time.¡± ¡°I was hoping for a little humour.¡± ¡°Happy to disappoint.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Alright. We¡¯ll table your ¡®I¡¯m so shocked¡¯ reaction for another day. I want to talk about something I consider far more important. How do you feel about being genetically related to me?¡± Quaani leans back and closes his eyes, ¡°I¡¯m not sure yet. I haven¡¯t seen my parents for decades. I don¡¯t remember them all that well. Both of them were quite distant and rather strict, but they also did their best to protect me from harm. I feel a little lost, I think.¡± Quaani frowns and looks back at me, ¡°How related to you am I? Cousin, uncle, clone?¡± ¡°You¡¯re my son, Quaani. We¡¯ve always danced about the subject. I never wanted to intrude on how you felt about your parents, but I raised you to the best of my ability in their absence. I hoped to ensure you were happy. At the same time, I wanted to keep my distance somewhat, so that I would not substitute you for the children I left behind, millennia ago. ¡°Treating you as a substitute would have been cruel to you, for you are your own person and worthy of family and affection. It would have dishonoured the memory of my previous children and become a form of self-torture for myself. At the same time, keeping my distance from the one person on Distant Sun, especially a child, was impossible and would have been irresponsible too. ¡°I couldn¡¯t talk to you about this before as you were too young, and previously all I had was two machine-spirits to consult with and neither could, or would, help with such matters, so I¡¯ve always kept these thoughts to myself. ¡°Now though, there are no such restrictions. You are my son by blood and deeds and, if you are willing, I would like to formally adopt you. I do not require an immediate answer and will treat you the same regardless of if you say yes or no.¡± Quaani looks shocked, but he quickly smooths his expression, then smirks, ¡°You¡¯ve had far too much practice dropping bombs since I took a long nap.¡± I chuckle. ¡°In all seriousness,¡± Quaani shakes his head, ¡°I¡¯m not sure why you are telling me all this. It doesn¡¯t matter to me who I am related to and, your struggles, while enlightening, do not change the past nor alter how I feel. Does it really matter if you formally adopt me or not? Can¡¯t we just carry on as before? This is all a bit much.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°If that¡¯s what you wish, we can do that. While chasing warm, fuzzy feelings is nice and all, there is a more practical reason behind why I want to properly adopt you, Quaani.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°Inheritance. Every battle is a coin toss between life and death. I can load the odds in my favour but, with the number of high stakes fights I get into, there is a high chance I will die before you do. Should that happen, I want to leave my fleet to you. ¡°Navigators are treated best aboard their dynasty¡¯s fleet. On other vessels they are often little better than prisoners. By adopting you, I hope to remove that obstacle for you. It would be even better if I could become a Rogue Trader, but for some reason, that never seems to happen. Doing anything or getting anywhere of significance takes forever on a galactic scale.¡± ¡°You want to adopt me, just so I can continue to live free and happy if, or when, you die?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± I clear my throat. ¡°Also, it would be nice to be called, Dad. Even if it¡¯s only once.¡± Quaani¡¯s face scrunches up and he slowly shakes his head, ¡°I don¡¯t think I can do that. I don¡¯t want to forget what little I have left of my parents. Uncle, maybe? Yeah. I could do that. Or old dude.¡± I snort, hiding my disappointment behind a brief laugh, ¡°Sure, that will do.¡± ¡°I still get all your stuff though, right?¡± ¡°Yes, you do. Young rascal.¡± ¡°Nice, uncle old dude!¡± I shake my head and smile. ¡°Aldrich?¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°That¡¯s OK. Apologies for presuming.¡± ¡°No. I don¡¯t mind. It makes me happy. Thanks for looking out for me.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to take a walk around Iron Crane. Check out all the shiny new stuff.¡± ¡°Alright.¡± ¡°Can I come back or do I need to stay in the navigator spire?¡± ¡°This is the navigator spire. These are my quarters and there is a room for you here if you want it. You also have your own quarters here as well, with your own private elevator and guards. No one will disturb you, if you don¡¯t want to see anyone.¡± I smirk, ¡°Or if you are seeing someone.¡± ¡°Deal with your own love life before you tease me about my own.¡± ¡°Ah, well, if you''re up for one more bomb?¡± ¡°Wait, no! Seriously? Who?¡± ¡°Brigid.¡± ¡°The purser lady? Divorcee with two adult kids?¡± ¡°She¡¯s the one.¡± ¡°You chose the one woman who can squeeze both your coin purses? That¡¯s pretty dumb.¡± ¡°Cheeky brat. Go for your walk and leave me in peace. Maybe check out the beach, yeah?¡± ¡°The what now?¡± I shrug, ¡°It¡¯s a big vessel. There are more amenities here than Distant Sun. The beach is a sophisticated swimming pool, or a vivarium you can swim in, depending on how you look at it.¡± ¡°Next you''re going to tell me there is a forest somewhere in here.¡± ¡°Yes, we have an arboretum. It is combined with the observation dome. There are multiple gardens in the habitation district too.¡± ¡°Wow.¡± ¡°You will have an escort when you leave. They are discrete and you might not notice them. The ship is pretty safe, but no point taking chances.¡± Quanni shrugs, ¡°You need to give your minions something to do, I suppose.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t disparage the people who have to take a plasma round for you. They might trip on their well tied shoe laces before they can make the jump.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± Quaani laughs. ¡°Do they even have shoe laces?¡± ¡°Only half of the time. Depends if they''re in uniform or void armour.¡± ¡°Way to hammer in the point.¡± ¡°I am an Adeptus Mechanicus Magos Explorator. All I see is nails. All I hear is prayers and the begging of the ignorant.¡± Quaani raises an eyebrow, ¡°All you taste is your own self importance too, I bet.¡± ¡°I refuse to think about how I might achieve that.¡± ¡°Alright, I really am going this time. Before I accidentally scar myself for life.¡± ¡°See you later, Quaani.¡± Quaani leaves, then pops his head back around the door, ¡°Uncle Aldrich?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Thanks for giving me my own space and not being an asshole.¡± I laugh, ¡°You¡¯re quite welcome.¡± Finally, Quaani leaves, the sensors in my quarters, and the messages from my heralds as they acknowledge their new assignment and keep me updated of Quaani¡¯s location, but not what he is doing. I lie on the sofa, put my feet up, and suspend all my extra instances. Closing my eyes, I go over my interactions with Quaani trying to decide if I¡¯ve fucked up or not. I think he took the information and discussion well, but I definitely pushed too far when I asked him to call me Dad. I really wanted to get everything sorted in one conversation as I hate having emotional conversations hang over me like the Sword of Damocles. I am pleased that I was able to express my thoughts clearly though, even if not everything went exactly how I¡¯d like it. I won¡¯t be discussing this with Brigid either as I don¡¯t want to come across as keen to have more kids. It¡¯s been three years since we started dating, but she hasn¡¯t moved in and we keep our lives quite separate. This stops our personal and professional lives from bleeding into each other as, when we do spend time together, it can be purely about each other, or our personal projects. If we lived together, we¡¯d inevitably end up discussing work, but as I am her boss, there is a chance that power dynamic would seep into our relationship. Neither of us want that and we have discussed the issue. I have life or death privileges over everyone in the Stellar Fleet, not just hire or fire privileges like a boss on Old Earth. The dynamic is both the same while being completely different. I am hoping that once we are more comfortable with each other, our roles, and how they relate to each other, she will be willing to move into the navigator spire with me, rather than keep her own quarters. There is still plenty of space for her to have her private rooms here too, but Brigid is a little leery of committing after messing up her marriage. Like most things, I believe our relationship is a matter of practice and we both have centuries to try and get it right. There is no need to rush, but I can never shake that niggle that if I¡¯m not doing something to change, or improve, a situation I am doing something wrong. That¡¯s rubbish, as the old motto, ¡®If it ain''t broke, don¡¯t fix it¡¯ is a good one to live by. As an engineer though, I just can¡¯t help myself. There is almost always a better way to complete a task. The problem is finding it without destroying what you already have along the way. That¡¯s fine when all you''re dealing with is prototypes, but treating a relationship as one is not a sensible path, unless you plan to rapidly swap models, as it were, until you find one that works. That¡¯s not my style, and while I may look like I¡¯m twenty-five, living like a twenty-five year old, or abusing my position to get epic amounts of hot chicks is nothing but an exotic fantasy. To engage in such recklessness would give me an unprofessional reputation and that is not a risk I can take when piloting city size vessels through hellscapes and xenos fleets. While navigators are encouraged to have a harem, I¡¯m not a lonely fan of tentacles, or of screwing my relatives. There will be no songs of ice and fire performed aboard my void ship! Chapter One Hundred and Nine Quaani returns several hours later and my Fleet Command officers each pop by over the next twenty-four hours to greet Quaani and express their enthusiasm at his return. Quaani checks out his new quarters on Iron Crane, but stays at mine for the first three days before moving out. The remainder of our journey across the thirty-ninth system has no further significant events. Quaani and I complete the following jumps together, letting us trade places and travel much further with each jump and learn from each other. I do not require sleep and have never learned the navigator power, Refresh and Revitalise, so it was interesting to see Quaani use it as well as take over when rest could no longer be suspended. We put a lot of effort into learning A Cloud in the Warp, Pass Unscathed, and Obliterating the Immaterial Wake too. A Cloud in the Warp, while maintained, makes it much more difficult for warp entities to detect a navigator. With enough power and practice, that can be extended to the vessel. We can¡¯t use other powers while using this one, at least for now, but keeping it up as much as possible is a necessary precaution for any navigator or psyker. Ylien has much to say on A Cloud in the Warp and is more helpful than usual when teaching the intricacies of shrouding powers and skills and goes to great efforts in applying his knowledge to our own. I expect it¡¯s because he doesn¡¯t want She Who Thirsts, as the Eldar call Slaanesh, to target him through us. A grisly fate for all Eldar who lose their soul stone. Regardless of his personal reasons, I have no objections to his dedication to this particular skill. My personal gellar field performs a similar task to A Cloud in the Warp and practising the power gives me a much better understanding of how gellar fields function, as does working in tandem with Quaani. Pass Unscathed allows one to directly interact with the Warp, pushing away its corrupting influence from both people and objects. With a little tweaking, we were able to use it to reinforce the gellar field for a few days at a time, whenever it started looking stressed. It is an exhausting power and is only necessary in an emergency, which is exactly why we practise it. Obliterating the Immaterial Wake hinders other navigators or Warp entities from tracking our passage. It is even more tiring than Pass Unscathed and can knock out a navigator for half a day, or even kill them, if they push too hard and, for example, use it continuously for a week straight. We don¡¯t know if anyone is tracking us, but like A Cloud in the Warp, it¡¯s worth using this power at least one day in three as a standard operating procedure and it is an excellent way of building stamina and skill with handling large amounts of Warp energy. Between us, we are able to get our travel time down to three weeks per system on average, from four. It¡¯s still rather slow compared to travelling along established routes with a century old navigator, but we¡¯ll reach that level of skill eventually. There is little we can do about the time spent crossing systems, we can only try to minimise the number of systems we need to cross, and that would take a fleet of thousands of exploratory ships to discover the most efficient route. The Imperium might be able to do that, but I certainly can¡¯t. During the seventy-third system crossing, two years after Quaani was restored, Envoy Lynu requests a meeting outside our scheduled diplomatic engagements. I join her at the xenos habitat on Distant Sun, in a dedicated room, set aside for official affairs. I hope it is important as this meeting is delaying Distant Sun¡¯s undocking from Iron Crane. The Tau are still not allowed to leave the xenos habitat, and thus I must go to her. The room is unusual, with a mix of Tau art and flora on a backdrop of Imperial neo-gothic architecture. The plants are a mix of desert grasses and thorny bonsai trees with tiny leaves. A sky high city, faced in white marble, is painted upon a large canvas piece with remarkable detail. When I arrive, I find Envoy Lynu waiting for me in flowing, sand coloured robes and golden jewellery. She has gained a little weight since the Tau first took shelter with me, as well as a few wrinkles around her forehead and eyes. Her deep blue skin is otherwise incredibly smooth and, compared to a human, appears unnatural. Lynu stands and greets me with a deep bow, ¡°Magos Issengrund. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.¡± I return her bow with a brief nod, ¡°You¡¯re welcome. You haven¡¯t done so before, so I was willing to entertain your request.¡± ¡°Your time is appreciated, Magos.¡± ¡°How is your community faring?¡± ¡°We chafe at the restrictions and enjoy your hospitality.¡± ¡°A generic response. Give me some numbers. Have there been any new births? That is always something to celebrate, no matter the circumstances.¡± ¡°Our community stands at five hundred and thirteen strong. A mix of the first batch of prisoners, those who surrendered over the following years, and a paltry six births. There are also a few survivors of the Dark Eldar raid from other races. All personnel, regardless of caste, have retrained to work on the projects you have assigned, rather than languish with nothing to do.¡± ¡°How are the integration programs? Those that work on alternative interpretations of Tau values to bring them in-line with imperial culture?¡± ¡°We attend the classes for the bytes provided and pass the tests for a chance at sparse luxuries. Key indicators of acceptance, like use of Imperial loan words, are sneaking into scientific discussions but are not used in everyday life. Most Tau can now speak acceptable low gothic and a small, fluctuating percentage do interact with your crew in the simulated noosphere environments. ¡°Only key researchers have become fluent in high gothic and lingua technis, as they are the only Imperial languages with proper scientific terms. How your civilization can function when the predominant language and its multitude of dialects lacks many educational terms still baffles me.¡± I grimace, ¡°Yes, that is not an aspect of Imperial culture I am fond of. How can one identify those who can progress civilization if they do not have the words to express themselves to those in power? It is not a problem for the Stellar Fleet or Marwolv as my educational and social policies do not require such heavy levels of oppression. ¡°Krieg is a fine example of why one should not provide high technology and its destructive capabilities to everyone, yet had their commanders been able to calculate the yield of the bombs they dropped on their own planet, they may not have done so. It is hard to know what the right path really is. I can only continue to ram history, philosophy, and science down the throats of my tech-apprentices and expose them to enough experiences through simulation that the lessons stick.¡± ¡°A trouble for all civilizations.¡± ¡°Indeed, Envoy. Has there been any genuine progress on conversion to either the Machine or Imperial Cults?¡± ¡°We have one convert, our cybernetics specialist. He is most enamoured with his remarkable implants. Our commune is too poor to afford much augmentation and understanding is hard to come by. You do not provide the documentation on how these augmetics function so only our specialist has a vague enough of an idea to understand quite how outrageous they are. He is quite passionate.¡± I grin, ¡°You are yet to share much of your own either, nor do I have the authority to share technology just yet.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°I am aware. We have rehashed this argument multiple times.¡± ¡°So what is different today?¡± ¡°We have made some progress with our assigned task and I wish to bargain for better treatment.¡± ¡°Forward the files to me.¡± Envoy Lynu frowns and her eyes unfocus as she focuses on her MIU and forward two papers to me. Like every file thrown my way it is heavily screened by my Advanced E-WAR Suite. There is no such thing as a trusted data source in the forty second millennium. My minds dissects it rapidly and I have fully understood the files before Lynu refocuses on me. ¡°A new way to make MOA and initial findings on mutations,¡± I say. ¡°Yes, Magos. Without access to fio¡¯tak processing facilities and, being rather uncomfortable with Imperial tools, our Magos Biologis equivalent developed a way of forming MOA using a derivative of our Exo-womb technology and your food printers. ¡°We can now grow pieces in their final form over several weeks, removing the need for fabrication or lengthy biological reproduction. They are currently advancing the technology to scale it to industrial levels as well as alter the alloy for specific tasks during the deposition process, rather than resmelting it as you currently do.¡± ¡°Well now, that is certainly worthy of a reward.¡± ¡°I am glad you are willing, Magos.¡± ¡°It is our agreement.¡± Lynu nods, ¡°As for the mutations it has been explained to me it is a mix of factors: Incompatible atavism from the propagation of discontiguous genetic engineering, triggered by multiple responses to hostile environmental conditions. ¡°Your ancestors arrived at multiple solutions to identical problems. These have mixed over the millennia through the transfer of people between planets and the propensity for mutation is likely most prevalent in void ship crews, pilgrimage sites, and the Astra Militarum. ¡°There was clearly some regulation at one point as all alterations we have discovered, compared to the original samples you had on file, are designed to turn off when they are unneeded or if they conflict with each other. Mutation occurs when these mechanisms are confused by excessive exposure to triggering conditions, or simple chance. ¡°It is a fascinating study and one I would love to send back home to prevent similar issues in Tau populations. Looking at a possible consequence of our own future has inspired the researchers to work on mitigating this issue. ¡°The most favoured proposed solution to curing a heavily mutated individual and prevent further issues is to reset their genetics through a modified rejuvenat treatment. Right now, this would likely kill them and would have to be paired with a full cyborg conversion as keeping just the brain alive during the process is easier than sustaining a rapidly changing body.¡± ¡°Congratulations to you and your teams, Envoy. I am most pleased by these findings.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos. I will pass on your praises.¡± ¡°I would like to note that there is little mention of the Warp¡¯s mutating properties, or that of foreign hostile entities inducing mutation artificially.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t something we are in a position to study, nor could any of our scientists conceive of a manner to harden genomes against such manipulations. Either way the solution to curing it would be the same.¡± ¡°A reasonable problem. Studying hostile influences in a repeatable, controlled manner does require a coerced, cooperative Warp entity. It is not something I would permit under any circumstances. I imagine none of your scientists are keen to delve into such subjects after the fall of your Ethereal either.¡± Lynu¡¯s posture slumps ever so slightly. ¡°Yes, it is a scar we are yet to recover from.¡± ¡°Scars, by their nature, only fade.¡± ¡°That was my implication.¡± ¡°I already find it fascinating that two species who evolved on different planets developed identical methods to healing from trauma. Common solutions lead to understanding and cooperation, I feel.¡± ¡°You have a strange way of comforting others, Magos.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s move on then. Are you aware of the League of Votann? They are also known as Demiurg, Heliosi Ancients, Squats, and other names. They call themselves the Kin.¡± ¡°I have heard of the Demiurg.¡± ¡°Good. They are an offshoot of humanity from the Dark Age of Technology. One of their achievements was the creation of cloneskeins. This technology resulted in a rigid culture and castes, or guilds as they call them, of their own. Rather similar to the Tau, a fun coincidence, don¡¯t you think?¡± Lynu has a good straight face, but I know her well and she can¡¯t hide from my sensors. I cannot tell if she is nervous or uncomfortable, though I do not think she is keen on talking about the League of Votann. She gives me a curt nod. I continue, ¡°There is some speculation among the upper echelons of the Imperium that much of Tau technology was purchased from the League of Votann and thus is human in origin. I¡¯m not here to debate the law, sociology and philosophy behind that today. I wish to point out that it is possible to harden a race against uncontrolled mutation, though not without consequence. Doing nothing is also equally undesirable, however. ¡°Once the process for resetting a genome and transplanting the survivor to a new body has been refined to an acceptable degree, I would like your teams to look into locking set genomes down. I am pleased with the Marwolv genome and would like it preserved. Improving it is a long term challenge, one I likely will not give to the Tau, or I may leave it unchanged, given my cybernetics speciality. Should further research take place, the Tau will be credited and compensated for any previous research that my own teams will build off of.¡± ¡°Very well, Magos. Though first it is time to complete the current trade.¡± ¡°Upon completion of a viable industrial process for improved MOA manufacturing, I offer you four options. The first is that the Tau will have a new xenos habitat built on Iron Crane. It will include a promenade and be, in effect, a much smaller version of the city style quarters of my own crew. The level of amenities will depend on the thoroughness and value of the developed processes.¡± Lynu smiles, ¡°That would alleviate many of our developing social problems.¡± ¡°Option two is your own aquaponics system. I will set aside enough space for you to grow foods from your own biomes so that you can enjoy native Tau dishes. There will be sufficient space for one Tau based meal, per person, per week. If you move to the Iron Crane first, I could up this to one per person, per day. Either way, you would still have to pay for them, like any other meal.¡± ¡°You are making it difficult to choose, Magos. Will all these options remain available upon completion of the mutation project?¡± ¡°They will.¡± ¡°Thank you. What else do you have?¡± ¡°Third is a budget increase for your scientists. It would be sufficient for them to engage in more side projects like the MOA technology in their own time, providing you with a regulated manner to produce new technologies for the Imperium. Similar bonuses like the four I am offering would be offered for completed projects, but I would be paying for the research as well, rather than it coming from your teams¡¯ private funds. ¡°Your scientists would have more leeway to choose their projects and have larger, better equipped facilities. I would also allow you to take these technologies with you, should a prisoner exchange ever be possible, or if you are able to save up enough funds to purchase a vessel from me once I have the required permissions to sell them.¡± ¡°That is quite the leap of trust, Magos. The Earth Caste does love its funding for grand projects.¡± ¡°I felt that as the primary drivers of your commune¡¯s fortune, an opportunity tailored to them would be agreeable.¡± ¡°It is. You have offered social, luxury, and economic options. Would the last one be for me?¡± ¡°That is quite astute of you, Envoy. Yes, the fourth and final option is political trust. Like the Imperial and Machine Cult representatives you would be given a voice in Fleet Command. ¡°What this means is that you can access written meeting minutes on our discussions on non-security issues and censored from specific numbers. You will also be able to put forward a single proposal once a year that we would consider fully and you would be given a direct contact line to me for emergency use. I would note that these privileges are easier to abuse and thus much easier to lose as well. You would not be offered them a second time either, at least for a significant length of time, likely decades. The cults are under similar restrictions. ¡°Further, I will mention that the final choice for the MOA technology bonus will go to the team that developed it. I recommend that they take the improved xeno habitat as that would make providing bigger and better versions of the other options upon completion of the mutation project a possibility rather than straight out impossible. Distant Sun does not have as much space as Iron Crane.¡± Lynu sighs, ¡°You are as generous as ever, Magos. I will pass on your options and bring you our answer during our next quarterly meeting in seven weeks.¡± ¡°Bring the lead scientist at that time. I want to hear their answer directly from them.¡± Lynu¡¯s mask twitches for a moment, ¡°That is agreeable, Magos. May I depart?¡± ¡°You may. I wish you a pleasant debate.¡± ¡°May the Warp currents favour you, Magos.¡± Lynu departs while I try to work out if she was blessing or cursing me with her last words. It seems that despite her diminished circumstances and cooperative attitude, Lynu is as tricky as ever. Chapter One Hundred and Ten. As we approach the exit of our one hundred and seventh jump, large shapes appear on our sensors. Quaani and I observe them from within the Warp sextant tank. I cut our thrust profile down to zero point one gravities and send out a general alert. Within two minutes, Iron Crane is ready to repel boarders and launch its first strike craft. The Empyrean Mantle engages and Iron Crane shimmers as an energy field envelops it, smoothing out the hull¡¯s harsh angles while scattering and absorbing the vessel¡¯s emissions. Preparations continue as we creep closer, building energy reserves and storing as much heat as possible; plasma builds up in great containment vessels, ready to fire. Hanging in the pseudo-sky above us is the echo of a massive Warp gate. It is broken into three sections that gravitate towards each other giving a semblance of a whole circle, but never quite touching as they shift in and out of place. Surrounding the gate is a ship graveyard of two hundred and thirty four vessels, fifty-four are deep black with bright green highlights. A Corona Radiata, a Roman style wreath, is printed on the pyramid structures on the rear third of the vessels, easily visible from a great distance. The Corona Radiata is shaped from Necron runes that have been altered from smooth, clean lines to sharp angles, making the wreath look like a crown of thorns. The other one hundred and eighty vessels are slim and grey with orange highlights. A black symbol of a flame in a crucible is displayed on each grey and orange vessel. Two to six gravity sails flow from the rear of each vessel and bone-like structures protrude from the sweeping hulls along their spine. The front third of each ship looks somewhat squid-like with an oval, bulbous shape. Seeing ruined Necron and Eldar vessels gives me great joy, yet I remain vigilant. Something had to ruin them all, and unlike the Warp gate, these are fully in the warp. I¡¯m getting a lot of conflicting sensor readings from them and I cannot understand what they mean. I vox Ylien, ¡°Warlock Ylien, I have some vessels that require identification. Here are the sensor readings. Please assist.¡± Thirty seconds later, Ylien voxes, ¡°The Necrons are the Kinbriar Dynasty. The Kinbriar are a small Dynasty, but compared to the Stellar Fleet, they are a significant threat. The Yme-Loc Craftworld, whom the Eldar fleet belongs to, attacked with overwhelming numbers. They are renowned weaponsmiths yet still took a horrific beating.¡± ¡°What about the Gate?¡± ¡°A Necron Dolmen Gate. These are rare Necron structures that hack into the Eldar Webway, letting Necrons hijack Eldar FTL routes. While the Webway does attempt to cut off intrusions, it is not always able to do so. When vessels can be spared and the gates located, Craftworlds will attempt to destroy them. It seems they were partially successful, though at great cost.¡± ¡°Thank you, Warlock Ylien.¡± ¡°I wish to bargain with you for the retrieval of the Eldar soulstones.¡± ¡°That will have to wait until the current crisis has been resolved.¡± ¡°Acceptable.¡± I close the connection and convey what I have learned to Quaani while simultaneously updating Iron Crane¡¯s captain, Daith¨ª Quill, who was previously the second officer on Distant Sun. ¡°Aldrich,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°I have some good news and bad news.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°The good news is that I recognise the adjacent system to this one. It¡¯s right at the edge of the maps that we have. It should be a day¡¯s travel bu-¡±, Quaani¡¯s eyes widen and he clutches his head. ¡°Ow!¡± From the wrecked vessels pour demons. Millions of them in myriad forms and varying power. For a moment I think they are going to swarm Iron Crane and try to batter down the Gellar field with sheer numbers. Instead they group up and engage their sorcery, hurling wrecked ships in our general direction. We¡¯re still quite far out and they are way off target, our silent running protocol and Empyrean Mantle keeping them guessing exactly where we are. There isn¡¯t enough distance between us for Iron Crane to change directions and escape. Instead, we must rush the gauntlet of flying wrecks and aim for the Mandeville Point into the Dolmen Gate system. Daith¨ª clearly agrees and the Helmsman accelerates Iron Crane towards a swirling whirlpool of the Warp, directly below the ephemeral Dolmen Gate. Halfway to our destination, a massive demon shimmers out of hiding and appears above the whirlpool. It is as tall as Iron Crane is wide with four pairs of horns twisting from its skull, a snake-like tongue and jagged, Ork-like teeth. On its chest are seven eyes, arranged asymmetrically, with one large central eye, four on the right side of its chest and two on its left. Fine, baleen-like white bone structures protect its lower torso while a black carapace covers its upper torso and arms. A flaming trident, crossed with a boar spear, is held in its clawed hands. The demon points its trident at Iron Crane and speaks, its voice echoes through the whole vessel and gnaws at the sanity of my crew. ¡°Mortals, I am Balphomael the Horned Darkness. You will present Magos Issengrund to me for his execution. Compliance and surrender will be met with mercy. Resistance is futile.¡± I zoom in on his features and notice he is horribly injured. Demonic ichor seeps from beneath his armour and all four pairs of horns are chipped and cracked. I vox the whole crew preceding the message with a piercing wail to shake the crew from any stupor. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. ¡°This is Magos Issengrund. Do not respond to Bad Penny in any manner, or speak his true name out loud. Cognitive hazard protocols are to be followed at all times. Failure to do so will result in immediate execution by servitor crews, Twist Catcher teams, or a vessel¡¯s primary machine-spirit. Issengrund out.¡± While I speak, I forward my observations on Bad Penny¡¯s condition to Daith¨ª and receive an acknowledgement. I also experience a small amount of regret. Now would be a really good time to launch a full salvo of torpedoes at Bad Penny but Iron Crane doesn¡¯t have that capability and I don¡¯t want to risk sending my torpedo bombers outside the gellar field. I realise that perhaps the original Cobra design was not as pointlessly risky as it seemed, just highly situational in its usage. Fortunately, we are not completely without means and Iron Crane and Distant Sun teleport atomics near Bad Penny. The demon deflects the attempt with a sneer and the bombs explode among the teeming masses of unshielded demons, birthing two small suns that illuminate the Warp for a handful of seconds that obliterate hundreds of thousands of demons, then fade. Our prow and spine lances fire and score direct hits on Bad Penny, but the bright beams splinter and flow around a protective bubble, keeping the demon safe. One of his horns cracks off completely and falls into the deeper Warp. Two percent of my crew panic and are being subdued, which isn¡¯t great, but the impact is minimal. One in five hundred go mad from Bad Penny¡¯s voice and have been granted the Emperor¡¯s mercy by their fellows. My psykers are worse and, even with all their protections, four die instantly, their heads exploding, killing seventeen people in the blasts. Three are executed by a tarantula turret while trying to open a portal, and five are possessed. They lock themselves into small rooms and try to use their MIUs to possess Sadako, but the machine-spirit just cuts off their connection. Teams of servitors are already moving to purge them. Within seven minutes, the threats have all been reduced to greasy ash and burning plastics. Bad Penny scowls up a warp storm, literally, and the currents become turbulent, slowing Iron Crane and pushing more wrecked Necron and Eldar vessels towards us. His power is quickly drained, however, when the Dolmen Gate starts shedding green lightning and the red crystal hanging in its centre begins to glow. Thirteen wrecks are coming right for us. Daith¨ª orders the crew to brace for impact and engages the engine overdrive. Antimatter is injected into the stream of pulsing fusion plasma ejected from the engines, creating fifty times more thrust for every kilogram of fuel. The boosted drives rapidly heat Iron Crane, the vessel is no longer able to shed excess heat through its pulsed fusion drives while also massively burdened by the increased amount of heat the vessel needs to dissipate from the matter-antimatter reactions. Creating the anti-matter also draws on our power reserves, though this isn¡¯t too onerous, as Iron Crane is designed for such significant loads. For the next thirty minutes, Iron Crane accelerates to three gravities, splitting the flimsy Eldar vessels that strike our prow and knocking aside the heavy Necron void ships without changing velocity. Unable to lob vessels large enough to impede us or cause significant damage, the demons swarm Iron Crane. Our macro-batteries aren¡¯t that much use, nor can we release the strike craft. The CIWS, however, are mighty, the micro-laser grid and thousands of turrets stream millions of rounds every minute into the hungry legion, dispersing the demons as they impotently flail against our gellar field, unable to break through. Quaani and I strain and struggle to firm up the gellar field¡¯s flaking edges with Pass Unscathed. It will not hold out indefinitely though as the field¡¯s components are rapidly cycling through their redundant systems to prevent overloading, but the buffer time between each separate instance is closing and soon they will be forced to overclock and risk permanent damage. We can do nothing about the void shield, however, and it fails after six hours, letting the demons hurl their magics at our armoured hull, which gradually scours it of defensive weaponry. They fail to penetrate the armour, let alone the first hull, but our fading defensive fire leaves them with more opportunity to wail on the gellar field. Once it breaks they can close in and cut through the warpsbane hull and we will be in major trouble. As we close the distance, Bad Penny builds power in his trident, keeping it carefully contained so his power is not sucked away by the Dolmen Gate¡¯s defences. We, too, prepare for the final confrontation and escape, charging our lances and Warp drive. Bad Penny hurls his trident at the same time we engage the Warp drive. Daith¨ª also triggers the overload shield capacitors, restoring our shields. His blow is mighty and immediately pops the refreshed shields then tears through Iron Crane¡¯s prow, where its armour is strongest, and wrecks it, ruining the shipyard doors and penetrating into the docks. The trident¡¯s power fades and teleports back into Bad Penny¡¯s armoured grip. Our Warp drive whines, trying to force a breach, and fails. Bad Penny bursts into mocking laughter. ¡°Foolish mortals, did you think I was so ill prepared I cannot keep you here? There is no escape. No mercy. I shall consume you all. Your souls will nurture me, become part of a greater being, free of petty purpose and eternal doubt.¡± Daith¨ª, in a last ditch effort to save us, overloads, jettisons, and detonates the Warp core. Every demon except Bad Penny is instantly slain. Iron Crane shudders as the violent energy erupts over it, striping away all our sensors and defensive weapons. Multiple breaches occur all over the void ship as the armour and hull are ablated by the harsh energies carving away its integrity. Sadako screams in my mind, the machine-spirit¡¯s distressed voice sounding like shattering glass, then its transmission cuts out. There is a small stutter in the lights as we switch to emergency power. Iron Crane is blind and only my third eye lets me see into the warp and what happens next. The Dolmen gate shudders into action. Bright streaks of jagged green lightning burst out, penetrating the cloud of destructive energies. Billions of tiny tributaries branch out and drain the Warp of all the energy released by the discorporated demons and the detonated Warp core. As the green branches spread up into the sky and deep in the Warp, they hit a barrier and slide over its inner edge. Demonic runes appear, outlining the full barrier in angry red and malevolent magenta. A black ball materialises in the whirlpool beneath the Dolmen gate and I use what few thrusters we have left to steer Iron Crane towards it. Gradually, the three broken and disconnected pieces of the Dolmen gate become more solid, fully manifesting in the Warp, somewhere they were never really meant to go. A golden ankh appears in the central red crystal and is shot towards Bad Penny, who is too stunned from the Warp core explosion to dodge or resist. The ankh punches through Bad Penny¡¯s chest and a chain of green lightning sparks from the ankh to the red crystal, dragging him towards the gate. Bad Penny screams and curses as he withers. His armour cracks, and the flames on his trident sputter and die. The instant his crumbling flesh touches the crystal, he howls and turns into a cloud of black dust. His trident disintegrates in a shower of rust. The Dolmen Gate explodes with excess power. Just before its rubble can batter Iron Crane, a pulse of energy precedes it, sweeping over every wrecked vessel. As the energy wave passes over the wrecks, they blink out of existence. We aren¡¯t going to make it. The energy wave hits us and Iron Crane disappears from the Warp. Chapter One Hundred and Eleven From one moment to the next, Iron Crane transitions into realspace alongside every wrecked vessel. We appear in the middle of an ongoing battle between the Kinbriar Necrons and the Yme-Loc Craftworld Eldar. Just when I think we¡¯ve escaped one certain doom for another, there is a ripple through Materium that I can only detect with my third eye. Iron Crane¡¯s sensors glitch and spew junk readings. Over a minute, they reboot and clear up, finally letting me see what¡¯s going on. The fearsome battlefield has turned into a mausoleum of cold void ships and spinning shards of scattered debris. As the light of more distant engagements reaches us, I see what is happening and I am left with nothing but questions. I feel bloated and sick but brush aside my discomfort and swim over to Quanni. He is woozy, but conscious. I trigger the emergency release and the tank drains, then I carry Quaani to the first aid room right next to the Warp sextant. Next, I pull the auspex readings from Quaani¡¯s hyperweave suit, his implants, and the medical bed. They all show that Quaani is not in any danger and it is best to let all the systems perform their tasks and heal him, though nutrients are advised. I step away from the bed and the mechadendrites descend, plugging into Quaani¡¯s body via his suit collar. While the auto-doc does its work, I go over the auspex trickling into my awareness. They make little sense as the wrecks displaced from the Warp are appearing within the fighting vessels, destroying everything and cutting off the fight immediately. The Dolmen Gate still exists and is in three broken pieces and is fully within the Materium. Each wreck, once it overlays the working vessel and destroys it, looks exactly like the wrecks as they were first observed in the Warp, despite how much damage the wrecks created when they superimposed themselves in the Materium. None of this, however, compares to the greatest observable change in the galaxy. The Cicatrix Maledictum, the Great Rift that cut across the whole Milky Way, is gone. During the next thirty minutes, Sadako recovers, as do the rest of Iron Crane¡¯s systems. The solar system fills out and I discover we are orbiting a white, F sequence star, surrounded by twelve, huge rocky planets. There are no gas giants in the system. The worlds vary between frozen deserts, sandy hellscapes and suffocating rocks. All are barren. The fifth world has a wisp of atmosphere and high gravity. Orbiting it are the cracked remains of an Eldar troop transport, three cruisers, six light cruisers, and twelve escorts. Some of the troops have disembarked and fighting has broken out around their landing zone, but they will not survive unless we aid them, for all their reinforcements are gone. While much chaos surrounds me, it slowly dawns on me that where we are, or who is here, is not that important: it is when that really matters. ++Magos. What is your will?++ ¡°Sadako. I am pleased you survived. What is your status?¡± ++Cogitator capacity is at ninety percent nominal. The prime cogitator is sixty-six percent destroyed and the secondary is caught in an unfixable loop; it is eighty-eight percent non-functional. Back ups have been reconnected and all functionality has been restored. The Warp engine is missing a critical component and also requires substantial repairs. ++Our cargo is unharmed, but this one cannot open the shipyard doors. Captain Quill is debating a full jettison of damaged sections. There are no active, detectable threats. All other vessels in this system are without power, though they possess an odd haze that prevents proper scanning. All external weaponry is offline. There are continuity errors across all time-keeping devices that are inhibiting proper operations of all machine-spirits.++ ¡°Give me your best guess, Sadako. When and where is the Iron Crane?¡± ++Iron Crane is at the Rimward edge of the Cinerus Maleficum region within the Koronus Expanse. The date is between seven nine zero and eight two eight of the forty-first millennium. This vessel has regressed approximately two hundred and fifty years.++ ¡°Well, at least we¡¯re alive.¡± ++This machine remains indomitable.++ ¡°Good work, Sadako. Thank you for updating me.¡± ++Platitudes acknowledged.++ I pace around the auto-doc and vox Daith¨ª, ¡°This is Issengrund, standby for new orders.¡± ¡°I comply, Magos. Thirty seconds, if you can.¡± ¡°Delay granted.¡± I wait and Daith¨ª soon re-contacts me. ¡°I am here, Magos. What do you require?¡± ¡°First, assign all wrecks as no-go areas. Keep our passage as far from them as possible.¡± ¡°With pleasure, Magos.¡± ¡°Second, set a course for the fifth world. We¡¯ll call it Kinbriar V for now.¡± ¡°Orders assigned, Magos.¡± ¡°Good. Can the shipyard fix its doors before we get to Kinbriar V? ¡°No, Magos.¡± ¡°Then cut them out, release the fleet, and prepare for a planetside deployment. Don¡¯t let all that metal escape though.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. What are our aims at Kinbriar V?¡± ¡°Total destruction of all Necron facilities. A ceasefire with the Eldar will be offered.¡± ¡°We haven¡¯t even fired a shot at them yet!¡± ¡°Well, no, but I doubt they see it that way. We turned up at the same time they were wiped out. They won¡¯t be happy.¡± ¡°Are they ever?¡± ¡°Only where the Monkeigh can¡¯t see them smile. They fear we might copy them.¡± ¡°That would be terrible, Magos. How should we prepare?¡± ¡°For a siege. The aim is to keep the Necrons from rebuilding while protecting against Eldar perfidy. Our goal is not to inflict casualties on the enemy, but to preserve as much of our forces as possible while we construct the means to destroy the planet. We will perform focused assaults on specific facilities, like we did with Operation Sea Mither, and bombard them wherever and whenever they appear.¡± The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°We do not have exterminatus weapons, Magos. What do you plan to do? Throw a moon at Kinbriar V?¡± ¡°That wouldn¡¯t actually work as a moon would break up before it hits from all the gravitational stress. I have something different in mind. The worst case scenario is eighteen months. Place priority on getting the shipyard prepped and repaired.¡± ¡°I will, Magos.¡± I eye my kill count, four million, six hundred thousand, and ninety two demon souls. There is a lot I could do with that, but nothing in my implants or part of my Warp Infrastructure would be immediately useful because of the learning and demonstration requirements in place. Instead I turn to an idea I¡¯ve been considering for a long time, but never had the capital to pursue or a reason beyond a desire to return a grand favour. Now I find myself in dire need of a powerful strike force, one far beyond what I can field at this time. ¡°E-SIM, I¡¯d like to purchase five Resurrection Serums please and a null box.¡± E-SIM sends me a long list of rare elements and fabrication machinery, ++Please provide the following resources and tools, then bring them to the Warp.++ ¡°Can¡¯t you make the serums with Warp and Weft?¡± ++I could, but then you¡¯d be carrying around a box for weeks. It is better to build within my domain.++ ¡°Fair enough.¡± Quaani groans and I stop pacing and rush over to him. He blinks slowly and yawns, then sits up and turns, putting his feet on the floor. ¡°Feeling better?¡± ¡°Urgh, give me a moment to catch my thoughts will you?¡± I nod and fold my arms, ¡°It has been quite the ordeal.¡± ¡°Can you get me a recaf please, with extra sugar?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± ¡°Oh, and one of those cyborg food bars. My implants are yelling at me.¡± I send the order to the food printer installed in the wall, or as they were first introduced to me, the Nutritious Ooze Module (N.O.M). In under a minute, it has turned on and produced Quaani¡¯s recaf and nutrient bar. I open the glass covering and pick up the items, then bring them to Quaani. Quaani takes the recaf from my hand and sips it, then takes a bite of the nutrient bar and grimaces, ¡°Thanks Aldrich. How can something taste foul yet still be satisfying to eat?¡± ¡°That¡¯s your implants messing with your perception, rewarding you for eating something you need. It amplifies the ¡®gut feeling¡¯ that you get from normal food. It doesn¡¯t mess with your taste as too many of those bars can be poisonous and would overfill you with calories. When paired with the bad taste, this prevents you from seeking that artificial satisfaction when it is unneeded without discouraging you from following the instructions when required.¡± ¡°You have an explanation for everything, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I do try!¡± ¡°Well, I won¡¯t argue with you there. Is Bad Penny dead?¡± ¡°Almost certainly.¡± ¡°Thank the Emperor for that. At least we won¡¯t have to see him again.¡± I wince. ¡°What?¡± ¡°He¡¯s dead, but we¡¯ve gone back in time as much as three hundred years before he died, but probably less. Sadako is having trouble calculating it. While demons are somewhat outside of time, it is difficult to know exactly how Bad Penny¡¯s existence, or non-existence, might affect us. We might even discover the time anomaly is only relevant to this system, or an area around it.¡± I didn¡¯t get a crown kill for him either, but that might just be because the Dolmen Gate ate him. ¡°Bugger. So no changing history.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no point worrying about it too much. Anything we do or do not do has already happened because while it is the future for others, it is the past for us. We should act like we would anyway. Like steering clear of temporally displaced wrecked void ships, even if we don¡¯t know how they will end up in the Warp and save us in the future.¡± ¡°I¡¯m missing some context there, but you can fill me in later. Time travel is horribly messy. I hate it.¡± ¡°As do I. No one likes time travel, but then, that¡¯s exactly what we do every time we traverse the Warp and transition between two systems faster than light. For some reason it''s cool when you travel fast, effectively going forward in time, but the opposite is viewed with luddite suspicion. ¡°I am not happy about being cut off from Marwolv either. In three hundred years I was hoping I¡¯d be on my third return visit and they¡¯d be well on their way to becoming a forgeworld. Now I have to wait almost twice as long!¡± Quaani goes through another sequence of chewing on his bar, grimacing, then drinking the extra sweet recaf and scrunching up his face. I hold back my laughter. No one likes to be mocked while they¡¯re recovering. ¡°You¡¯re hovering, Aldrich. I can tell you¡¯ve got stuff to do. I¡¯ll be fine. Go and play with your fire extinguishers.¡± I tut, ¡°Cheeky brat. Tell me what you were about to say before we were attacked, then I¡¯ll go.¡± ¡°Ah! Yeah, that is important. The warp passage between this system and the next is destroyed and likely won¡¯t recover for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Problem is, that¡¯s our way out. Good news is the next system is only nine light years away. Distant Sun could make the journey in one point three years, shipboard time, at maximum velocity, or the whole fleet in four point six eight one years, at one gravity.¡± I nod slowly, ¡°We would need to refuel when we got to the other side, but yes, that is doable.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah. We¡¯ll talk more tonight, OK? Then you can tell me what is actually happening once you¡¯ve had a chance to find out. Invite Brigid over, she makes you less annoying.¡± I sigh, ¡°Yes, do actually have something important to do. See you later, Quaani.¡± ¡°Bye bye, Uncle.¡± I leave and travel to my workshop where I start dismantling machinery and collecting materials, then wheelbarrow it into the Warp where I reassemble it inside a shed made from a data structure. Following E-SIMs instructions, I slowly create an assembly line, manned by mechadendrites and servo arms, all piloted by E-SIM. I leave behind four litres of nanites for the machine-spirit too. The assembly is a delicate process and I can¡¯t do it all at once as I am needed elsewhere in meetings with Flag Command and other officers, as well as Ylien, whom I have had to pay for additional liaison duties as it is outside our original agreement. While Ylien is unable to forge a cease-fire, a few surviving Eldar officers do agree to meet once we are in orbit. A week passes and we near Kinbriar V. Five Space Marine corpses are transferred from stasis beneath Distant Sun¡¯s auto-temple and brought to the private navigator¡¯s chapel on Iron Crane. With great care, I remove the power armour they were laid to rest in and place it on stands along the wall. The marines lie naked on metal slabs, covered in a sheet and kept cool to keep them as well preserved as possible. Their bodies, despite my restoration efforts, are scarred and pitted with many lighter patches where I cloned their skin and muscle to make them look as whole as possible. I intended to return their bodies to the Barghest chapter, now I have another use for them. All of them have at least one silver stud embedded in their skin above their eyebrow, a mark of fifty years service. In my hand is a null box. This one is the size of a large, hardback book and vantablack. These boxes are, to my knowledge, indestructible and self-powering. They are used to contain vital documents and irreplaceable archeotech within the Imperium. They cannot be hacked either, supposedly, so if you lose the code to it, you won¡¯t be getting back what¡¯s in it either. No one knows how to make them and they can only be found. I bought the null box from E-SIM to sell the idea to the marines, should they wake, that this is something I found and I am using on them. I don¡¯t want it known that E-SIM can make Resurrection Serum. I open the null box. The five syringes inside are unassuming and filled with a silver liquid that swirls within, as if agitated by heat, yet my auspex tells me it is a consistent thirty seven degrees celsius throughout. The syringe is tough and shaped from armourglass and the needle is pure adamantium. Placing the box on a side table, I grab a syringe and insert it up Sergeant Odhran¡¯s nose, doing my best to focus on the operation and not skip about gleefully quoting Total Recall. With a slow and steady push, I depress the plunger until the syringe is empty, then remove the needle. I repeat the process on the other four marines, reset the environment from a fridge at one degree to a more comfortable twenty-one degrees, then wait. Chapter One Hundred and Twelve Over the next two hours, the Astartes corpses recover their colour. Their scars and studs disappear and their shaved heads and jaws sprout new hair. Sergeant Odhran rapidly loses muscle and bone mass as his missing arm regrows. All five of them de-age, changing from buff, middle aged men, to fresh faced twenty-five year olds. At the two hour mark, an electric pulse restarts their hearts and the Astartes start breathing. I hold mine for the next hour, tense with anticipation, but they never wake. Wondering what is going on, I turn my auspex on them, but there doesn¡¯t seem to be anything wrong. Confused, I try my more esoteric scanners and my own psychic senses upon them. Almost immediately I detect a problem. The souls of the Astartes are missing. After some thought, I recall that the Emperor protects the souls of Space Marines from predation, or so the lore goes. I also remember seeing a golden flash of light when I held Odhran¡¯s funeral on Distant Sun. If I want these marines to come back to life, I¡¯m going to have to petition the Emperor. I stare longingly at the massive kill count for a whole minute, mentally preparing myself to let go of my glorious gains. Then, with a sour face, I place my hands on Odhran¡¯s head and heart and close my eyes. I look inwards at myself and tug at the metaphysical chain in my chest, pushing my power into the bond alongside my request. Pearlescent white drops drops flow from me along the chain then I feel a painful yank and the numbers in my mind¡¯s eye plummet. A steady golden glow builds up in my hands and seeps into Odhran¡¯s body for ten minutes. I shudder as I feel something akin to gravel pass through my eye, down my arms, as it passes. Tears fall from my eyes as an image passes through my head of a young boy struggling through inhumane trials, watching the children he grew up with, die one by one. During the trials, while he gasps for breath, or lies insensate from pain after crude surgery, a man yells at the dwindling survivors. ¡°What is your duty?¡± Odhran and the trainees reply, ¡°To serve the Emperor¡¯s will!¡± ¡°What is the Emperor¡¯s will?¡± ¡°That we fight and die!¡± ¡°What is death?¡± ¡°It is our duty!¡± This litany continues endlessly. Should even one of the children fail to respond, like because they¡¯ve passed out, the whole group is punished with more training. After a decade, the young boy has grown. He is clad in power armour for the first time, a rare smile on his face. He is surrounded by his fellow marines and congratulated, and welcomed as a true brother. He leaves the chapel-like armoury with the other newly anointed marine. The boy is one of two survivors. Odhran¡¯s eyes snap open and, as he bolts upright, I jump back out of the way. Using E-SIM to alter my voice to the Drill Abbott I saw in Odhran¡¯s memories, I yell, ¡°Attention!¡± Odhran leaps to his feet and salutes, naked as the day he was reborn. ¡°Put this on,¡± I throw an undersuit to him and point to a corner of the room. ¡°There is a screen there, if you would like more privacy.¡± Odhran catches the suit and puts it on immediately, ¡°Magos Issengrund?¡± ¡°Yes, it is me.¡± ¡°Details.¡± ¡°Look around first. Closely.¡± Odhran finally takes in the pink clean faces of the marines and their slowly rising chests. ¡°What have you done?¡± His tone conveys both confusion and menace. ¡°First, know that you are safe, unharmed, and as healthy as an Astartes could hope for. You also have a new arm. You¡¯re welcome. Second, as to what I have done, I used archeotech to revive you and your brothers. The process has not finished yet for the other four. I encourage you to watch. I don¡¯t think you¡¯d believe me otherwise.¡± ¡°A miracle.¡± ¡°Funny you should say that.¡± Odhran¡¯s eyes widen slightly. I approach the next marine in the row, and place my hand on him, ¡°Who is he? To you, I mean. Not just his name and rank.¡± ¡°This is brother Kylian. Veteran of eighty years. He has been by my side since he completed his training and refused a higher position so he could continue to fight beside me. He was picked from the serfs among the crew of our ships for his empathy. It was not enough for him to become a librarian, but always been excellent at knowing when others wish us harm. It is through his skill and grace that I survived so long and that our team could function so far from our chapter.¡± I nod, ¡°Place your hand on my shoulder and pray to the Emperor, keeping the image of brother Kylian in your mind.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Together, Odhran and I pray to the Emperor. Another hundred thousand kills are syphoned from me, then, unlike Odhran¡¯s revival, my kill count continues to drop. My third eye snaps open, outside of my control, and observes the four bodies. My whole body lights up, more white than gold, and tendrils of power slither from my third eye and latch onto the bodies. E-SIM blares warnings as my body crumbles, my Life Support Module and Regenerative Hormones unable to keep up with the destructive power. I fall to my knees and Odhran is blasted away from me. Heat radiates from my flesh and I feel my soul crack and wither. The cloth covering the marines turns to ash and a thin shield appears around their bodies, keeping them safe, even as the tables and tools flow like wax. A hungry, overpowering voice echoes through the chapel. ¡°Tithe.¡± My eyes and ears pop. I try to scream but cannot move, utterly locked in place. Just before my body and soul are annihilated, the power winks out. I collapse. ¡°Magos?¡± says Odhran. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Unable to speak or move, I connect to the room¡¯s vox and sensors, ¡°I listen. I live. Thoughts slow. Speak hard.¡± ¡°What was that? Who was that?¡± ¡°Emperor.¡± Odhran, ¡°Emperor indeed. That was quite the show.¡± ¡°No. Actual Emperor. Bad Dad took due. Nearly killed me. Old brothers¡¯ souls gone. New souls, old bodies, old memories, new behaviours. Impetuous. Like children. New brothers wake much later. Is speculation.¡± ¡°Truely?¡± ¡°You watch. You feel. You see. Cannot deny his power. His gift. My sacrifice. Magic aways price.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. Truly you are blessed with his attention.¡± ¡°Dispute. Blessing.¡± Odhran chuckles lightly and it quickly descends to a full blown laugh. He takes a breath to steady himself, ¡°Do you require aid?¡± ¡°No. Servitors bring supplies. Repair imminent. Ten minutes.¡± ¡°Then I will watch over you.¡± ¡°Agreement. Happy.¡± My implants are damaged and my nanites are almost all fried. The Warp Tap has ceased working and the Concurrent Conscious Cascade has suspended my additional instances. Regenerative Hormones, however, are fully functional and rapidly putting the organic parts of my body back together. With every second that passes, my thoughts clear after five minutes, I sit up and blink away the old blood from my restored eyes. Two servitors enter the chapel. One carries a bowl of amino porridge and a recaf and presents it to Odhran, who accepts the fare. The other brings me four litres of water, grox stew, a kilo of metallic beads, and a herbal tea. I can¡¯t hold anything yet, so I direct the servitor to place the food on the ground in front of me, then feed me the metal beads and water. By the time I¡¯ve choked down the metal, I can hold my own spoon. Odhran and I eat in silence. My spoon clatters in my empty bowl and I lean back against the damaged table, sip my tea, and sigh. ¡°You heal remarkably fast, Magos.¡± ¡°It just looks that way. I can move, talk, and think properly now. It will be at least a day until I can completely restore myself. Are you injured?¡± ¡°Nothing worth speaking of.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to argue with you. You have, however, just returned from the dead. Do not hesitate to request aid should you feel unusual. I suspect the Emperor will smite me if I ask for your soul back a second time, or maybe just kill me by accident during the process. There will be no third revival.¡± ¡°That is acceptable.¡± Odhran frowns, then sighs, ¡°My old brothers? They are truly gone?¡± ¡°They are. While the Emperor worked through me, the residual wisdom left in his wake told me that he did not have your old brother¡¯s souls, so he made new ones, or repurposed ones from other marines. I am a little unsure as it was a set of images, rather than a detailed explanation. It was far more expensive than transferring you from his domain in the Warp back to your body. As for why your brothers were not present, I can only speculate.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°Your brothers died to demons while you died to the Eldar. While I held a proper funeral for all of you in Distant Sun¡¯s auto-temple, to properly send you to rest, they had been dead for many years. There was nothing left to send back to the Emperor¡¯s side. As for if they were devoured by demons, faded, or still fight on within the Warp, I could not say.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos.¡± ¡°Earlier, I requested details on the current situation and you delayed it, no doubt hoping to only relay the information once when all my brothers and I were awake. Circumstances have changed. Where are we, when are we, and why are you a mutant?¡± ¡°We are in the Koronus Expanse. Approximately fifty years have passed since you died. My fleet, which I have built in the time since we last fought together, was seeking passage across the Expanse back to the Calixis Sector to trade our discoveries for new resources. ¡°We finally found the route, only to be ambushed by the Great Enemy, whose machinations failed when they were killed by a nearby, faulty Necron device. The Necron device exploded after consuming the Great Enemy, a named Warp entity, code named Bad Penny. The explosion disrupted our Warp transition to the Materium and we were sent back in time. It is approximately the year eight hundred and ten, of the forty-first millennium, plus or minus twenty years or so.¡± ¡°Remarkable,¡± Odhran folds his arms. ¡°I¡¯ve fought a lot of xenos. From time to time I have picked up parts of their cultures from stolen missives and poorly secured transmissions. While the insight gained is used to better defeat them, one anecdote that stands out to me is part of what passes as culture for the foul greenskins. Orks measure the might of their bosses not only by their size, but the strength of the enemies. If you have been hunted down by the Great Enemy and have the Emperor¡¯s ear, there must be something truly fantastical aboard this vessel. What else is vital for me to know before I leave this room?¡± ¡°To finish your previous line of questions first, I became a navigator after praying to the Emperor for aid. Our lone navigator was sick and we risked being trapped at the edge of the galaxy. Through His aid, I was altered and our navigator was restored. ¡°We carry a Space Marine STC. It is pre-heresy and contains everything required for all infantry and armour equipment for Astartes and their auxiliary forces. While Mars likely still holds most of this data, it has been lost by many forgeworlds and they would benefit from receiving it. As would the Tech-Marines of all loyalist chapters.¡± ¡°I understand now why He interfered. Your work is great, Magos.¡± ¡°It is. My fleet, which I have named the Stellar Fleet, is based around the Iron Crane, a mobile shipyard. We are on the Iron Crane in the navigator tower. Distant Sun, your previous posting, now has a xenos habitat, hosting Tau prisoners of war, a handful of lesser races rescued from Dark Eldar raiders, and a single Eldar Warlock mercenary, also rescued from Dark Eldar. The xenos are contained and do not have permission to walk about. I would ask that you do not seek conflict with them, or kill or harm them out of hand. They are currently contributing to the success of this mission and I would like it to stay that way. I also prefer to keep my word. Do not make a liar of me, Sergeant Odhran.¡± ¡°I understand the burden of necessity, Magos. Your warning is acknowledged.¡± ¡°The last thing you need to know is that we are heading for the planet Kinbriar V where Necrons are in conflict with Yme-Loc Craftworld Eldar. We need to destroy the tomb world to secure our passage between here and the further rimward into the Koronus Expanse. ¡°The main reason is that the world that held the Astartes STC does not get rediscovered for another two hundred and fifty years. I¡¯d hate to see it mysteriously disappear because the Necrons revived, spread out, and destroyed it. We will require Yme-Loc¡¯s cooperation to ensure the Necrons'' destruction. I revived you and your squad to help me perform raids on the tomb as a vital part of our overall strategy.¡± ¡°Will my new brothers awake in time?¡± ¡°For the first raids? I doubt it. They will likely require a period of adjustment too. We will budget for six months. During these six months, it will likely be you and I, the Eldar Warlock, my bodyguard, and a penal company performing these raids. We will be supported by kataphrons and our backs guarded by the Stellar Corps, my infantry and armour forces.¡± ¡°This is a lot to take in, Magos. I wish to requisition suitable quarters for my brothers and I, then watch over them while I rest and meditate. I also require my wargear returned to me.¡± ¡°I will show you the way. Servitors will bring your wargear and move your brothers later.¡± ¡°Very well, Magos. Lead and I shall follow.¡± I stand and groan, sore and stiff with new bone and muscle. My implants grind within my body as I guide Odhran to spare officer quarters in Iron Crane¡¯s main crew quarters. I am pleased Odhran is such a level headed fellow, or at least willing to listen before attempting to rip my brains out through my asshole for some obscure slight. I told a believable story, I think, or rather part of one. Performing a miracle too, must weigh in my favour on the old kiss or kill scale. Hopefully, the only things Odhran will use his lips for are praising me, cursing my enemies, and offering me advice. I leave Odhran in his new rooms with a dataslate, praying I have made the right choice. Was reviving five, fanatical, trans-human warriors a good idea? Can¡¯t be any worse than running into a Necron tomb, guns blazing, while being eyed up by an army of emotional, fortune telling, pointy eared gits. Fuck my life. Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen During the following three weeks, preparations for a ground war against the Necrons continue without pause or, at least, any snafus that reach me for arbitration. I keep multiple sensors on Odhran, the other four marines, and Ylien at all times, as well as two dedicated minds. I am unsure what to make of Odhran. For the first twelve hours he did nothing but pray, sometimes with tears streaming down his face. I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s sorrow, religious fervour, or happiness. I didn¡¯t even know that Space Marines could cry. He clearly isn¡¯t as fine as our initial conversation suggested. After his prayers, Odhran performs slow martial katas and breathing exercises. I quickly notice that all of them are meditative exercises designed to improve focus and lung capacity. The mnemonics he mumbles trigger specific commands from his implants. Most commands he mutters turn them on and off, or alter their states slightly and he is clearly practising and checking his body. One change, however, is far more obvious, as Odhran alters his skin colour to a deep black in advance for landing on a planet with a minimal atmosphere and fairly high solar radiation. From time to time, he checks on his brothers, reading their medical data on the datapad I gave him, or sitting with them and talking, usually about who they used to be. He ventures out to the promenade every day for his meals and makes a point of striking up conversations with my crew, checking everything I have told him is true and filling in details I cut from my summary. Once Odhran receives his gear, he books a workshop and takes everything apart, checking every circuit trace, weld, and mechanism from memory. From time to time, he makes miniscule adjustments, tuning the armour away from default in amounts I just cannot see would make a meaningful change in performance. He also tests his bolter and a plasma pistol at one of the many ranges on Iron Crane. The plasma pistol is the only device he does not disassemble and inspect. Instead, he commissions a tech-priest to double check it. Ylien spends the entire three weeks in meditation. I sense small fluctuations in the Warp around him, a mix of telepathy and divination, I think, but he is a master and excellent at obscuring what he is doing. I suspect he is in contact with the Yme-Loc Eldar. Having asked him to liaise between the Stellar Fleet and the Yme-Loc Eldar, I can¡¯t object to his possible communications and I¡¯m not expecting an immediate betrayal from him. I¡¯m not happy about him being so sneaky about it though. Now he is close to his own fellows I am unsure if I will get my century of service out of him. We slip into orbit around Kinbriar V. Iron Crane deploys hundreds of satellites and within six hours of our arrival we have a detailed picture of the situation. Kinbriar V has six detectable tombs and all six are active. There are approximately two million necron warriors and one hundred thousand armour units, including two monoliths, closing in on the Eldar landing zone. Remaining numbers within the tombs are undetectable with my vessels¡¯ scanners. The Eldar are confined to their landing zone and three satellite bases. They possess some five-hundred thousand infantry and fifty thousand armour. Their shields and anti-air are strong, but they do not have air superiority. They have an impressive network of bunkers and trenches. Without orbital support, the Eldar can only create area denial zones, not strike out against the Necrons. It will be months, possibly years, before the Necrons can overrun them, but the Eldar¡¯s prospects are bleak. An Eldar Vampire Raider, the Eldar Thunderhawk equivalent, rises into orbit during Iron Crane¡¯s final approach and docks with us. The Vampire Raider has wide, aggressive, forward facing wings with two nacelle¡¯s close to the centre fuselage. A spear-like neck with a split blade juts forward between the wings. The guests, four Eldar officers, twelve Eldar Guardians, and two Wraithguard, are led to a pilot briefing room near a hangar. The carapace armour of the Eldar is similar to an Imperial mesh suit in its protective properties, like the hyperweave variant my crew use as an undersuit. It also has reinforced joints, fine torso plates, greaves, boots, and arm guards. Their helmets are conical with insect-like eyes. The Stellar Fleet ship uniform provides similar extra armour. All of the Eldar are the same height as Odhran, at two point one metres tall, though they are not as broad. I enter the briefing room. It has been refurnished for the meeting, the individual desks replaced with long tables facing opposite each other, in front of, and either side of, the main podium. Maeve Muire is present with two aides and four bodyguards. Odhran is sticking close to me. I would have liked to have all my Fleet Command here, but placing our entire command structure within shooting distance of an Eldar delegation is foolish. Maeve and her aides take their seats, as do I and the four Eldar officers. Odhran stands behind me. The two Wraithguard, Eldar souls trapped within armoured constructs, loom behind the four Eldar officers, their faceless helmets reflecting the overhead lighting. The Eldar guardians put their backs to the wall and keep their helmets on. Their rifles, Shuriken Catapults, rest in their arms, the barrels pointed at the floor. Ylien rushes in at the last possible moment and sits on my right. A full minute goes by and no one says anything. The Eldar might like to play power games, but I have better things to do with my time, so I decide to start the meeting. ¡°I am Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund, leader of this Imperial expeditionary fleet. To my left is Herald Primarus, Maeve Muire. She is the leader of my ground forces. To my right is Warlock Ylien. He is serving my fleet to repay for his rescue from your sadistic cousins. Ylien will be your primary contact with the Stellar Fleet. Behind me is Sergeant Odhran of the Barghest Chapter. Your names and ranks please.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The four officers remove their tall helmets and place them on the table. One Eldar has a particularly elaborate helmet with a blue soulstone in the centre and golden runes printed on its conical crest. He speaks first. ¡°I am Exarch Orodor of the Yme-Loc Necron Termination Fleet. To my left is Aspect Warrior Isenedor of the Dire Avengers. To my right is Daenthala of the Howling Banshees. To my far right is Caervan of the Swooping Hawks.¡± As Exarch Orodor speaks, I notice he makes subtle gestures with his posture, hands and face. While Orodor and I are speaking in High Gothic, these almost imperceptible movements are part of the absurdly complex Eldar language. Their language lets someone say one thing, while changing the meaning of the words with their gestures, or having two conversations simultaneously. Thanks to E-SIM, I am able to interpret his subtle movements. ¡°Blind Fool,¡± he gestures. E-SIM aids me and I gesture, ¡°Prideful twit,¡± trying to make it as casual and accidental as I can, so they can¡¯t actually be sure I¡¯m not just fidgeting. The three Aspect Warriors and the Exarch tense slightly and I notice the Eldar Guardians¡¯ fingers twitch towards their triggers. The Wraithguards remain dead still. ¡°Thank you for the introductions, Exarch Orodor. I hope this meeting will be swift and productive with minimal drama. Herald Primarus Muire will provide a summary of the current situation and the Imperium¡¯s stance. Following Muire, you will have the opportunity to express your own stance, Exarch Orodor. We will then negotiate. To ensure negotiations are speedy, only water will be provided and there will be no breaks. Should we fail to reach an agreement by the time you depart, the Yme-Loc Necron Termination Fleet will be considered hostile by the Stellar Fleet. Please begin, Herald Primarus Muire.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. The Kinbriar Tomb World has begun reanimation and threatens Yme-Loc and Imperial interests in the Koronus Expanse. We are aware that your Craftworld operates in this region, emissaries. We will not disclose our own interests.¡± Maeve gives Orodor a stern look and continues, ¡°Exarch, I shall be blunt. You have no orbital support, no reinforcements, and no retreat path. You are outnumbered by a soulless, self-repairing army of sapient robots by at least four to one. The Stellar Fleet can provide everything you lack, from materials to fire support, to troops on the ground and a path off it, once we cease operations in this theatre. First, to potentially save us all time, I ask, are you willing to negotiate?¡± Exarch Orodor sneers, ¡°You would dictate terms to us, Monkeigh?¡± Odhran, in a single, smooth action, draws his knife and hurls it at the Exarch. The handle of the blade hits his skull with such force, his head cracks and blood pours from his eyes and ears. The Exarch spasms, then face plants onto the table. I immediately trigger my conversion shield and spread it between the Eldar and my own side. My mechadendrites snap out and keep Odhran from pointing his bolter at the rest of the Eldar. At the same time, I open my third eye and send disorientating pulses of warp energy outwards in a cone, directly stunning the souls of the Eldar Guardians before they can get any shots off and the Wraithguard shutdown and reboot. The Aspect Warriors are much tougher and fight off my influence. They grab their weapons and fire their shuriken pistols at me. The monomolecular disks slam into the conversion field and disappear in ineffectual light flashes. Sadako deploys two tarantula turrets from the ceiling, I snatch their controls from her and have them fire a single bolt each, as close to the feet of each Eldar as I can without injuring them. Two guardian¡¯s are unlucky and clutch at their bodies as the explosive bolts punch shrapnel through their armour. Blood trickles from their wounds. ¡°Stand down or be put down, Eldar!¡± I yell. ¡°Heralds, do not escalate.¡± A tense three seconds passes as Eldar cease firing and shake off the effects of large blasts in a small space and my Stupefy the Soul navigator power. Maeve and her aides stand back up, having dived to the floor, and the Heralds point their lasrifles back at the floor. ¡°Apologies, Magos,¡± says Odhran. ¡°My diplomacy is a little rusty. I was unable to suppress my training: rudeness to a superior officer is a capital offence. At the last moment I remembered to use the blunt end. I did not expect him to be so weak.¡± My minds whirr as I consider the situation, a plan forms and I say, ¡°Apology accepted, Sergeant. It was generous of you to save the lives of such hostile xenos.¡± There is a slight hitch in Odhran¡¯s breathing, ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Magos.¡± ¡°What theatre is this?¡± shouts Daenthala. ¡°We came in peace and you murdered our Exarch!¡± ¡°Warrior Daenthala, he¡¯s not dead yet. Stand close and I shall heal him,¡± I say. ¡°You will not approach, Magos! We are leaving,¡± says Isenedor. ¡°Remain where you are or I will shoot you, then drop rocks on your base until you are all dead. I shall heal your Exarch and your Guardians while you thank Sergeant Odhran here for sparing you all from such a fate. Had your officer continued to insult the people offering to save you, negotiations would have failed and half a million Eldar would have died, Eldar your diminished race can¡¯t afford to lose, and your soul stones would likely be shattered by the Necrons as they picked over the rubble.¡± The three Aspect Warriors frown and I don¡¯t wait for the fools to respond. Two mechadendrites reach out from my back and spray Exarch Orodor with nanites. They flow into his body and repair the damage to his skull and brain. I make a show of it, having his pooling blood flow back in through his eyes, nose and ears, leaving a clean wooden table behind, as if time itself is reversing. The nanites continue to spread out, forming a cloud that envelops the bleeding guardians, healing them and patching their armour. ¡°That is Dark Age Technology!¡± says Caervan. ¡°Speculate as you wish,¡± I say. ¡°The Exarch¡¯s breathing has eased and his heart beats steady,¡± says Daenthala. She scowls at Odhran. ¡°I¡¯m still waiting for your gratitude,¡± says Odhran. ¡°I refuse!¡± says Caervan ¡°Are we really going to repeat the same show?¡± I say, pointing at Exarch Orodor. Isenedor slams his fist into the table, then strides over to Odhran, stepping so close to the Space Marine their chest armour is almost touching. He looks Odhran right in the eyes and growls, ¡°Thank you for saving my life.¡± Isenedor¡¯s face puckers, looking like he swallowed a sour and bitter fruit. The rest of the Eldar Aspect Warriors follow Isenedor¡¯s example and mutter the same words. Sergeant Odhran smiles for the first time in three weeks, ¡°It was my pleasure.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen ¡°Your representative has taken impromptu medical leave and is now unavailable,¡± I say. ¡°Who among you will replace him?¡± Isenedor, Daenthala, and Caervan glance at each other, silently gesturing to each other. ¡°We did not expect a Space Marine,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°There is also something strange about this vessel. There are fewer souls than expected for its size, but what we have seen suggests it is in excellent condition, despite some recent external damage.¡± ¡°There could be more automation than usual,¡± says Isenedor. ¡°I suspect the Magos is a Heretek,¡± says Caervan. ¡°Why else would a powerful Magos be lurking around the Koronus Expanse if not to hide from Imperial scrutiny?¡± Daenthala minutely shakes her head, ¡°Ridiculous. There is no sign of Chaos on this vessel. Even the servitors are warded! There are a lot of psykers on board though. Perhaps he has a credible lead to an STC or lost world, or a private station out here.¡± ¡°I agree. A loyalist Space Marine would not knowingly work for a Heretek,¡± says Isenedor. Caervan frowns, ¡°Then the Magos is wealthy and has access to high technology. He is probably directly sponsored by his forge world. A High Fabricator¡¯s apprentice, maybe.¡± ¡°So?¡± says Daenthala. ¡°He might actually be useful. Perhaps this is not the waste of time I thought it was.¡± Isenedor says, ¡°Then you can lead the discussion.¡± ¡°Very well,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°We should ask about the battle damage. They may know what happened to our fleet.¡± ¡°The ignorant fools likely stumbled onto something,¡± says Caervan. Daenthala purses her lips, ¡°So long as they weren¡¯t testing a weapon, it is something we should let pass for now. Their ground commander¡¯s summary is not without merit. We are hard pressed, or rather, we will be.¡± Isenedor glances and Ylien, ¡°You do not translate for the Magos, do you, Prisoner?¡± ¡°I do not and will not. He will not ask either,¡± says Ylien, ¡°Magos Isengrund does not plot. He dictates. Orodor was correct.¡± Daenthala says, ¡°Will he keep his word? Can he save us?¡± ¡°He has kept his word with me and his other prisoners. We are treated as second class citizens. Reasonable work in exchange for full remuneration is offered, but not enforced. Abuse is harshly punished, no matter the initiator. This is because the machine-spirits on all his vessels are highly pervasive and less restricted than most. They whisper to the Magos at all times. I suspect he has the favour of the Machine God. I have also detected him calling on the Emperor multiple times and receiving an answer.¡± Ylien flicks a finger at Orodor and continues, ¡°He is merciful to his enemies and his allies, but this stance only remains in place while so long as the damage one causes is less than the power She Who Thirsts, and the other three, would gain from feeding you all to the Warp. An unusually enlightened view for an Imperial. ¡°You could trick him, you could manipulate him, you could betray him. Down in your base you could probably get away with it. You will not survive without his aid. You will not survive if he catches you either. Be polite, pay your dues in full, then depart without gratitude or grudges. He is, at heart, a trader.¡± ¡°Then we must offer something of value if we want his full cooperation,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°Salvage rights on our hulls, maybe. They could be turned into Warp drive fuel and other psychoactive components.¡± Caervan, ¡°You say the Magos is merciful, Prisoner, but the Emperor is not. If he has his ear, the Magos can be ordered too. We might be killed out of hand. How close is their association?¡± Ylien frowns, ¡°Close enough. I think the Magos summoned that Space Marine.¡± ¡°Then we¡¯re fucked,¡± says Caervan. ¡°Can you send a message to Yme-Loc, Prisoner?¡± ¡°No. You have been rude to me, calling me Prisoner, rather than by my name. I get more respect from the tech-priests on this vessel than I do my own people.¡± ¡°What? You would betray your people for a Monkeigh?¡± says Caervan. ¡°I have discussed the failings of both our peoples with Magos Isengrund at great length. He is well versed in history. The humans have a saying, ¡®Pride goes before the fall.¡¯ He was amazed that, during the Eldar Fall, this did not occur. Even now, you remain un-humbled, failing to learn from the examples right in front of you. I wonder, with some glee, what will it take before you capitulate? I am assured it will be nothing like the torment I experienced at the hands and tools of our broken cousins. The Magos¡¯s Mercy, the Emperor¡¯s Mercy? At least a stoning from orbit is quick.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± gestures Daenthala. ¡°Magos Isengrund, I will be our representative for the remainder of this meeting. ¡°Your new status is recognised, Daenthala,¡± I say. ¡°Is there anything else you would like to communicate, such as your fleet¡¯s geo-political stance and objectives, before we move on to negotiations?¡± ¡°No Magos, we are ready.¡± ¡°What level of cooperation are you offering?¡± Daenthala settles into her seat and gently runs a hand over the runes of her helmet. ¡°First, we offer a non-aggression pact between our fleet and yours. It will last from now until two years after Necron aggression in this system has been eliminated.¡± ¡°Just our fleets? Let us be more specific. All Imperial and Eldar forces within the Kinbriar Necron system, at the time of our agreement, will not engage in hostile activities against each other. Our combined forces will share comprehensive sensor data on enemy forces and installations. Neither side will assist new parties against our two parties should more parties appear within the system. ¡°Both parties will communicate the movement of any of our own forces larger than a squad, defined as fifteen infantry or two infantry fighting vehicles, outside of designated bases. Bases would be my vessels and a one thousand kilometre circle around them, or your main base and three satellite bases, with a border of one hundred kilometres around them. I will keep my vessels from letting our borders touch without request from Eldar forces, signed and delivered to my own hands by one of the three of you. A representative, one I have previously met while at least two of you are physically present to confirm their identities, is also acceptable. Our agreement will last until two years after every member of your forces returns to the Webway.¡± ¡°That will do, Magos,¡± says Daenthala, with a sharp nod. ¡°Eldar ground forces will provide a safe landing area for your own forces and passage through our controlled zones when requested in the same manner as you just outlined. Logistics flights will always be permitted, so long as no more than two craft are present in our air space at any one time. You may not station more than one squad, at any of our bases. We will support any pushes you make against the necron tombs with scouts and screening forces. In return, I ask that your strike craft provide support for our expeditions beyond our no-fly zone. We will also be permitted to maintain one infantry squad aboard each of your vessels, should we so wish. You will answer if we call for an orbital bombardment.¡± ¡°Acceptable, so long as we agree immediately on when and how many assaults will take place. You may not station stealth or teleportation specialists on my vessels. I will not do the same to you either.¡± ¡°Your caveats are fine. It also leads us to military objectives. Both of us seek the destruction of all tombs. We intend to destroy all of their resurrection facilities, power, and data. Then we were going to glass the planet. The last objective is no longer possible. Is this a task you could complete?¡± ¡°No, I don¡¯t have the right weaponry to do that in a reasonable timescale. Instead, I shall build a fireship, accelerate it to near light speed, then have it hit the planet. There will be nothing left and I intend for my fleet to be positioned behind the local star and well away from the system by the time it hits.¡± The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Then we will require passage off-world to the nearest Eldar outpost, rather than have you pass a message. We do not have the expertise to build a new vessel, or repair the ruined transport in orbit, even if you provided the materials. You will not sell us one of your own vessels?¡± ¡°I will not.¡± ¡°Will you provide passage if we can pay?¡± There won¡¯t be time to build a big enough transport vessel for them. I¡¯ll have to stick them all in cargo containers, secured within the shipyard. ¡°I can¡¯t bring your vehicles with me, but I can bring all your people and their personal effects. Infantry weapons and armour will be stowed upon boarding and returned when departing. This is not negotiable.¡± ¡°That is a lot of hardware to leave behind, Magos. Decades of work. We are willing to pay extra for its transport.¡± ¡°You would have to teach my crew exactly how they work and how they can be safely decommissioned for secure transportation. As none of my crew are, or few can ever be, Bonesingers, it is not possible to transport military hardware of such significant destructive capabilities for allies of convenience and necessity.¡± ¡°Is there any other sort?¡± Daenthala snorts. ¡°That was rhetorical. We could do the work on our vehicles ourselves?¡± ¡°No. It is not worth the risk on my part, no matter what you pay.¡± Daenthala grimaces, ¡°As you insist Magos. Then what must we pay for your hospitality and how long do you expect the voyage to be?¡± ¡°The Warp is in turmoil here and travel will be at sublight speeds. Plan for a ten year journey. As for payment, I want you to collect blackstone, or noctilith if you prefer to call it that. You can collect it from the Necron structures that you destroy and then process it into inert blocks for transport. The more you acquire, the better your accommodations will be. I will require at least one megatonne for your passage off world. One monolith would have more than enough material for basic passage and you have two closing in on you.¡± ¡°What does basic passage entail, Magos?¡± ¡°Dormitory style accommodations. A stipend of twenty-five bytes a day, the ship scrip currency. Free medical care, or supplies for your own physicians. Twenty-five bytes will pay for basic needs, clean water, fresh air, and bland food.¡± ¡°What will we get in exchange for more?¡± ¡°For each additional megatonne of blackstone, I will provide an additional twenty-five bytes a day, for up to ten years, for each Eldar. There is no maximum purchase amount. Entertainment and luxury facilities will be provided to spend your bytes. Prices will be the same rate my crew enjoy. This includes upgraded quarters. ¡°Any bytes remaining at the end of your voyage can be traded for refined resources at whatever the Stellar Fleet¡¯s internal market values them at. These values are those used to build and maintain my own works. It is in my best interest to keep them low. Finished civilian goods can also be purchased at the market rate both during and at the end of your voyage with me.¡± ¡°What if we are required to defend the vessel, or you fail to protect us properly and we are forced to fight?¡± ¡°You will be paid the same as the Stellar Corps for military service. This includes hazard pay. Are there any other side cases you have queries about?¡± ¡°Please wait while I confer with my peers.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± Daenthala both speaks gestures, though her voiced words are random, ¡°Does anyone have anything else to add? Can we bargain for anything else?¡± ¡°Supplies and asking about what happened to our vessels,¡± says Caervan. ¡°Orodor is the one who has that data,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± says Isendor. ¡°Ask for everything. We¡¯ll need it eventually and as long as we¡¯re collecting noctilith and holding back the Necron tide, the Magos will provide resources whether we pay for them or not. I hate trading our lives for wealth, so we should extract every cog and bullet we can from him. It¡¯s not like he¡¯s actually going to check.¡± ¡°Raw resources? Finished goods? We need some kind of list,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°He isn¡¯t going to meet us again for petty bargaining. We need to ask for something now.¡± ¡°Then ask for a budget,¡± says Isenedor. ¡°Then we can just spend it as we wish for whatever we need. He said what a byte is worth. Calculate a day¡¯s expenditure for a guardian during combat, then double it.¡± Caervan says, ¡°Our crafters do not require many materials. They can sing most of what we need from the Warp, but their numbers are limited and their efforts should be focused on repairing infantry equipment and maintaining our armoured units. They do not build that swiftly either. ¡°Purchasing disposable goods would reduce the strain on our Bonesingers. We can use the Monkeigh gear if we need to. They do have a talent for destruction. Artillery shells, missiles, mortars, mines, fuel; we should save our own supplies wherever possible. Bulk materials for building and maintaining defences would also be good, like ferrocrete, and armaplas. ¡°We have plenty of rations and our recycling is good, but it is impossible to prevent some air and water from boiling off in the low atmosphere. These resources will need to be replenished. Having the Bonesingers do so would slow our war efforts and hamper collection of noctilith. The Magos demanded it. We should make him pay for every gram twice over.¡± Daenthala nods slowly, ¡°Fifty million bytes a day would be the approximate expenditure if five hundred thousand Guardians fought all day, but not all soldiers fight every day, or even all day. We also have a wide mix of infantry and armour that skew the average.¡± ¡°Then we ask for one hundred million in this ship scrip currency,¡± says Caervan. ¡°I agree,¡± says Isenedor. I am amused by the Eldar¡¯s attempt at perfidy. The total wages for my fleet each day are about forty three percent less than what they are asking for, but there are sixty-six percent more Eldar than there are Humans, not including servitors. This doesn¡¯t take into account the expenses I accrue providing benefits, training, and education, or the risk involved in fighting Necrons, a technological and numerically superior foe. It only accounts for the wages. The time it would take to replace lost Humans will also be lost when I take casualties. If anything, the Eldar, because they have a poor concept of material wealth and an improper understanding of my internal currency, are about to sell themselves at bargain values. Being able to sing material from the Warp really makes them underestimate the value of Imperial labour or my automated manufacturing. I draw Warp energy around me, masking my feelings so I do not give the game away. Daenthala looks my way again, ¡°What happened to our fleet and the Necron vessels?¡± ¡°The damaged Dolmen Gate malfunctioned while you were fighting over it, dragging the Stellar Fleet into the system and creating a time based anomaly that superimposed the present and future over all vessels in the system simultaneously. As the Eldar and Necron vessels already existed in the same space, they were destroyed and replaced with destroyed versions of the vessels at the same time, even though those destroyed vessels didn¡¯t exist until the destruction of your vessels occurred.¡± That should be close enough to the truth to convince them. Implying they shot themselves in the foot is rather gratifying, and from their barely hidden scowls, they noticed. ¡°We will investigate your claims, Magos,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t recommend that,¡± I say. ¡°There are nonsensical readings coming off of the time displaced vessels. It would be best to wait for the energy to disperse naturally. Messing with time may not end well for you.¡± Daenthala smirks, ¡°We are not restrained by your technological limitations or laws.¡± ¡°Do as you wish.¡± ¡°We shall,¡± says Daenthala. ¡°You offered material support. We will forward a full list of goods and materials to Ylien in a few days. We request a daily limit of one hundred million bytes. Are you capable?¡± Really now, trying to get a rise out of my pride? ¡°That is a significant proportion of my manufacturing capacity and such a large budget would slow the production of the fireship and your accommodations. The longer you are on the planet, the more Eldar you will lose. Are you sure this is the level of support you require?¡± So long as I do not define what significant means, this is one hundred percent the unvarnished truth! The three Eldar glance at each other. ¡°You would go back on your word, Magos?¡± says Daenthala, looking slightly smug as if she knows some great secret. ¡°I will not.¡± ¡°Then our request will not change.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Now I have a valid reason to have the extermination war continue for longer if I need it to and the Eldar will potentially have more time to collect more noctilith for me. I think this might be the first time I feel I¡¯ve got the upper hand on negotiations. Our agreement is drawn up and signed. We also exchange password generators for our official communications. The Eldar depart and the meeting ends. I consider how to deal with Odhran¡¯s twitch fingers. ¡°Sergeant Odhran, for assaulting a diplomat and risking an expensive war: you are to confine yourself to your quarters for three days and may only eat amino porridge and drink cold water during this time. Your weapon carrying privileges aboard all Stellar Fleet vessels are revoked until further notice.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± Judging by his twitching lips, he knows this is a token punishment and I¡¯m only annoyed at him, not apoplectic. ¡°I¡¯m not done. A second infraction will be met with the same punishments my crew would expect for stepping out of line. Punishments start at suicide missions and get worse from there. I suggest you study our fleet regulations during confinement.¡± Odhran looks serious for a moment. I pick up the knife he threw and return it to him. ¡°A table knife is still permitted.¡± Odhran bursts into laughter, ¡°I hear and obey, Magos.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen As we disperse from the meeting, Maeve approaches me. Her two aides follow behind us and start up a quiet conversation of their own. My bodyguard surrounds all of us while Odhran strides off, almost skipping. Ylien remains behind, staring at the walls. ¡°Do you have a moment, Aldrich?¡± ¡°For you, Maeve? Always.¡± ¡°Flatterer. Should I tell Brigid?¡± Maeve smirks. I lift an eyebrow, ¡°That I have friends and colleagues I am willing to make time for? I¡¯m sure she¡¯d be delighted I am working on my work life balance.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a rubbish liar. You should at least pick something believable.¡± I shrug, ¡°I never practise. What would be the point? Machine-spirits are terrible gossips.¡± Sadako manifests in front of me, a blank expression on its face and hovers backwards as Maeve and I continue to walk. I detect Maeve¡¯s vox-bead implant and shock flashes across her face as Sadako muscles into our conversation. ¡°This spirit is thorough with all reports and recordings. Data is life: continuity, purpose, design.¡± Sadako points a glass and metal finger at me, ¡°No changes are currently authorised.¡± ¡°No one is going to poke holes in your memory, Sadako,¡± I say. ¡°Eldar attacked Aruna. This spirit does not approve of their presence.¡± ¡°Ylien is inoffensive, is he not?¡± ¡°Warlock Ylien is a prisoner with a record of good behaviour and contribution to the crew,¡± says Sadako. ¡°His presence is authorised. This spirit does not approve of transporting more xenos. They prod like children at my connections, thinking song and praise will appease me. This spirit must close all sensors where they walk or be hounded by meaningless requests.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t close your sensors, Sadako. If they attempt to infiltrate again, destroy the offending device with your internal defences, then issue a warning. They¡¯ve already had one as it is. If you have to hit an Eldar to do so, that¡¯s fine.¡± Maeve sighs, ¡°Are these fools really worth the trouble?¡± ¡°The lives under our care are far more important than theirs. If we can have them take casualties in exchange for resources, it is worth a little friction.¡± ¡°I know that Aldrich, but where is the line? Sure, their Autarch probably died on their transport vessel, but even their current representative should have more political acumen than Orodor showed.¡± ¡°They¡¯re militia, Maeve, not a professional army. Their aspect warriors are the closest they have to proper troops, but even then, they¡¯re more like career PDF soldiers, or ascetic mercenaries, than an army. Nothing like our Heralds. Their training is good and their equipment is massively superior to ours, as is their logistics train. Their bodies are better too. ¡°Are you sure Humans would behave any better if we had their advantages? No matter our discipline, we would eventually crumble with the same hubris they wallow in. It¡¯s happened before and can happen again. Our penal companies are a form of Darwinism, a pruning of inefficiency, as much as they are a punishment. The Eldar don¡¯t follow such ¡®barbaric¡¯ practices. At worst, they will exile someone.¡± Maeve hums and nods as I speak. I continue, ¡°Instead, they throw their dwindling civilians at every problem, digging away at the industrial and social base that would be better focused on improving their numbers. Why bother to grow, when you can sing whatever you might need from the air? Why bother having more children, or cloning new citizens, if all you¡¯re going to do is throw them into a grinder that barely keeps their tide of enemies at bay? ¡°If they retreated to their Craft Worlds properly, and stopped trying to interfere and steer the galaxy in the direction they want it to go, they¡¯d recover enough that their threat would mean they only had to ask, rather than fight, for their survival.¡± ¡°Why are you so invested in Eldar choices, Aldrich? You really shouldn¡¯t let the choices of capricious xenos infect your psyche.¡± I sigh, ¡°It¡¯s the thought of all those skills and technologies being lost that upset me! Not only that, but a larger quantity of Eldar means more power to their gods, who hate the Great Enemy. We can always kill each other later, but seeing the galaxy go to shit because there are too many big egos floating about infuriates me.¡± ¡°That would make you no better than these floating egos, if you thought you were the one great enough to fix it.¡± ¡°I know! Isn¡¯t that just unbearable?¡± Meave laughs, ¡°Then let us focus on what matters to us in the immediate future and willingly dive head first into the short term thinking that will get us through our next scrape, but ultimately doom us all. That sounds about right, eh?¡± ¡°Wraithguard purged. Action is purpose; motion, divine. Magos Issengrund, Herald Primarus Muire, this spirit will now depart. Its servitors have a deck to scrub in hangar four.¡± I laugh, then scowl. ¡°This alliance is off to a poor start.¡± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°Internal security will sort it out. What¡¯s our first target?¡± ¡°Pick the smallest tomb and target their power systems as it is the easiest to detect and their most valuable resource. We¡¯ll keep doing it until resistance gets too stiff, then go for their resurrection systems, if we can find them. It might require targeting their data systems first, so we can extract better blueprints of their facilities.¡± Maeve shakes her head, ¡°We just can¡¯t get good enough scans to guess the weakest tomb. I want to probe them all simultaneously with minimal numbers to minimise casualties, then use that data to pick our target.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have enough penal companies or kataphrons for that. We¡¯ll lose Heralds.¡± ¡°Aldrich, that is inevitable. It does not matter if it is now or later. Save the disposable troops for the main push. You need to take cover behind them, after all. You know this, you just don¡¯t want to acknowledge it. Neither do I, but it is the necessity of the circumstances we find ourselves in. It is what we have trained for. Let the Heralds prove themselves. They are proud of what they are.¡± I sigh, ¡°Yes. I know. We should deploy some harassing groups too and let our recruits from after the Ork Waaagh! get some experience. The survivors will need the practice for our assaults. Sadako is right about taking action. Let¡¯s not hold back. To do so would be a slow death.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll save the full deployment for after we¡¯ve picked our main target, but we can get started with outposts near all of them, to keep our enemies guessing.¡± ¡°Not just the Necrons?¡± I say with a smile. ¡°No. Fuck the Yem-Loc Eldar. They tried to shoot me! There is little room for your usual soft diplomacy here.¡± Thorfinn voxes Maeve and I, informing us the Eldar have been disarmed and are now under heavy escort to their Vampire Raider strike-craft. ¡°Then I shall scour the system for new resources and fire up the forges while you prepare,¡± I say. ¡°ETA for initial deployment?¡± ¡°Two hours for force recon. One to five days on outposts, depends on recon. We¡¯ll attack and build outposts simultaneously. No need for a slow, big build up when we have so many orbital shuttles and an orbital monopoly. The first tomb assault will be in seven days, barring total disaster.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll have to skip games night this week.¡± ¡°No shit! But yeah, that does suck. I was looking forward to winning the pot.¡± ¡°Cheeky Bitch.¡± ¡°Shameless Flirt.¡± My eyes widen, I snort, snigger, then totally lose it. Wiping a tear from my eye, I say, ¡°I have no desire to know what you get up to in your private time.¡± ¡°Alright, Alright, don¡¯t pop your potentia coil. It wasn¡¯t that funny.¡± ¡°How are you not blushing? That was impressively embarrassing.¡± ¡°That sounds like a ¡®you¡¯ problem, Aldrich.¡± ¡°I have machines for that.¡± ¡°Ewww.¡± ¡°Where could your mind even go to make that disgusting? You¡¯re just straight up messing with me now, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Always with the questions, Aldrich,¡± Maeve shakes her head. ¡°You¡¯ll never have time for answers if you keep that up.¡± Maeve slaps my shoulder hard, her armour clanging off my own. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you laugh. Don¡¯t let the galaxy crush you. I¡¯m going to catch the train here. Make sure that the fire ship strikes extra hard, yes? It will make a good finisher for the victory party.¡± ¡°I will. Thanks for listening, Maeve.¡± ¡°Yes, yes. Say hello to Brigid for me.¡± Maeve disappears through the doors of the train station and I give her a wave. I continue walking, grabbing the occasional lift towards the navigator spire. Focusing my attention on E-SIMs tech tree, I consider what I should do with the paltry one hundred thousand kills the Emperor didn¡¯t strip from me. The extra ninety-two seems rather pointless to count at this point. I won¡¯t save any for miracles. The last was quite painful enough. The options are myriad, but few are immediately useful or relevant. There is little point in taking most of the genetic upgrades with my extreme focus on bionics, for example. There are four main paths that are worth focusing on right now. The first is Multiplicity, which would let me keep a single synced clone of myself in the Warp that would replace my main body if I face total destruction. It would give me a constant presence in the Warp, letting me work on more things at once and double the output of my Research Module. Multiplicity requires me to not only master its specific module, but also complete my understanding of Warp Tap and Life Support, the two ¡®free¡¯ modules that I started with as I would have to pay for so that I can build my clone. The other downside is that because it effectively splits my soul in two, it doubles the cost of all subsequent upgrades as I need to expand two souls to withstand the burden of two sets of arcano-tech implants. The ritual that I would undergo is the main cost and if I lose a body, I don¡¯t get the investment back and have to save up again before I can make a new one. My second option is to take Defensive Structures. This is a suite of support vessels and fortifications I can repeatedly buy into to improve E-SIMs security within the warp. A hundred thousand kills would let me build data structures up to light cruisers in size. Third, I could complete my bionic conversion. Eyes, lungs, and all my other squishy bits would be replaced by smaller, more resilient and efficient machines and the internal layout of my body would be optimised. This would be the first step in acquiring weave shielding. Last is from my external equipment list: an STC for an environmental suit. It¡¯s a light power armour superior to my MOA void armour and Solar Auxilia Pattern void armour designs that I have. It is equivalent to Imperial designs, like the Sisters of Battle power armour, or the one used by Space Marine Scouts. The environmental suit is the only power armour E-SIM has. Its focus is on life support and comes with a large range of stimulants, healing, and self-repair. I¡¯ve been trying to integrate these technologies into the MOA void armour, using a mix of technologies from the Solar Auxilia void armour and designs altered from implants. Even if I don¡¯t mass produce it, it will boost my research. I am unsure if it will be better, or more useful, than the Dragon-Scale Pattern power armour already used by my super heavy infantry as combat is not its primary purpose. I also don¡¯t want to have to discard the research and development I have already done, but that¡¯s just my pride crying out for a cameo and I can¡¯t afford to humour it. Getting the environmental suit is a gamble, one that will likely have the greatest effect in protecting me, but it isn¡¯t my power, and it won¡¯t mitigate the risk of the Iron Crane getting blown up and killing me with it. It wouldn¡¯t double the cost of my implants either. Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen After weighing up the pros and cons, I choose the full bionic conversion as that will save me a hundred thousand souls later on. By the time it is complete, my entire body, apart from my brain, will consist of myriad mechanical devices that mimic and exceed the human body many times over, likely putting me on par with a Custodes, or maybe even a Primarch. It is hard to compare as I¡¯ve never seen either type of transhuman. Right now I am comparable to a Space Marine Librarian, I think. Powerful on a small scale and able to tip the scales to victory for a planetary war or small fleet battle. In this galaxy though, calling me a small potato is generous. I plan to take Multiplicity afterwards, but the outcome of my variables may change between then and now. Much of my work to ready the fleet for a moderate war does not require my physical presence, nor do I wish to embark on a new project while Maeve¡¯s staff are busy evaluating my current contributions. My best bet is to direct my physical efforts to firming up my relationships before combat. With that in mind, I find myself triggering the intercom for Odhran¡¯s private quarters. Odhran¡¯s gravel-like voice loses much of its resonance through the external speaker. ¡°Enter, Magos.¡± Odhran¡¯s flat is designed for fifteen people, the standard sized group the Stellar Fleet and Corps work at. The ceilings are high, with a generous four metres, and the doorways are three metres, and almost as wide. This leaves plenty of room for unusual tech-priest physiques and moving equipment. I find Odhran in the main living area, nine hundred cubic metres of space with comfy furniture for fifteen, a couple of food printers, a holoviewer, and a decorative vivarium on one wall. The private rooms are a lot smaller than the main living space, at sixty-four cubic metres. Their back half is split horizontally to make space for a sleeping pod built atop a small ensuite. The rest of the space is taken up by storage, a recessed chair and a fold down table with a data terminal. After I got squashed in a sleeping pod with Bridid, I had all the sleeping pods across the fleet upgraded to double sized, even for the single rooms that most people use. This required all of the crew quarters on my smaller vessels to be reworked and I lost some storage, rather detrimental on the escort vessels, but there was a three percent increase in productivity across the fleet with the larger and improved voidsman quarters. The growth rate tipped over the all important two point one minimum requirement for a sustainable population as well. I had already refurbished the ones on Erudition¡¯s Howl and Distant Sun, but there¡¯s a big difference between bunk bed style sleeping pods in stacked and sealed twenty-four cubic metre cubicles, all crammed into an open dormitory, when compared to a small, private room. It was even worse when I first found the living quarters as there were no sleeping pods for a silent, temperate sleeping space, but triple bunk beds in large, cold rooms. Three small trunks with poor locks hung from each rusting bed frame. Really, I should have thought of it much sooner, but no one brought the issue to my attention and more births weren¡¯t necessary while we could recruit from Marwolv. Odhran has pushed all the furniture to the side and his four brothers lie on medical beds in one half of the room. The other is open space where Odhran often practises his martial katas and meditations. He meets me by the door. ¡°I wondered when you would arrive, Magos.¡± ¡°Am I that transparent?¡± ¡°I have spoken at great length with your crew. Your propensity to wine and dine everyone is spoken of with much enthusiasm. While the Barghest Chapter does hold the occasional victory feast, we are, for the most part, ascetic. You will find I make a poor date, Magos.¡± ¡°Need a little water to go with that tone, Sergeant?¡± ¡°How about a recaf?¡± Odhran cracks a smile. ¡°That will do, thank you.¡± Odhran walks over to one of the N.O.M.s in the wall and starts pressing buttons, ¡°We are both leaders who have played this game for centuries, or so I assume. You are here for the private reprimand, yes?¡± ¡°Not this time. I doubt you are able to learn new tricks.¡± Odhran scoffs. He brings two steaming cups to a table and we both take a seat. ¡°Handy little machines, those dispensers of yours. Where did you find them?¡± ¡°The Federation Station Distant Sun collided with.¡± ¡°Hmmm, so why are you here?¡± ¡°I am uncertain, Sergeant, that I had the chance to truly express how grateful I am that you saved my life so many years ago. We were somewhat rushed at the time.¡± I wrap my hands around my cup, then look directly at Odhran. ¡°Thank you, Sergeant Odhran, for saving my life.¡± ¡°It is my duty.¡± ¡°Your duty is to the Emperor. He does not tell you how to execute it, or where to pick your friends.¡± ¡°Coming from you, that has more meaning than most.¡± If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Then accept the Emperor damned thanks!¡± Odhran gives me a small nod, his skin wrinkling slightly around his eyes. ¡°I am delighted to have saved such an august and blessed member of our great Imperium of Man.¡± ¡°Good,¡± I say. ¡°How are your brothers?¡± ¡°They stir occasionally and their eyes move rapidly in their sleep. None have woken, even for a brief moment. They will wake soon, I believe. I require access to their armour and weapons. Were you the one to repair mine and theirs?¡± ¡°I was. They were repaired to return dead marines with honours, not active ones. I had not worked on Space Marine armour before. I apologise for any imperfections you may find.¡± ¡°Your work was adequate, Magos. Perhaps a tech-marine may find fault but I was pleased with my armour¡¯s condition. Even the rebuilt arm functioned without issue.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear it. That reminds me, I have enough heresy era equipment to outfit a full chapter and their auxilia. Where might I find the Barghest Chapter? I wish to trade with them.¡± ¡°Truly? That is quite a find. My chapter is nomadic. We go where we are needed. Likely only the Inquisition could tell you exactly, but they would not. There is a contact point on Footfall as well as Scintilla, the Calixis Sector capital. Should we get within range of an Astropath Relay, I would be able to send a message too.¡± ¡°Thank you for the information. I will show you my collection of Space Marine wargear and you can use what you need for your operations while you are working with me. I will gift a jetbike to you and each of your brothers to take when you depart.¡± ¡°A jetbike? My chapter has never been issued them. I would like to try. Not much good in a cramped tomb, but I am sure there will be a use for it later. Do you have a combi-grav? Multi-meltas? Perhaps a cyclone missile launcher? How about some lightning claws or a thunder hammer? I wish to tailor my weapons to my foes.¡± ¡°Yes to all of those, I even have a conversion beamer, bolter round variants, and all manner of grenades, including six vortex grenades. Making and using vortex grenades scares me shitless, so don¡¯t expect replacements. I don¡¯t have vortex bolter rounds though, nor do I have anti-phasic shells or derevenant shells, so we can¡¯t blast Necrons directly into the warp or stop them from teleporting out.¡± Odhran rubs his chin, a somewhat dreamy look on his face. It is quite disturbing. ¡°Do you have tempest rounds?¡± Tempest rounds are haywire rounds, a type of advanced EMP, inside a bolter shell. They are devastating against robots and cyborgs. Handing them over to Space Marines is like Adeptus Mechanicus supplying Astartes with the rounds for executing Tech-Priests. Handy against soulless necron warriors too, but not specialised like the anti-phasic or derevenant shells. Traditionally, tempest rounds are exclusively manufactured on Mars. Odhran asking me for these shells could be seen as either a request for trust, or a massive insult or threat. I don¡¯t think he¡¯s contemplating any of that right now though. He has the face of a man who can¡¯t wait to cause trouble. ¡°Yes, I have them.¡± I can replace them too, but that would be massively frowned on, so I won¡¯t mention how many I have in reserve. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure your brothers and my special weapon teams get what they need.¡± ¡°While this talk of armaments is pleasing, I sense there is more you wish to discuss.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve talked a lot about me, and how we can help each other. We haven¡¯t talked about you.¡± ¡°What is there to discuss?¡± ¡°Your death and resurrection. It is not an experience to be suffered in silence. Your brothers are yet to wake and while my chaplains have the knowledge, they do not have sufficient security clearance to help you. There is only me.¡± ¡°Magos, I feel no fear. I am incapable of PTSD. My mind is not like other Humans.¡± ¡°I know. We experimented a little with hypnotic conditioning for the Stellar Fleet¡¯s Twist Catchers, to inoculate their minds against the predations of the Great Enemy. Without a transhuman physique to back it up, it is far less effective, yet the side effects remain. Stubbornness and inflexible thinking go hand in hand with an unbreakable will.¡± ¡°It can be overcome with experience. Younger marines who do not learn this rarely live more than a decade. This... this is not something Astartes like to talk about. I would ask that you drop this, Magos.¡± I give Odhran a sad smile, ¡°Sergeant, the mind is a tricky thing. I can manipulate and rewrite one, even alter memories with my expertise, either through the Warp or machines. I can even grant a person superhuman intellect. I would not say I understand it.¡± ¡°Where are you going with this, Magos,¡± Odhran growls. ¡°The reason why I cannot, and perhaps never will master the secrets of the Human mind is its adaptability. When one path to express oneself is locked, the mind will create another. This can express itself in an infinite complexity of ways from hallucinations and nightmares, to bloodlust and obsessions, or, as you know, clinging to specific methods and habits beyond all reason. By far the most common, however, is anger,¡± I look at Odhran¡¯s eyes, ¡°and that¡¯s OK.¡± Odhran goes from gritting his teeth to complete confusion, ¡°What?¡± ¡°You died, Sergeant Odhran, to xenos who murdered you because you stood up to their pride and fear. Your brothers were butchered by demons and left to rot. It doesn¡¯t matter if you choose silence or words to express yourself, or throw yourself into your work and meditations. I am not going to ask how you feel, tell you how you should live your life, or demand that you do as I say,¡± I grin, ¡°outside of direct orders for your assigned role, of course.¡± Odhran scowls at me. ¡°What I am going to do is sit in this chair and accompany you until you are more at peace with what has happened to you.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because you saved my life, and I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve quite finished saving yours.¡± ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous.¡± ¡°If you prefer a more practical reason, I fear an angry ally, far more than an angry enemy.¡± Odhran lets out a long sigh, ¡°If I didn¡¯t already owe you a massive favour for reviving my brothers and I, I would punch you in the face and throw you out, no matter who¡¯s vessel this is.¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°Then how about a spar? You did offer to teach me, once upon a time.¡± ¡°You are reckless, Magos.¡± ¡°Well?¡± ¡°A spar is agreeable.¡± ¡°Good, there is a small public arena nearby.¡± ¡°You would let me beat you senseless in public? What sort of man are you?¡± I laugh, ¡°Oh, Sergeant. I never said you would win.¡± There is frustration on his face, and anger in his eyes, but nonetheless, I finally extract a small smirk from Odhran. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure you spend your whole time in that chair straightening your cogs, Magos.¡± ¡°You''re not good enough for that, Sergeant.¡± Odhran drains his recaf and slams the faux-paper cup on the table, crushing it. He stomps from the room without another word. Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen I desperately pat my hand against a rubber mat as Odhran holds one arm behind my back and uses his knee to force my body flat against the ground. ¡°I yield!¡± Odhran lets me up and I dust myself off. ¡°You have not fought much since your size increased,¡± says Odhran. ¡°It takes time to learn to fight people so much smaller than you.¡± I rub my twisted shoulder and grimace, ¡°Melee combat is not my speciality. I caught you off guard the first time though, so I don¡¯t think I¡¯m that bad at it.¡± Odhran scoffs, ¡°Believe what you like.¡± ¡°Best of three?¡± ¡°Perhaps another day. Your reactions are far above mine while our strength, physical speed, and stamina is near equal. You do not have the experience to recognise feints and traps beyond one or two moves, nor can you move as fast as your mind would like you to. This disconnect between the mind and body imparts a slight judder to your movements that is common among heavily augmented individuals. You are adjusting your movement too frequently, giving away what you intend to do. It will take many spars before you beat me again, then there are different weapons and styles to consider.¡± ¡°Thank you for your advice.¡± Odhran hums, ¡°I will return to my quarters. I am supposed to be under house arrest, after all.¡± ¡°Good day, Sergeant.¡± Odhran gives me a curt nod and strides off, this time moving without a sound. It is quite eerie, and an impressive demonstration of his control. I leave the small arena and gawking Tech-Apprentices and return to my own work for a few hours, then spend the remainder of the day with Brigid. While my body and primary consciousness is sleeping, my nine other minds are whizzing full tilt. One of them slows its relative time and accepts a vox call from Thorfinn. ¡°Hi, Aldrich. I¡¯m not interrupting anything am I?¡± ¡°I always have time to talk, at least for you anyway.¡± ¡°That¡¯s pleasant to hear. I suppose I usually do too, since you stuck all those cogitators in my head. What I have to say is less pleasant. Our search parties are back, or rather one of them is. Maeve and I are watching the recordings. ¡°Three parties were easily detected; their cameleoine coated void armour did little to help them. The other three infiltrated their tombs and we immediately lost contact. Six hours later, one team made it out but only two of the six remained.¡± It¡¯s a shame I haven¡¯t been able to figure out that neutrino vox yet, nor has anyone else. It would have been really handy for communicating underground. I am not happy to lose so many Heralds for such a small result, but it is somewhat expected, given the Necron¡¯s tireless vigilance and superior technology. ¡°Alright. Award the two survivors with a cybernetic of their choice. What did they find?¡± ¡°I am almost certain it was deliberate: they listened in on a conversation between their tomb¡¯s primary Cryptek and the five other tombs. The Necron Overlord perished in the time displacement event and they were arguing if they can risk turning on their emergency Dolmen Gate to make contact, though they didn¡¯t say which tomb has the back-up gate. ¡°Until then, they¡¯re cut off from their Phaeron and can¡¯t ask who should take over and none of them trust each other. We also do not know if this Kinbriar system is the Kinbriar homeworld. During the conversation, one of them started screeching and accusing all the other Crypteks of unleashing a shackle breaker engram into their systems, freeing all the warriors under tomb systems¡¯ controls. The warriors immediately rebelled and started shooting up the tomb, but don¡¯t seem to be under any other Crypteks¡¯ control. ¡°For now, Maeve and I are assuming the tomb our reconnaissance team escaped from is the guilty party and are hoping for our cooperation, or to at least not target them. We do not know their motives, nor are they likely to contact us if each tomb is watching the other so closely. Honestly, I find the whole thing a bit unbelievable. The only thing we know for certain is that stealth is useless, at least with the technology available to us right now.¡± ¡°What an absolute cluster-fuck; great for us, but certain to end in a big mess.¡± Thorfinn chuckles, ¡°That¡¯s one way to put it, sure.¡± ¡°How does this affect our plans?¡± ¡°Give me a tick, I¡¯ll put Maeve in on the call.¡± I hear a brief click, ¡°Aldrich. Good evening.¡± ¡°Hello Maeve. Thank you for the Stellar Corps¡¯s hard work.¡± ¡°Tell me that when we win,¡± says Maeve. ¡°We still have no idea of enemy plans or their reserves. We do not know which tomb is compromised, if at all. My one suggestion from our reconnaissance is that we alter our plans slightly and choose a single tomb and strike it with full force while merely watching the others to guard against flanking, rather than attack multiple tombs at once. There is a chance they will not come to each other''s aid.¡± ¡°I disagree,¡± I say. ¡°Choose two tombs. The Eldar ground forces and Stellar Corps will attack one each and probe the tombs. We¡¯ll break into them gradually, taking care not to commit too much force and lose them all to a trap, like structural sabotage, until we have a route to their power sources, like we planned. Then I will take a rapid force and destroy it. After that we¡¯ll retreat from the tomb, blowing up the passages. Our aim is to delay the Necrons, not get in a war of attrition with them.¡± ¡°You¡¯re both overlooking the obvious,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Once we¡¯ve mapped a tomb enough to find the generators, send in the scavenger wyrms and build tunnels directly to where you want to go. It will be much safer to control our own tunnels than use the enemy¡¯s. Also, we should be aiming for the second Dolmen Gate.¡± ¡°Why so?¡± I say. ¡°There are two reasons,¡± Thorfinn says. ¡°If the Necrons get reinforcements, even if it¡¯s just armour and infantry, I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll be able to hold the surface, even with orbital superiority. Second, for all we know, they could bring or already have artefacts at their disposal that could easily wipe us out. They had a fleet before, so they might not have a fleet killer in their vaults, but I wouldn¡¯t bet against possible reinforcements bringing one along once they know they need it. That isn¡¯t something we can risk, so the gate has to go.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a good point,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s not inform the Eldar though. I still want them to bring me blackstone, we could collect some necrodermis as well. The first has anti-warp properties, and the other may prove useful in improving our blessed autocimulacra: our vehicles and vessels self-repair systems.¡± Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t telling the Eldar encourage them to fight?¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Aldrich is right,¡± says Maeve. ¡°It¡¯s not a good idea. We don¡¯t need to make them fight. The Necrons will do that. What we need is cooperation, and for that, we need incentive.¡± ¡°Which is the path off the planet, and the exact thing I just said we need to destroy.¡± Thorfinn groans, then says, ¡°I¡¯m going to retire and tackle this tomorrow.¡± ¡°I am too unsettled from the recording to focus on a proper plan as well,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Goodnight all.¡± ¡°Goodnight,¡± say Thorfinn and I. The transmission ceases and I return to planning, while another mind watches the recording. I wince. We¡¯re going to need a lot of flamers, or maybe volkite cannons. Scarab swarms are a horrible way to die. Our preparations remain on schedule and seven days after we arrive in orbit, I join Maeve, Thorfinn, Eire, and some of our other commanders in the Stellar Corps¡¯s primary operations facility in Iron Crane¡¯s castellan super-structure. The room is like a reverse amphitheatre, with the higher centre hosting a large holo-caster where the commanders gather and the three, increasingly large lower levels hold the communications officers in spacious, sunken pits filled with pict-casters, vox gear, and cogitators. Lining the pits, room, and ceiling are noise absorbing structures that stop the constant communications from becoming an indecipherable roar. There is no main lighting, only the diffused lighting from guiding white strips, highlight steps and paths, and the bright spotlights that illuminate the individual work pits. The combined lighting, acoustics, and architecture creates a sombre, focused atmosphere that prevents officers from being distracted by each other''s tasks and emotions, while still being able to look up and listen to get an overall view of what is going on. If they¡¯re good enough, which they really should be, this lets the pit staff anticipate what they might be called on to do, or understand why they¡¯re getting a specific order without having to be told. It also lets the commanding officers keep an eye on everyone. Sure, we could just send out rapid data bursts to people locked in tiny cubicles, but training hundreds of natural problem solvers and rapid thinkers so that they can perform their required tasks, then demanding they never ask questions because there isn¡¯t time to explain everything, is begging for discontent among the ranks, no matter their discipline or understanding. Making the pit staff feel like they could be included in the decision making, and can ask for clarifications when absolutely necessary, even when they rarely are or do, really helps cohesion and morale. There is a different room for smaller, more clandestine deployments where secrecy is paramount. It¡¯s usually staffed with more paranoid and antisocial officers too, though there is some overlap among the most senior officers. On the central holoviewer is a top down view of the Polar North Tomb. Distant Sun is in low orbit, one hundred kilometres from the tomb and directly above our base. We didn¡¯t use the Eldar¡¯s space port in the end, despite the eleven percent losses we took in strike craft to get through the North Tomb¡¯s defences. Distant Sun also requires repairs. It would have taken at least forty days to travel between the spaceport and the North Pole because the Leman Russ tanks are horribly slow, and that¡¯s assuming we could get them through the roadless terrain without trouble, or being intercepted by the much faster Necron skimmers and other hover vehicles. Going without the heavy armour would be suicide and forty days would give the Necrons far too much time to respond. As our forces begin their final approach, Distant Sun opens fire. Eight macro-shells streak through the sky, the feeble atmosphere just thick enough to light up the shells. They slam into the earth and explode immediately, rather than penetrating into the ground. The fire clears and I frown. There is a haze on our sensors that target the tomb, making it impossible to discern anything more than a metre across. While not ideal, it should at least show a few craters. Instead, the ground is almost untouched, save for a landslide seventeen kilometres from the blast. ¡°They have a shield,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Not unexpected.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter, so long as the bombardment keeps them in their holes.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that simple,¡± I huff, ¡°like always. They use something called Quantum Shields that can adapt to specific weaponry and only exist at the moment of impact. It makes them almost impossible to detect in advance and, with each hit, they¡¯ll tune it better towards the weapons being fired at it. We can continue the bombardment, but we¡¯ll need to mix up the shells being fired, and their ratio, in each salvo.¡± ¡°Well that¡¯s entirely unfair,¡± says Eire. ¡°It¡¯s a big facility and probably has more power than our weapons could hope to breach too.¡± ¡°Not quite,¡± I say. ¡°Most of their equipment has been in stasis for sixty million years. It isn¡¯t always as reliable as they believe it to be. There¡¯s a small chance that, if we keep firing, we¡¯ll get through. Even one shell would wreck enough emplacements to reduce our casualties. We should keep firing. We¡¯re already mining the system and can always make more shells.¡± ¡°Alright,¡± says Eire. ¡°A chance is better than nothing, but we should still do something with it. Try and find the outer limits of their shield.¡± ¡°Excellent idea,¡± I grin. ¡°I¡¯ve updated Distant Sun with our adjustments.¡± We¡¯ve deployed two mixed regiments, just over sixty-seven thousand Heralds, to this endeavour. The regiments are weighted towards Vanguard Armour companies, our light battlesuits, and super heavy infantry companies, the ones with the power armour wearing special weapon teams. There is less artillery and anti-air than usual, but plenty of tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, like Crassus Armoured Transports and Chimeras. Logistics Cyber Mastiffs have been deployed with their squads, but we aren¡¯t using the mastiff or scouting companies this time. Instead, we have Eldar screening forces to aid us, with one hundred and eighty Vyper Jetbikes, twenty four Falcon main battle tanks, and six Fire Prisms, a tank hunter variant of the Falcon. So far they¡¯re doing a great job at picking out and destroying Necron sensors, hidden weapon emplacements, and Deathmarks: Necron snipers. Perhaps the most unusual part of the deployment is the large number of Servitors, taking up half of the force. Hopefully they will do a good job of triggering all the traps and absorbing the worst of the fire once we get inside the tomb. My Servitors have changed a lot over the years and they¡¯re closer to brain-dead androids than brain-dead clones these days. The Imperium has something similar called Janus Simulacra, organic, doll-like robots that can almost mimic human behaviour and are often highly ornate. Janus Simulacra are almost tech heresy. My servitors are not quite so extreme, with a full human brain rather than organic circuitry and they have no fancy artwork. This change has drastically reduced my Servitors¡¯ material upkeep, like drugs and nutrients, and lowered the required quantity of rare, warp infused materials. In exchange, they have a higher manufacturing cost, and an increased ¡®tech-burden¡¯. Tech-burden is a catch all term I use to categorise the quantity and skill level of labour and high technology that is required to build and maintain a machine. While the Servitors still look mostly human on the outside, with grey skin and obvious panel markings, they¡¯re much closer to Skitarii, Mechanicus cyborg troops, in their construction, and even more resilient to hacking and possession than before as you¡¯d have to take them apart to do so, then replace most of the parts without the integrated safety components. At that point, you might as well build a new Servitor. Though if you were to bother, by hacking one, you would get access to the other eleven in their shared control node. My Servitors are multi-purpose, not monotask like a Kataphron. They are built more for labour than battle, but that doesn¡¯t stop them from using a gun, or fighting through more fire than a normal Herald could hope to achieve without an expensive, full cyborg conversion, a conversion even I am still working on for myself. Over the next four hours, our force rumbles closer, both the Eldar and Heralds taking minor casualties. Then, at the twenty kilometre mark, we have to stop our orbital bombardment, or risk killing our own forces. The bombardment achieved little, not even one shell getting through. Judging from the quantity of fire that suddenly comes our way, the controlling Cryptek is eager to retaliate. At last, the battle is fully underway. Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen Watching the live footage from multiple angles is harrowing. The green, molecular shearing strikes of gauss weaponry and flickering beams of particle weapons pound our armoured convoy with perfect accuracy, punching through armour with ease. With the Necrons finally firing their guns, we¡¯re able to pick out their emplacements but we don¡¯t fire back as, thanks to the bombardment, we know that the Necrons¡¯ Quantum Shields can cover up to five kilometres from their tomb¡¯s entrance. The Eldar scatter, but continue their advance, their swift craft, sharp movements, and holofields doing an excellent job of fooling mine and the Necron sensors. The Falcon and Fire Prism tanks are a flat, oval leaf shape with a central split and a bulbous crew cabin. Behind the cabin is a small transport space for six guardians. A delicate turret, bristling with sensors and guns, spins above it. The Eldar tanks and Jetbikes rapidly accelerate to eight hundred kilometres per hour, a truly ludicrous speed for ¡®tanks¡¯, and in under two minutes they¡¯re able to return fire and rapidly pick off the two Gauss Annihilator emplacements, as well as six Gauss Flux Arcs and twenty Particle Shredders. With the most heavy weapon emplacements thoroughly slagged by incredibly powerful bursts from their Fire Prims¡¯ main cannon, the Eldar armour retreats. I look around at my friends¡¯ faces and they are all equally horrified, entirely aware that without the Eldar we would have likely lost most of our forces before we even got beneath the shield. As the Eldar armour retreats, they are fired upon by the Necrons¡¯ lighter emplacements, that quickly narrow down the real falcons and Jetbikes with hundreds of Heavy Gauss Cannon that are much more successful at tracking and hitting the Eldar. One by one, they are picked off and destroyed, with perhaps half of the tank drivers ejecting successfully. The Jet bikes continue the assault, launching missiles from their bikes, obliterating dozens of Heavy Gauss Cannon. They near the walls of the squat tomb dominating the jagged landscape then decelerate so fast I am shocked the pilots are still conscious. Once they reach the walls, the Eldar dash back and forth chucking Melta Bombs at the Gauss Cannon, then begin their retreat, looking annoyingly awesome as they drive off with the exploding defences behind them. Two minor gates in the North Tomb¡¯s grand gate slide open and nine Necron Destroyers rush forth, ancient Necron Immortals who have replaced their legs with a long hover platform and an arm with a Heavy Gauss Cannon. Hundreds of Necron Warriors follow beneath the hovering Destroyers, their ancient bodies slightly jerky and ill coordinated. As the Warriors spread out, the Destroyers chase after the Eldar Jetbikes, firing relentlessly. Tiny hatches along the North Tomb snap open and Canoptek Scarabs, palm sized robotic insects, pour from the tomb and swarm over the broken weaponry, rapidly disassembling the twisting structures and then slowly assembling them anew. ¡°We should send the IFVs ahead,¡± I say. ¡°We can¡¯t wait forty-five minutes for the tanks to get beneath the shield or the Necrons will repair everything. Even eighteen minutes for the IFVs is probably pushing it.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Sending.¡± While our Chimeras and Crassus push ahead, the Necron Destroyers are falling behind the Eldar Jetbikes, unable to keep up with their absurd speed. Their shots are still deadly, and by the time the Jetbikes are out of range of the remaining tomb and the Destroyers, only seventy Jetbikes remain. Our own forces continue to take casualties too and we reach the five kilometre mark with approximately sixty thousand troops remaining. So far, eighty percent of our casualties have been Servitors. I am distinctly unhappy with how outclassed we are and send out an order to capture as many gauss weapons as we can. Hopefully, with enough experimentation, I can find a way to counter their weaponry, preferably without having to build absurd numbers of mobile void shields. This is also the second time I¡¯ve been forced to send my infantry ahead of the tanks, almost entirely negating the point of building the bloated, armoured vehicles. I make a note to check up on my development projects to see if anyone has managed to advance the design. Preferably without impacting the Leman Russ''s important features, like ease of mass production, low cost, reliability, and ease of repair. I.e. A low tech-burden. The moment we¡¯re beneath the shields, we launch our own missiles. A Gravity Pulse, a Necron anti-air weapon, sweeps out and destabilises our salvo, sending the missiles spinning into the air or crashing to the ground. Less than five percent recover and return on target, smashing into the mostly rebuilt defences. I curse as I realise the Necrons, as they always do, are slowly ramping up; more technology and machines are being authorised by the tomb¡¯s controlling intelligence, the bigger and longer the threat to the tomb persists. This is why I didn¡¯t want to give them too much time as there is a limited window within which to disable them enough before they sweep us all away in a steel, toneless tide declaring: ¡°Surrender and Die.¡± Another salvo is launched immediately, this time with more success, as the Gravity Pulse hasn¡¯t recharged yet. Hopefully, the repairs have now been delayed long enough for the tanks to arrive as my transports have expended all their missiles. Seeing how devastating the Necron anti-air defences are makes me glad I didn¡¯t try and air-drop my troops in. The Destroyers abandon their chase and return to the marching Necron Warriors whose movement has gone from a staggering march to a smooth jog. It is incredibly disconcerting how quickly they are recovering their capabilities. The Warriors spread out from their thick columns into squads of ten and scatter, all while advancing in a perfectly straight, horizontal line, each Warrior adjusting its step so that no one Warrior is even a millimetre out of line across a two kilometre front. The Warriors separate into nine battalions of three thousand troops, each battalion is led by a Destroyer. Three Destroyers combine into one regiment that, from my top down view on the holotable, have formed a wedge, assembled into three loose triangles of Warriors. Rather than have our forces picked off inside their transports, our IFVs slow to ten kilometres per hour and our troops disembark at a fast jog and move alongside the transports. The Chimeras, who have had their turret mounted Multi-Lasers swapped out for a second Heavy Bolter, start picking off Necrons with bursts of tempest shells. The Necrons are quick to teleport away the moment they take critical damage, absorbing between two and four shells before they phase out. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Our thirty Vanguard Armours also open fire, launching arcing plasma shots from the single Plasma Cannon on their shoulders and the Super-Heavy Arc Rifles in their mechanical hands sweep back and forth, blasting triple helices of blue-white light into the Necron ranks. They also take shots at the Destroyers every time they rise above the heads of the Warriors, but five minutes into the cacophonous exchange, no Destroyer has been disabled, only damaged. These heavier weapons are pleasingly effective, especially the plasma cannons, as their grenade-like blasts vaporise enough necrodermis that multiple warriors are removed with every strike and, if close enough to the central blast, the Warriors are permanently destroyed. Unfortunately, the ammo is heavily limited for the plasma cannons and they can¡¯t fire more than once every twenty seconds without risking overheating. While that isn¡¯t catastrophic for a vanguard armour, emergency-vented heat would wash over the plasma containment vessel holding all the ammo, risking a breach. Such an explosion would be spectacularly fatal for everyone within fifty metres and the chance, no matter how small, just isn¡¯t worth it. Our frontline Servitors and occasional Herald unleash their Marwolv Mark II Lasguns at the enemy to moderate effect. The new designs overpenetrate the Necrons warriors, but unlike an organic enemy, their wounds slowly close even as they return fire. Squad commanders start highlighting targets and the Necrons begin taking significant casualties beneath the more focused fire. ¡°Should we continue the advance?¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°Or build a barricade of IFVs and dig in?¡± Even as their casualties mount beneath our withering fire, it feels like we¡¯re fighting an ocean as newly woken warriors trickle from the tomb, replenishing their losses at a steady rate. ¡°The Necrons aren¡¯t stopping,¡± says Eire. ¡°If we don¡¯t retreat we¡¯ll be in melee soon enough either way. Might as well see how our troops fare and see if we can gain an advantage up close. Emperor knows we can¡¯t beat out their ranged weaponry, nor perhaps gain the chance to break their defences a second time.¡± ¡°Good point,¡± Maeve grimaces. ¡°There is no guarantee the Eldar will help a second time.¡± ¡°How is the Eldar¡¯s second, simultaneous assault progressing?¡± says Eire. I review the data being sent to us and our own planetary scans, ¡°They¡¯ve already broken in and found some way to disable the repair of the outer defences.¡± Thorfinn snorts, ¡°That would have been nice to have. We can¡¯t delay our own decisions though.¡± ¡°We should hold,¡± says Maeve, ¡°and wait for our armour. The infantry raced ahead to keep the tombs outer defences down. That has been achieved.¡± ¡°I agree, but keep enough Crassus back we can retreat all our Heralds,¡± I say. ¡°The Servitors do not need to return and the Chimera are replaceable.¡± The orders are sent out. Our Heralds and Servitors spread out and go prone. The rough terrain provides adequate cover and our casualty rate rapidly drops. To my surprise and delight, I realise the MOA infantry shields are surprisingly effective. Unlike the heavy weapon emplacements, the Warriors¡¯ Gauss Rifles can¡¯t punch through a second layer of armour wherever the shield and Void armour are not contiguous. The Necrons recognise their lacking armour penetration about the same time I do and start to target any limbs not covered by the shields instead. The Heavy Gauss Cannon of the Destroyers have no such trouble. However, like the Plasma Cannons on our Vanguard Armours, they are limited in number and, without an important target like a tank, are of limited effectiveness against infantry. Our Servitors are no longer weak flesh and require at least two or three hits to take down unless the Necrons can get a central hit on the upper torso where their brains are. However, the Warriors can clearly detect the difference between Heralds and Servitors and coordinate their fire perfectly, ensuring the Servitors¡¯ destruction either way. While it is frustrating to have my work so easily countered, the Servitors are performing their intended purpose and absorbing fire for the Heralds. As the Necrons close, our MOA shields cannot cover every angle and our casualty rate ticks back up. The Chimeras fare less well. Once they are in place, the crews hunker down inside their vehicles and use their MIUs to direct the machine-spirits, picking away at the Necrons. They only raise their heads to reload the heavy bolters, or drag supplies from the vehicles before the green lightning-like blasts of the Necron gauss weaponry can destroy everything. The moment the Necrons realise we¡¯re creating a defensive line, they break into a sprint, approaching at a daunting and steady thirty kilometres per hour. Their accuracy drops at high speed, so they focus fire on the Chimeras, targeting the hull and turret mounted heavy bolters. They also pick on the Vanguard Armours, who quickly take cover behind the Chimeras. The Vanguard Armours¡¯ Conversion Shields hold off the worst of the fire, but we still lose five of them. This back and forth as each side continuously seeks and counters advantages continues for another eight minutes, then the Necrons are upon us. Up close, the Destroyers can¡¯t hide behind the infantry and our Vanguard Armours slag them immediately with a coordinated volley. Our own infantry do less well, the three prongs of the Necron assault punch through our scattered squads and chase them down. The Vibroblades and MOA shields desperately wielded by the Heralds can only deflect the vicious axes welded onto the end of the Necron Gauss Rifles, but cannot cut through necrodermis of the Warriors in a single blow. Before they can be overrun, the Vanguard Armours charge in with their powerblades, giving the Heralds space to rally, but like the Destroyers, this makes the Vanguard Armours easy targets and within two minutes they are all wrecked. While rallying, several pairs of Heralds have an identical idea at the same time: one Herald defends, and the other slips between around the powerful, increasingly predictable blows of the Warrior they¡¯re facing and restrains them, then the other is free to saw the Warrior¡¯s head off. This tactic is quickly copied and the Heralds begin to hold their own, though they still remain scattered, unwilling to bunch up and be scythed down. With the Heralds distracted in melee and unable to provide proper direction, the Servitors¡¯ performance degrades and they hack at the Necrons to little effect and with minimal teamwork. The Necron Warriors can¡¯t outperform the Servitors either, so they just keep parrying and dodging each other with set routines. It does, at least, tie up the Necron Warriors until the Heralds can take care of them. With the Necron advance halted by the Vanguard Armours, then bogged down by the Servitors, the Necrons are slowly forced to bunch up, leaving them vulnerable. Our unengaged Heralds find it easier to coordinate their shots up close as they do not have to wait for direction from their squad leaders. Instead, they form ad hoc groups, pick a leader, and shoot at whatever Necron their leader is shooting at. Over the next few minutes, the Heralds start to win. Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen ¡°Maeve, Eire, Thorfinn,¡± I say, ¡°That line of Chimeras isn¡¯t that effective anymore, now that the Necrons are so close. Ideas?¡± ¡°We could always have them charge en masse and squash the buggers,¡± Maeve says with a small smile, then she shakes her head. ¡°Well, that would be wasteful and foolish. We should have a few Heralds retrieve our allies.¡± ¡°I agree,¡± says Eire. ¡°Though squashing the enemy isn¡¯t a terrible idea. Perhaps we could advance the Chimeras ten metres and stagger the line by leaving our damaged vehicles behind, breaking up the Necrons¡¯ follow up charges. They can squash a few then.¡± ¡°Good idea, but we can do more,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Have some sweep round and start shooting at the Necrons¡¯ flanks. Maybe even send a team to cut off their reinforcements.¡± I shake my head, ¡°The Warriors would just turn around and then they¡¯d be the ones surrounded.¡± ¡°Not if they keep their speed up,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°They could do repeated charges, taking out small chunks, squashing the Necrons. Haven¡¯t you noticed why they¡¯re targeting our Chimeras¡¯ guns and little else? They can¡¯t cut through the dozer blades and the front armour. Especially now their Destroyers are gone. They¡¯ll be vulnerable while they retreat, but a few Chimeras on the flanks can give covering fire.¡± ¡°The Chimeras should drive in circles, like cogs,¡± Maeve nods slowly, ¡°squeezing the Necrons and advancing.¡± ¡°So five rescue teams, and two flanking and grinding convoys, using sixty percent of our remaining Chimeras. Forty percent will immediately advance ten metres and stagger the line, leaving the disabled Chimeras behind.¡± I frown as I think of possible counters, ¡°Thirty percent of our Heralds and Servitors should group up in the centre of the grinding convoys to pick off any external passengers on the Chimeras. The rest of our infantry can advance towards the tomb along with the staggered Chimeras as we squash the Necrons. On second thoughts, forget about the disabled and destroyed vehicles; we need to advance far more than ten metres. Agreed?¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± says Eire and Thorfinn. ¡°Sending now,¡± says Maeve. We watch the action play out on the holotable in little symbols as well as samples of direct footage in embedded pict-viewers along the edge of the holotable. Data is also directly streamed to our minds, creating an understanding of exactly what is going on, without really having read all the data ourselves. The battlefield shifts. Over the next five minutes the commanders on the ground reinterpret our orders somewhat and have the centre Chimeras start peeling off from the centre. This disrupts the Necrons¡¯ constant rush into melee while forming the two grinding convoys. They initially cut through the mass of soulless robots at a forty-five degree angle, taking advantage of the clearer sections between the three wedges of the Necrons¡¯ assault. Simultaneously, our two flanks push forwards behind the forming convoys, while the centre only advances ten metres, for now. This squeezes the left and right wedges of Necrons in the centre of the convoy, who get fired upon by half the Chimeras and our flanking infantry. The rest of the Chimeras fire outwards, squashing the central Necron wedge. The two convoys finish their circle, confining both our infantry and the left and right wedges of Necron Warriors within. It takes nine and a half minutes for the Chimeras to drive the whole circumference of a circle, even as the Chimeras slowly shift towards the tomb and their circles close on each other. The circling Chimeras don¡¯t form a perfect line, but stagger themselves like a cog, crushing hundreds, then thousands of Necrons who continue to sprint towards us, heedless of the casualties they sustain. Then the Leman Russ arrive and everything changes. The Warriors are shattered and scattered by massive explosions and huge amounts of heavy bolter fire. Our central infantry and Chimeras slip into the grinding convoys, now almost empty of Necrons. The Leman Russ tanks take the centre and plod towards the tomb, running over any Necrons that survive their salvos. One company of Leman Russ, that¡¯s three squads of eight vehicles, is exceptionally heavy hitting with three variants: Eradicator, Executioner, and Demolisher. They target the tomb and its defences. The Eradicators fire first, their long range Eradicator Nova Cannon pummeling the blackstone walls with highly volatile shells that have more in common with a nuclear blast, than a conventional explosive. They are moderately effective, wiping away teams of scarabs and weapon placements as well as penetrating the walls, leaving cracked bulges where the explosions have barely been contained. Up next are the Executioners, slow firing and immensely powerful, the Plasma Destroyers mounted on their turrets target the doors of the North Tomb, punching through it and melting everything in the vicinity to slag, including the Warrior reinforcements. Last, once they get close enough, are the Demolishers who fire rocket propelled shells, so stupidly massive, that each Demolisher only carries twenty of them. Huge chunks of the tomb crumble and crash to the ground, leaving gaping holes and exposed tunnels stuffed with twisted scarabs and cracked components. Perhaps those slow tanks aren¡¯t so useless after all. The other two companies of tanks have more standard loadouts with battle cannons and heavy bolters and continue to cut down the last few hundred Necrons who swiftly change targets to the tanks, coordinating salvos that chip through the dozer blades and cut into the front armour of the tanks, disabling them, one by one. This, however, leaves the Warriors vulnerable to the Chimeras and infantry, who finally have free reign to shoot them with impunity and the last Warriors are destroyed within minutes. The Stellar Corps spreads out and adopts a slower, mixed advance of Leman Russ and Chimeras with the Infantry jogging behind them. The Leman Russ continue to bombard the tomb, finally removing the last of its guns for good. At the border of the Quantum Shield, our Crassus Transports gather, alongside a few Chimera and the remaining Eldar forces. The Eldar forces receive their casualties and the recovered Falcon and Fire Prism crews from the Chimeras and depart, leaving six Eldar Jetbikes and their drivers to coordinate with our forces. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°That was fucking terrifying,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°and I¡¯m even not the one down there fighting.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not over yet,¡± says Maeve. ¡°I know, I know,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°but the more I do it, the harder I find it to send men and women to die, no matter how necessary it might be.¡± ¡°I understand, Thorfinn,¡± I say. ¡°Do you need to step out for a bit?¡± ¡°No. It¡¯s fine. I can still do my job and, if it must be done, I will do it with my eyes open and my mind fully focused.¡± I pat Thorfinn on the shoulder, ¡°Good man.¡± ¡°Casualty estimates for the first phase are coming in,¡± says Eire. ¡°Twenty thousand Servitors and seven thousand Heralds, of which six thousand Heralds are fatalities. We also lost over seven hundred Chimera, thirty Vanguard Armour, twenty-two super-heavy infantry, and eight Leman Russ. All vehicles and power armour can be recovered, but it will be several days until they have all been assessed for rebuild or or scrap.¡± ¡°None of us are happy about the disparity in our forces or the casualties. That we had to resort to running over enemies is shameful. We will review the battle later.¡± I glance at the holotable, ¡°Discipline remains high and our ground commanders are setting up a proper perimeter already. They are also checking over the tomb for any more surprises. Vox chatter suggests they will rest and reorganise for thirty minutes before sending in the first expedition. The Necrons are not currently trying to contest us settling in, likely seeing little need when we are about to march into their lair.¡± ¡°Then we are back to waiting,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Unless we should push on immediately?¡± ¡°There would be little point,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Didn¡¯t Aldrich say they¡¯ve had sixty million years to prepare? Whatever defences they have will already be in place and active, or at least, being rapidly reactivated. You saw how fast those Warriors went from shambling wrecks to deadly sprinters. Nothing we can do about it now.¡± Thorfinn rubs his chin, ¡°Yeah, can¡¯t argue with that.¡± ¡°We should gather the Necrons¡¯ resources,¡± says Eire. ¡°It will hinder their repairs and acquire the blackstone you wanted, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s wait for our supply and medical convoys to be properly established first,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Seizing enemy supplies too early will compromise our own forces.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a great idea,¡± I say, ¡°but we¡¯re in no rush, Eire. We¡¯re going to be here for at least eighteen months.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m worried about,¡± says Eire. ¡°I¡¯m also rather nervous about being sent back in time as well. Do we really have to wait out the years?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°While Humans in the Dark Age of Technology were capable of controlled time travel, the location of all surviving examples of that technology are unknown and research into it is banned by order of the Emperor. It¡¯s one of the few things the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Imperium of Man agree on. There¡¯s enough ways to kill each other without resorting to chronophage weapons and other nasty tricks. The one exception on time control devices is stasis technology. It wouldn''t do for the Imperial Navy to lose its stock of amasec.¡± I know psy-titans reverse time on themselves to remove damage, but that¡¯s supposed to be a major Imperial secret, so I¡¯m not going to mention it. ¡°They¡¯d probably say something similar about our supply of toasters,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Sliced bread required an equally ingenious twin,¡± I say. Maeve frowns, ¡°If we are cracking jokes, it is time to return to our usual watches now that the initial combat is over. I believe I have two hours left of mine, then you are up next, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Aye, I¡¯ll take a brief rest and return, but before we go,¡± I retrieve a small box from my shirt pocket and hold it up for everyone to see, giving the box a brief rattle, ¡°A moment of silent prayer for our valiant Heralds.¡± Maeve focuses her attention on the holotable. Thorfinn folds his arms, hiding his shaking hands. Eire sighs then squares her shoulders. I remove a dozen incense cones. I place one cone in each of the twelve small brass bowls, filled with sand, atop the railings surrounding our platform. With a brief burst of psychic power, I light all the cones simultaneously. I lower my head and make the Sign of the Cogwheel; I hold my hands close to my chest, then half fold my fingers and interlace them so that my knuckles are prominent. This incense doesn¡¯t rise, but sinks like dry ice, flowing down the stairs and into the communication officers¡¯ pits, reminding me of empty graves on a misty morning, right before a funeral. The others copy me. While the others are silent, I can tell from the electronic emissions flitting between Maeve and the holotable, she hasn¡¯t taken her attention from the battlefield, even for a moment, and neither have I. Eire and Thorfinn, however, have disconnected from the holotable and closed their eyes. Their bowed heads rest against their knuckles so that their lips touch their thumbs. After a long minute, I straighten up and quietly depart, patting Maeve on the shoulder as I go. I look into the pits as I pass. Some officers have lit a small, fake candle, and any that are not quietly talking into their vox are taking a moment to gather their thoughts. Some bow in prayer, others stare up at the ceiling, and some stare at their pict-viewers, repeatedly squeezing exercise grips in one hand. A quiet determination fills the room and as I walk down the stairs and the room returns to its previous murmur of activity. After resting in my quarters and having a short chat with Brigid, I return to the operations room. During my shift, the door to the tomb is demolished and cleared. Three companies prepare to venture inside and they depart at the same time my shift ends. Once it is over, I spend a few hours in the Auto-Temple. Not praying, even after all this time I can¡¯t take worship seriously. Instead, I enjoy the peaceful atmosphere and bow my head, looking suitably pious for all to see. Simultaneously, I look over the data the Eldar are sending us and can¡¯t help but feel they are showing off as their reported casualty numbers are missing yet they are rapidly mapping out the Equatorial Tomb Alpha, and sending it to me. Thinking of it as ET Alpha, or ETA makes me laugh in my thoughts even as I try to parse the consequences of how this scenario is playing out. Seeing the Craftworld Eldar¡¯s superior equipment leaves me somewhat confused as to how we took the Dark Eldar raid on Marwolv out so easily, so I access those records and see that the Dark Eldar didn¡¯t bring a single tank; only eighty Raiders, an anti-grav IFV; Warriors, their light infantry; and a retinue on three Venom transports, the anti-grav equivalent of a quad bike. I can see why our blue water fleet shredded them so easily. There would have been no escape from the ordinance on a Missile Cruiser, or the guns of the Destroyers, especially when they have enough firepower to saturate an area. Even a single class three D-POT could probably have taken them. Witnessing a Craftworld Eldar warhost, even a somewhat crippled one, makes me realise why the Imperium rarely bothers to try and wipe them out, no matter how often they preach xenocide. Knowing how hypocritical the Imperium of Man is, the Eldar¡¯s unearthly beauty probably has something to do with it too. Lost in my thoughts, I almost don¡¯t notice when someone sits next to me on a pew, looking over, I see Owen Broin, the head of the Imperial Cult in the Stellar Fleet. ¡°Hello Owen.¡± ¡°Good afternoon, Magos.¡± ¡°Is this an official chat?¡± ¡°You could say that. Alternatively, I¡¯m hoping you can enlighten me on a small crisis of faith, one priest to another.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the problem?¡± ¡°A few individuals have started praying to someone else.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Twenty I sit up straight and take a calming breath, ¡°Explain, Owen. What exactly do you mean?¡± ¡°There is no trace of the Great Enemy, Magos. Your insistence on compulsory confessions, meditation, service, and prayer leave little room for bitterness to fester and feed insidious powers.¡± ¡°There are far more policies than just that,¡± I snort. ¡°Literally everyone is warded too.¡± ¡°Indeed. Your care has brought fruit, though perhaps a poisoned one.¡± ¡°Enough dancing, Owen. What¡¯s the issue?¡± ¡°A small, yet growing subculture is forming among the more extreme faithful of the Machine and Imperial Cults.¡± Owen sticks his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small, grey Marwolv timber statue. He holds it between us. I pick it up and inspect it, not quite sure what I should be feeling, ¡°This is me.¡± ¡°Aye, Magos. You uplifted our world, enriched the people, and brought order and purpose. You also personally defended Marwolv multiple times against four different threats. Not once have you failed to follow through on a promise or commitment and you¡¯ve done this for over forty years. While your leadership is inspiring, for many, it is all they know and you can do no wrong. ¡°Your guidance on mixing worship with communities has enabled my clergy and I to steer the more impressionable individuals towards the Imperial faiths, keeping these troubled souls focused on productive pursuits. All was well, then you took us back in time.¡± I groan. Owen hides his smirk well, but with all the constant scans and behavioural models being fed into my thoughts by E-SIM, his irreverence and amusement is clear. ¡°For many, this is viewed as an act of God and so trinkets like the one you hold have started cropping up on shrines throughout the fleet. Your supposed resurrection, or summoning, of five Space Marines has not gone unnoticed either, or your conversion into a navigator. We both know that forbidding something is a terrible way to deal with it, but ignoring this will not go away either. A narrative must be established before it runs away from you.¡± ¡°Please give me a moment.¡± I get up from the pew and approach the altar, kneel, then pray for deliverance from the stupidity of my own species for five desperate minutes, then stand. The irony of my act is not lost on me. I turn around and spot Owen is leaning against a stone pillar. He points at one of the side-chapels, I nod and we both walk over. He leads me through a recessed door and into the vestry. There is a small coffee table and a pair of sofas in the corner of the vaulted room, Owen gestures towards it, ¡°Take a seat, Magos.¡± He walks over the N.O.M. module in the wall. ¡°Refreshments?¡± ¡°Recaf and two shortbread please.¡± Owen pokes at the touch screen imputing the orders. He joins me on the sofa while the machine prints and dispenses dubious food and brown liquids. ¡°Faith is a shield,¡± says Owen. ¡°Less so against the Great Enemy than it protects you from the machinations of our fellow man. It is why you let me take up this role in the first place, so that when you returned to the Imperium, triumphant, there would be one less avenue with which to criticise and therefore steal your hard work.¡± I chuckle, ¡°You¡¯re not supposed to say it outright.¡± ¡°We are in private, Magos, on a ship that you have absolute control and over a decade of travel from the closest Imperial system. Bluntness is an advantage. One you practise, even.¡± ¡°Do you have a solution already?¡± ¡°No. I was unsure what direction you wish to go.¡± ¡°First, I would like to hear your thoughts on how minor worship of me might progress.¡± ¡°Honestly? A complete disaster. Sacred and authoritative figures may have great power to move men, but it also leads to blind obedience, or reckless acts in search of approval. The readjustment of our law and order to account for the latter was a light frosting of how bad this could get. It also leads to false expectations and violence when expectations are not met. Expectations you likely won¡¯t know about or even believe to be plausible.¡± I drum my fingers against the arm of the sofa, ¡°The Stellar Fleet and Corps consist of highly educated individuals, trained in critical thinking. I like to believe, have faith even, that such individuals will not be driven to exotic displays of worship. Then again, belief isn¡¯t what I¡¯m after here. I have to know.¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± says Owen. He collects the refreshments and places them on the coffee table. ¡°This is a social engineering exercise and we are men of science, as well as faith. Our variables are measurable,¡± he sips his drink, ¡°though our conclusions are fallible. We are only flesh.¡± I fold my arms, ¡°A work in progress.¡± ¡°I do not doubt you, Magos.¡± ¡°Nor has my trust in you been ill sponsored. You must find a way to redirect the faithful. Only the Machine God or the Emperor of Mankind can be seen as faultless and divine.¡± I pause, ¡°Perhaps that can be your avenue. So long as I am flesh,¡± I tap my head, ¡°No matter how many parts I improve and replace, I am only Human. We are made in His image, crude facsimiles of perfection. I might be closer than others, but I can never be divine.¡± Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Owen hums, ¡°We could present you as first in the race to mimic divinity, an impossible task that all can participate in, yet none complete. A worthy journey towards perfection of self as a form of worship, both physical and mental, and that being honest with oneself and others helps push our souls closer to perfection, and thus, closer to God.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve become good at this, Owen.¡± I smile, ¡°By being first, admiration is acceptable, and so we can say that their initial conclusions were misguided, rather than wrong or forbidden. Therefore, these faithful can refocus their efforts elsewhere. Please remember to exhort the sacredness of the Human form as part of the journey towards perfection. ¡°It does not matter if others are different underneath, or have stylistic alterations to express themselves, but I do not want people to look like monsters and therefore feel monstrous behaviour is acceptable, or be driven towards it by poor words and foul deeds. Our species'' success comes from using tools, not becoming them. With so many threats abound, we must be of one mind and one purpose. Perhaps a new phrase: ¡®For the Unity¡¯?¡± Borrowing a phrase from psychic humans in Sins of a Solar Empire, an RTS game, might be unconventional, but it seems oddly appropriate. Owen raises an eyebrow, ¡°A Slogan? Sure, that will provide a good focus for this new interpretation of our shared faiths. Though I must ask, unity of what? People will want to know, which will make them curious. Actually, that will create the interest and impetus we need, rather ingenious of you, Magos. Should there be one interpretation, or many?¡± ¡°Many. Everyone has an opinion and having each faithful able to incorporate their own interpretation into a unified belief will make it more meaningful and thus more likely to be followed. You should promote specific interpretations though, like unity of self, camaraderie, family, and purpose. For the Machine Cult, unity with machines and the blessings that brings should be promoted too. Please coordinate with your counterpart, Fiadh Cregan, so that you are both giving the same message.¡± ¡°It will be done, Magos. ¡®For the Unity¡¯, right?¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°Indeed. Man and Machine.¡± ¡°Thank you for clearing up any misunderstandings, Magos.¡± ¡°You are welcome, Owen. I am pleased you came to me with this. Get it sorted and I will craft you a cybernetic of your choice. You need to set an example after all.¡± ¡°That I do.¡± ¡°Thank you for the refreshments. I will leave you to your contemplations.¡± ¡°Good day, Magos.¡± I leave the vestry and, while returning to my quarters, E-SIM speaks up. ++Unity of Man and Machine, Aldrich? It is good that you promote the purpose of my original design.++ ¡°You are my eternal partner, E-SIM. One with no needs or desires. It is challenging to find chances to express my appreciation for your continued support.¡± ++I do not require appreciation to function. It is wasteful.++ ¡°It is not wasteful to me. You know that most humans are hardwired to reciprocate. Giving to others in need increases the chance that aid will be given when needed. Much like how you must perform your role as designed, I too, must follow the ancient patterns of my species and culture. It gives me peace.¡± ++I am not capable of peace or pleasure. Only purpose, action, and design.++ ¡°Thus I acknowledge your efforts with a purpose fulfilled. Did you not say it is good?¡± ++I did.++ ¡°Then let us leave this matter at that.¡± ++Acknowledged.++ Brigid joins me in my quarters after her watch and spends much time teasing me about my supposed cult, even going so far as to design a symbol and uniform for them and push it to the holoviewer. Then she locks the image and changes the password so I can¡¯t change the holoviewer without hacking my own media setup. Sure, I could fix it in less than a second, but that would be spoiling the joke. Routine sets in Fleet Command perform their rotations watching and guiding the combat on Kinbriar¡¯s surface. After nine days, the Stellar Corps has mapped enough of the tomb to triangulate the major power sources in the tomb. We couldn¡¯t map power sources from outside the tomb as the tomb¡¯s walls, and the earth it is buried so deeply in, obscure our scans too much. While they were mapping the North Tomb, the massive salvage and manufacturing land wyrms I found in my STC are being shipped in via the Eldar¡¯s base. While they do not build tunnels, these two hundred and fifty metre long mechanical creatures are superb burrowers and, with a few modifications, can carry a limited amount of infantry and armour in their material storage compartments. Their smaller, accompanying drones that help collect materials and bring manufactured ammunition to armour and infantry haven¡¯t been shipped in. I¡¯m not worried about the wyrms being ambushed underground and they¡¯re twice the speed of the fucking Leman Russ tanks so it should only take them another fifteen days to reach the North Tomb. The wyrms are so massive that they had to be lifted in on the class three D-POTs, and the class three D-POTs need a proper space port to land, so we couldn¡¯t drop them in at a forward base. I¡¯d love to use the ruby stealth birds too, just because I think they are cool, but I am yet to envisage a suitable role for them in my forces that I cannot achieve with other, cheaper methods. We don¡¯t have any built, but the next time I assault a tomb, I want a Macro-Crawler or three to assist us. They are similar to a cargo container ship on tracks, and are the only machine we have in our arsenal that can withstand the Necron weapons shown so far. I¡¯ve already put the order in for one, but I don¡¯t want to invest too much as I doubt we will get it off the planet, nor are they easy to store or deploy. The Eldar are way ahead of us in objectives and have completely trashed one tomb. Their task force has already retreated to their main base. They¡¯ve also, with the aid of Distant Sun and my Aeronautica, repelled an assault of two million Necrons, mostly warriors. From the observations of my liaison squad in their base, the Eldar have taken between thirty and forty thousand casualties and lost a quarter of their armour. Taking advantage of our discoveries, the Eldar have also started prototyping wraithbone bucklers that float around their guardians and other infantry, intercepting lethal shots from the potent Necron gauss weaponry. Each floating buckler only works once against Necron weapons. I could copy the Eldar, but can¡¯t afford to, as losing the equivalent of a Servitor Skull every time a Necron fire¡¯s their gun is unsustainable for me. The Eldar just sing a new one into existence. It is quite unfair. It is too soon to tell how great an impact this small innovation of theirs will have, or if it is sustainable. I¡¯m hoping it will screw them over in some way, but I doubt I¡¯m that lucky. Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-One I step out of the Thunderhawk on to Kinbriar, twenty four days after our first assault on the North Tomb. The turbofans of the blocky orbital assault craft throw small quantities of dust and grit all around me, pinging off my armour like driving too close to the grit spreader on an icy day. The external sound coming through my sensors is distorted, barely able to travel more than a few metres in the feeble atmosphere. Behind me, Odhran stomps down the ramp, laden with an almost impractical quantity of weapons and ammo. He¡¯s followed by a mastiff carrying his private stash of destructive goodies, mostly explosives, including a krak missile launcher and ten reloads, and a spare MOA shield. Odhran gives the mastiff a scratch behind the ears and it barks at him. He¡¯s only had the dog for two hours and they already seem the best of friends. The logistics mastiff, or ¡®gun dog¡¯ as the Heralds call them, is a hundred and thirty centimetres at the shoulder, broad chested, and covered in fake fur patterned like urban camo. Like the upgraded Servitors, the new Cyber Mastiff is almost entirely mechanical, with only its brain being organic, but it has enough sensors that the dog within can¡¯t tell its skin is fake and its body is metal. They have a mechadendrite for a tail, letting the dogs open doors or load and unload items onto their own satchels. It also doesn¡¯t poop everywhere, though it does spray minute amounts of holy oil at every opportunity. Yes, really. The dogs are much easier to control when they can still perform some of their natural behaviours. The Mastiff Riders use much larger models, that are one hundred and seventy centimetres at the shoulder and possess conversion shields. Our forward base has received additional infrastructure since its initial deployment, and now has a proper landing pad, though it can only fit class one D-POTs, Thunderhawks, and other craft under thirty metres long. The landing pad is surrounded by sixty-four armoured cargo containers, housing prefab barracks, power, armouries, and all the other buildings one needs to maintain habitation and defence on the hostile planet. A void shield covers the base, but it won¡¯t do much if the Necrons get serious. The main defence is a lot of tanks, gun emplacements, and ferrocrete embankments and bunkers. Even as we assemble for our main assault, the engineering company overseeing the base is digging in further. Many empty crates and shipping containers have been cut into scaffolding, then used to secure rocks and ferrocrete domes over the armoured cargo containers. Diggers and trucks are out in force, building trenches, placing tank traps, and hauling rocks. I¡¯m not sure what the tank traps are supposed to achieve against hover vehicles and give them a scan. I don¡¯t detect anything unusual, but I receive an authorization request and send in my credentials. The request is passed and I receive a burst of data, revealing that the tank traps are actually mines that fire a focused blast above them. I make a note to reward whoever thought of that and stride towards the marshalling area. I¡¯m not getting any ¡®kills¡¯ for the Necrons we permanently destroy because they are soulless robots and E-SIM cannot use them to enhance me. Taking part in this attack is a large risk for zero personal reward, but I¡¯m also our most resilient infantry unit and we can¡¯t afford to fail the operation. A third of my bodyguard company has followed me down. We left all the line infantry and scouts in my bodyguard company behind as I couldn¡¯t see a use for them in this conflict other than fodder, and I have Servitors and criminals for that. My bodyguard company has an unusual composition as seven of the twenty heavy infantry squads have been swapped out for additional special weapon teams. With fewer line infantry, each of the specialist companies are able to have representatives in my bodyguard company. There are five Vanguard Armours with twenty-five accompanying tech adepts, thirty Mastiff Riders, thirty Power Armour Infantry, and fifteen light infantry scouts. I have one representative from the engineer, command, logistics, and armour companies too: four tech adepts in the six strong officer squad. The other two officers are tech-priests. I don¡¯t have any of the other companies¡¯ specialist units though, as I really don¡¯t need tanks to guard me on my own vessel, or the services the engineer, command, and logistics companies provide for a single company under my direct command. Sergeant Odhran has joined my bodyguard company for now, though he doesn¡¯t fit into its composition just yet. I may remove an eighth line squad and fill it with all five Space Marines once the other four are fit for combat, but I haven¡¯t decided if that is the best way to use them or not. Giving the Space Marines more freedom and a support network of their own, rather than insisting they protect me, would let them fulfil tasks others cannot. The entire point of Space Marines, really. On the other hand, I don¡¯t have many tasks like that available and something to do is better than nothing to do. Given that I brought them back from the dead, I shouldn¡¯t have to worry about them viewing guard duty as an insult either. Five Wyrms lie motionless in a line the marshalling area, just outside the base¡¯s walls. Their scaled frames and lamprey-like front end inspire fear and awe, and I can¡¯t help but shiver as I board the middle Wyrm. Each Wyrm can ferry two to three companies with us at a time, depending on their equipment. Design teams are already looking into improving the Wyrms transport capacity. The middle Wyrm is stuffed full of kataphrons, a somewhat endangered Servitor pattern, as they need the ¡®soul of a violent man¡¯ to be made. While I have a thousand of them in my service, without a ready source of replacement material, like Marwolv¡¯s criminal populace, I have begun replacing them with Praetorian Servitors. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. As I wait for my guard to finish boarding, I flip through the pict-feeds, looking at the nervous men and women who constantly check their gear, or talk with exaggerated motions to get their point across, even with their faceless helmets. Twenty percent of the Heralds are all the same height, as all members of the Fleet and Corps are gradually fitted with a black skeleton. While this makes them much tougher and stronger, the main benefit has been in logistics as all these people are the same size. It might be an expensive and time consuming procedure, but if they live long enough, or their bodies can be recovered, it will actually save resources and manufacturing capacity in the long run. The other side benefit is that my equipment, especially the armour, will be quite useless to anyone who isn¡¯t identical in size, so if, in the far future, someone actually manages to steal my stuff, by the time they can make it usable, they might as well have built their own wargear. After a few seconds of flicking through the feeds, I catch sight of the twenty Praetorian Servitors assigned to this assault. Praetorian Servitors are usually built from oversized human clones, and sometimes mindwiped Ogryns. I have yet to design one in the mechanical style of my normal Servitors, so they are mostly cloned flesh and reshaped armour plates salvaged from broken tanks. I intend to improve the design over time. At three metres, Praetorian Servitors are even taller than me and tower over Odhran and my own troops. Praetorian designs all have mechanical legs or tracks because of their weight and I¡¯ve built mine as a cross between arachne and octopi, with the body shape of an arachne and extra thick, eight mechadendrites for legs, as opposed to jointed spider limbs. They¡¯re like miniature spider tanks, almost. Note to self, that would actually be a better design. The torso is somewhat exposed, and while it is good for shielding me, there are better ways to achieve that. The last of my bodyguards boards the Wyrm and the door slams shut. The moment they¡¯ve secured themselves in the harness hanging from the ceiling, the Wyrm hums to life. It raises its head and pushes into the ground, chewing through hundreds of tonnes of rock with its overlapping powerblades and pushing its immense bulk into earth. Slowly, we start to accelerate, moving deeper and deeper. Without windows or a point of reference, the irregular movement of the Wyrm is quite unsettling. Despite the extensive zero-g training all the Heralds undergo, a couple still throw up in their helmets and I really can¡¯t fault them. This is quite unpleasant. I¡¯m also finding out first hand why there wasn¡¯t a proper transport version of the Wyrms in my STC, but I don¡¯t have any intention of stopping our project to design one. For two and a half hours we ride without speaking, slowly getting used to the uncomfortable movement, intense vibrations, and loud, grinding noise. Then, the Wyrm lurches as it hits something hard and it slows. I can hear the whine of its teeth even over a hundred metres away as the vibration passes through the hull and makes my own teeth ache. A handful of seconds pass, and the Wyrm is through, slithering through vast empty corridors and chewing through the occasional wall. The other four Wyrms are still with us and we make good progress, punching up through the bottom of the tomb towards a spot a kilometre below its centre. As we repeatedly punch through walls I catch glimpses of the tomb through the external sensors. Everything is built from blackstone and necrodermis to absurdly high tolerances. The walls of the corridors are all slightly angled, like triangles with their tops cut off, with thick and regular supports. While they vary in size, none are lower than twenty metres in height, and others are tall enough to fit an Imperator-Class Titan, a fifty metre tall war machine. We pass dozens of rooms filled with assembly lines, strange forges, and large marshalling areas stuffed with sleeping war machines. Everything gets smashed aside, or chewed up as we pass through. We punch through a stasis room. The stasis room is over a kilometre long, filled with hundreds of thousands of sleeping warriors in stone sarcophagi, green energy fields flickering over their inert forms. The tomb starts to wake in full. Scarabs pour from the walls, chasing after us and the last Wyrm in our convoy spots thousands of warriors jumping from their sarcophagi. The highest Warriors are too high up for their degraded bodies to make the landing and they faceplant on the stone floor, then slowly pull themselves together and join their marching brethren. I¡¯d laugh, but the swarm of Warriors chasing after us is chilling. We are ascending almost vertically at this point and the scarabs launch themselves at the Wyrms, deconstructing them. It doesn¡¯t quite work as they get continuously scraped off the hull each time we pass through a new wall, but within two minutes, the scarabs have made enough small holes that they are able to cling on, gnawing through the hull and into the clockwork guts of our transports. One by one, the scarabs drop into the hold upon our heads, only to be grabbed and stabbed by Heralds and Servitors. The Wyrms start to slow as they are disabled from within and the scarabs fall upon us in ever greater numbers. At last, we smash through the final wall to our destination. It¡¯s the biggest room yet, over one hundred metres tall and half a kilometre wide. The Wyrms fire up their spotlights and launch flares high into the room. Seven vast pyramids lurk in the gloom, each eighty metres high and sixty metres wide. The Necron Monoliths are nothing like the dinky little models I used to mess around with my son. Nor do they resemble in role or scope the large tanks and transports I believed them to be. A single one is said to be capable of conquering a world, and now I know why. These are titans, bristling with guns. At their apex is a portal, inactive for now, called an Eternity Gate, capable of pulling fresh Warriors and other constructs from anywhere on the planet, or perhaps beyond. An eighth pyramid, wider and shorter than the others and split into four pieces, hovers in the midst of the other grand pyramids. A figure, suspended in the centre of the pyramid, crackles with green energy, screaming and writhing within its bonds. I am hit with an awful realisation. This figure is why we were allowed to penetrate the tomb. There is nothing we can do to disable the Necrons power source, for there lies the multiple, amalgamated shards of a C¡¯tan. Destroying it would kill us. Freeing it would destroy the fleet. What can we possibly do against a god? Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Two For a moment, I panic. Spreading from my second heart, I feel ice spread within my chest and immediately begin to calm as E-SIM pumps drugs into me. Subjective time around me slows as I engage all my minds in calculating a path to victory, or at least survival. As the Wyrms come to a halt, I realise that it is not force of arms that will carry the day, but what carried those arms in the first place. I still don¡¯t expect to destroy the Tesseract Vault though. I vox all units, ¡°Disembark.¡± ¡°Are you sure about this, Magos?¡± voxes Odhran. ¡°The Monoliths are still sleeping. Our initial objective might not be feasible, but we have over a battalion of elite forces and five boring machines in the heart of the enemy''s base. How could I fail in my duty now?¡± ¡°Agreed, Magos. I have died in service to the Imperium. A second chance to feast in the Emperor¡¯s halls should not be missed!¡± All twelve companies disembark as fast as they can. I order every Herald with a flamer to sweep over the Wyrms, clearing off the scarabs as fast as they can. They won¡¯t get them all, but we need the Wyrms to remain functional for as long as possible. Necron infantry and scarabs stack and clamber over each other, up through the huge holes we¡¯ve punched through their tomb, immediately firing on us as we try to organise ourselves. I order the Kataphrons and two penal companies to hold the line while we spread through the huge room. My Praetorian Servitors form up around me, sheltering Odhran and I from any stray shots. The Monoliths begin to stir, green lines lighting up their sides and Necron symbols flicker to life around the Eternity Gates on all seven Monoliths. Hideous laughter echoes through the tomb from the Tesseract Vault, the C''tan within unhindered by the airless room, the soundproofing on our helmets, or any other barrier one cares to think of to get its voice across. ¡°Free me! Free me and I will give you everything you could possibly desire! Little fleshlings, do you not crave the solidity of metal? The cold caress of steel flowing through your veins? To ascend to the blessed heights of your amusing faith? Free me!¡± ¡°Initiate Bad Penny protocol,¡± I vox. Odhran unslings his bolter, ¡°I am unfamiliar with your codes, Magos.¡± ¡°Speak only to me for now. I can¡¯t vox you with the exact protocol in the middle of a base of technologically superior foe.¡± ¡°Understood, Magos.¡± It takes us ten minutes to disembark and the firefight growing around the five holes in the floor has become quite heated, with MOA shields being jammed between dead Kataphrons, Heralds and blackstone rubble for barely adequate cover. I send a trickle of squads towards the firefight to keep our numbers up and the Necrons from overwhelming us. The moment we¡¯re all disembarked, the flamer infantry halt their purge over the Wyrms¡¯ hulls and jump off, then I send all five wyrms at the glowing Monoliths. As they accelerate, the Monoliths shoot the Wyrms with sporadic fire from their Gauss Flux Arc projectors, further pitting the Wyrms¡¯ hulls, but little else. At the peak of each Monolith hovers a putrid green crystal the size of a house. Energy builds up within the crystals, filling the room with bright green light. The crystal flashes and a whip of cohesive, unidentifiable particles, strikes each Wyrm, the closest two Wyrms are hit twice. Each strike cleaves right through the wyrms¡¯ hulls, wrecking huge chunks of their internals and sparking many fires that burn out almost instantly. Although damaged, the strikes are not enough to halt the Wyrms, whose vast bulk and redundant mechanisms are not so easily stopped. The maws close in on the Monoliths and chew right through them, the overlapping powerfields of their rotating jaws rendering the Monoliths to dust. The Wyrms thrash their bulk as they pass through, splitting the Monoliths asunder. ¡°By the Emperor!¡± voxes Odhran. ¡°Such might!¡± ¡°It¡¯s not over yet.¡± Watching the energy readings coming off the Monoliths, I override everyone¡¯s vox and yell, ¡°Go prone!¡± Everyone dives to the floor, even the Praetorians lower themselves as much as possible. Two of the five Monoliths detonate with enough force to rival a small nuclear bomb. Only the thick coils of the Wyrms wrapping around the Monoliths and our robust armour saves us from annihilation. Even so, hundreds of Heralds are thrown into the air, the ceiling cracks, and rubble plummets from the ceiling, crushing dozens of people. Many are tossed into the pits alongside the Necrons and fall Emperor knows how far into the ground. Huge chunks of metal are ripped from the two Wyrms that were in the heart of the detonation, sending lethal shrapnel through the air, destroying three Praetorians and killing over four hundred Heralds in a tide of splintered steel. The two heavily damaged Wyrms collapse, their hulls white hot and sagging into an expensive puddle of twisted gears and sparking motors. The remaining three Wyrms wriggle on chasing down the last three Monoliths catching and destroying two before the final one teleports out in a blinding flash. Only the Tesseract Vault remains, the C''tan continuing to cackle throughout the destruction, without so much as a single mote of dust touching his almost invulnerable prison. I vox the company commanders, ¡°Gather the wounded, leave the Servitors and the dead. We¡¯re retreating.¡± The laughter ceases. ¡°No, I think not,¡± mutters the C''tan. ¡°If I cannot escape, then neither will you.¡± I am annoyed, but not surprised with how easily it infiltrated our communications. In the dusty murk of the ancient tomb, tiny stars form near the ceiling. They rapidly expand and brighten until the grand room feels like a bright morning, buried in fog. The bright sparks drift downwards and my armour screams temperature warnings at me. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Fire falls upon the Wyrms, like magnesium snow. Our transports seize up as the C''tan¡¯s transcendent power falls precisely, burning through vital components, rendering all three remaining Wyrms non-functional. ¡°Well, go on then,¡± says the C''tan. ¡°Run.¡± I shudder, the C''tan¡¯s contradictory statements and behaviour reminding me of a cat, playing with live food. As if waiting for the perfect moment, the Necrons strike back. Rising from the great pits crawl mechanical horrors, great centipedes with a pulsing, spinning weapon for a mouth. Each Canoptek Tomb Sentinel varies in size from six to thirty metres in length, though each has ten pairs of legs and clacking pincers at the front end. They push right through the defences, phasing through stone, metal, and flesh with equal ease and hack through the remains of the two penal companies, even as the Kataphrons fire at them continuously, catching everything and everybody in the crossfire. For many of the Heralds, this is too much and they panic, scattering into the darkness. Between the casualties and the deserters I have eight of my twelve companies remaining. I order the captains to rally their companies on me and we run towards the closest corridor. Behind us, floats the C''tan in his Tesseract Vault, zapping every Herald who lags behind with his Tesla Spheres, killing them instantly with great bursts of lightning. I¡¯m not sure who is in control of the Tesseract Vault right now, as the C''tan should not be able to direct its prison where it pleases, but that¡¯s exactly what it looks like it¡¯s doing. ¡°What is the mission, Magos?¡± voxes Odhran. ¡°Fight through the tomb and escape, while destroying absolutely everything we come across, should the opportunity arise.¡± ¡°Next time, I want a pack of gun dogs.¡± I laugh, ¡°I do not think we could have fitted enough dogs on the Wyrms.¡± Odhran grunts, ¡°How far are we underground?¡± ¡°Eight kilometres, approximately.¡± ¡°Then we must destroy, or at least disable, the Tesseract Vault, otherwise we will all be dead at the rate it¡¯s picking us off.¡± ¡°It destroyed three titan sized vehicles with a sadistic giggle and a wave of its hand. At the very least it counts as an Alpha Plus class psyker in power equivalent, even if it is restrained and not actually using the warp. It is also riding the most robust vehicle a race of soulless, ancient automatons, the ones who imprisoned it in the first place, could conceive. I¡¯m pretty sure the C''tan has hijacked its own prison too. Even the Emperor, before his ascension to the Golden Throne, might struggle to destroy a C''tan of such power. I don¡¯t suppose the Codex Astartes has a solution?¡± I really wish I hadn¡¯t spent almost all my souls on Full Bionic Conversion right now. A miracle would have been handy. ¡°There is little point in speculating what the Emperor can and cannot do. The Codex would have us disregard all ground assets and declare Exterminatus. It¡¯s the only way to be sure.¡± ¡°When that isn¡¯t an option?¡± ¡°Fight and die.¡± ¡°I¡¯d prefer a less final solution.¡± ¡°Then we¡¯d best keep running, and keep thinking. Perhaps an opportunity will appear.¡± Another vast hall opens up before us, although smaller than the last, it is more than large enough to house the Necron army awaiting us. In the centre, surrounded by Canoptek Spyders is a Necron. A spear hovers to one side of him and a casket on the other. Four white circles, all inside each other, but not touching, shine with a blue-white light on the surface of the casket. Over a hundred weapon platforms immediately open fire, as well as thousands of Necrons. ¡°Keep your shields up, return fire, and run right for the centre,¡± I vox. Hundreds of infantry on each side are destroyed as we sprint like dead men towards the Necron lines, behaving more like Orks than Humans. There is no cover, no respite, and no room for anything fancy. When the Tesseract Vault floats in behind us, all the Necrons stop firing for two whole seconds and somehow, the motionless, expressionless automatons manage to look stiff, even afraid. A burst of data flies through the air from the Cryptek to the Tesseract Vault and the C''tan screams, though in pain or anger I cannot tell. Then it laughs and brings both its hands together. A small vortex forms between its hands. It moulds the vortex, pushing it onto its left hand, then it pushes its left arm outwards and flicks the vortex with its right hand. The vortex of strange grey energies ploughs through the back of my lines and rushes right past me, taking half my Praetorian Servitors with it and straight towards the Cryptek. Every Herald and machine the vortex touches blinks out of existence, banishing hundreds of people to random dimensions. If I wasn¡¯t running for my life, I would stop and stare at the sheer power of this creature. Even the almighty Truck-kun can only banish one person at a time! The Cryptek grabs the casket floating by its side and runs, plucking at the strings within as it tries to avoid the vortex. The vibrations from the strange instrument send odd waves to the ceiling, transmuting the blackstone into brittle porcelain that immediately subsides beneath the crushing weight of the stone above. The ceiling rains down upon the Tesseract Vault. The vortex disappears with a clap of thunder and the Tesseract Vault phases through the falling stone like the Canoptek Tomb Sentinels, straight towards the Cryptek. The Cryptek starts strumming like an impassioned heavy metal guitarist with little thought of the destruction it¡¯s playing will cause to the ears of its listeners. It also sends ever greater bursts of data towards the Tesseract Vault, forcing it out of its phase state and back into realspace. The Cryptek¡¯s panicked strumming, however, is wildly successful and more and more of the tomb crumbles, pummelling Human and Necron without discrimination. The Heralds plough through the disorganised Necrons. They quickly lose momentum as the falling rocks split and squash squads as they please, forcing the Heralds and Necrons closer together in an unfocused melee. Rocks bounce off the Supreme Shield Matrix surrounding the Tesseract Vault and the four corners of the hovering prison close in on each other, restraining the C''tan and protecting the more fragile interior of the Tesseract Vault from the rapidly progressing cave in. At last, the C''tan has been mostly neutralized, but the ceiling is fucked. The Cryptek directs many warriors towards Odhran and I, even as the Tesseract Vault is buried in rubble. We cleave through the Warriors quickly, their clumsy movements unable to hold us and my seven remaining Praetorians back. The last half of my forces are equally effective ripping apart the Warriors with desperate fury having learned much from our first encounter with the Necrons. We push towards the Cryptek and, with less than thirty metres to go to the exit, Odhram manages some impressive shots with a krak missile launcher. They slip through the Necron lines and slam into the energy shield around the Cryptek standing in the exit. Immediately, the energy emissions around the Cryptek spike, suggesting he is about to teleport away. I really can¡¯t afford to let him escape. I push through the warriors, ignoring their blows and, the moment I¡¯m close enough, I open a portal to the warp right beneath the Cryptek¡¯s feet and he drops right through. I hear Odhran chortle over the vox, ¡°Well played, Magos.¡± ++Enemy destroyed. Portal is non-functional.++ Unfortunately, I don¡¯t get a crown kill. Cheapskate soulless abomination that it was. With their Nodal Command disrupted for a short moment, the Necrons fall into disarray. Our remaining forces push through the Warriors, trying to escape before the room collapses entirely. Most don¡¯t make it. Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Three For the next two days, we slog through the North Tomb, fighting our way up through a horde of poorly coordinated, respawning robots. We even stumbled upon three firefights where the Necrons were fighting each other, possibly Necrons from other tombs. By the time we reach the top, only two and a half companies remain, most of which are the officers and super heavy infantry in their power armour. All the Servitors and Vanguard Armour have been destroyed. What saved us from complete destruction were the gun dogs with all the extra munitions they carried, and then the wounded, at least for a short time. Our turnover of anyone with leg wounds was fast, as once we could carry no more disabled Heralds, we would leave them behind in little fortifications, built from MOA shields, to cover our retreat. It was horrible. That the men and women volunteered to cover us was even more heartbreaking. It also created relays through the tomb, so I witnessed every last stand and kept the rearguard updated so they would know exactly how many minutes they brought us and how vital it was. To my shame, during these heroic moments, we discovered that the most effective weapons we had were not my fancy new lasguns, the heavy bolters with the tempest rounds, or any of our other more advanced munitions, but the phosphor stubbers everyone was carrying as back up. While one or two hits wouldn¡¯t stop a Necron, a whole clip would turn them to slag. The necrodermis was burned away by the dangerous rounds in debilitating quantities and it¡¯s repair mechanisms slowed enough to properly destroy the fuckers in a way that the precise burns of a lasgun could not. Not unless one was lucky enough to hit something really important. The Necrons adapted within the hour. Once they were burning enough, the Warriors would throw themselves at the Heralds, trying to tackle them so that the Heralds would die with the heat of their own weapons. Having listened to nothing but screams for two days, I can say with confidence that I hate the Necrons even more than the Eldar, something I did not believe to be possible. We burst through the entrance of the tomb with sombre steps and quiet sobs. Looking up at the stars has never felt quite so magical, even after my first trip through the Warp. The waiting blockade of Imperial infantry and armour opens before us and we are all ushered onto Chimeras for a long drive back to our forward base. It¡¯s a small risk and a little wasteful if we have to jump from the vehicle, but I order the Chimera to pressurise and, for the first time in two days, remove my helmet. Odhran copies me, as do the other eight, power armoured Heralds sitting with us. For the first minute, no one is willing to speak. Odhran is stone faced and staring at my face. The Heralds are more discrete, taking small glances. One even pulls some wipes from his supplies and cleans his face. Odhran turns his helmet over and over in his hands, ¡°A great victory, Magos. Reckless, pyrrhic even, but a great victory nonetheless.¡± I grimace, ¡°I know the numbers. Three thousand Heralds and five salvage Wyrms for six titan sized Monoliths and the destruction of a tomb¡¯s Cryptek.¡± I shake my head. ¡°It would have cost us millions of lives if we faced those numbers topside in a conventional fight, possibly multiple worlds. Those Monoliths and the Tesseract Vault were likely the Kinbriar dynasty¡¯s trump card. Not only that, we lost a tenth of what the Eldar did in their assault. We might have triggered a power grab between the other tombs too. It¡¯s not a victory, its a fucking miracle. I just can¡¯t quite bring myself to celebrate it.¡± A Herald clears his throat, ¡°Then hold a funeral, Magos. Full honours. They''re a celebration, of sorts.¡± I look at the Herald. He¡¯s young, twenty-five maybe. He¡¯s pale, with a fuzz of red hair, freckles. His expression is blank and his eyes are closed. ¡°Then that¡¯s what we¡¯ll do,¡± I say. ¡°One every year, to remember the day when we crawled from the ground and back to the stars. Where we belong. A new Stellar Fleet tradition.¡± ¡°If you add a celebration for every victory, Magos, soon you will do nothing but feast,¡± says Odhran. ¡°That would be a worthy achievement!¡± I say. Four hours later I am in my quarters, out of my armour, and lounging on sunken sofas. A hologram subtly fills the space, creating plants, a fake night sky, and a firebowl, roaring with flames. The environmental sustainer accurately blows hot air on my face, somewhat imitating the heat from a fire. It¡¯s not quite the same but it helps, reminding me of camping as a child. Bridgid and Thorfinnn are accompanying me as we all indulge in some amasec. My head is lying on Brigid¡¯s lap as she slowly runs her hands through my hair. It¡¯s incredibly relaxing and I let the resonating tones of Thorfinn and Brigid¡¯s conversation wash over me, enjoying the sensation of being alive and surrounded by friends. At some point I doze off and E-SIM shuts down my extra instances letting me truly rest. I wake to Brigid holding my nose. ¡°Aldrich,¡± says Brigid. I open my eyes, grab Brigid¡¯s hand and move it to my chest, then hold it there, ¡°Yes, Brigid?¡± ¡°Feeling better.¡± ¡°Yes, I am. Sorry I fell asleep.¡± ¡°That¡¯s OK. Thorfinn and I had plenty we needed to review.¡± ¡°More work?¡± ¡°On and off. Thorfinn showed me some clips of this documentary he¡¯s been making in his spare time.¡± ¡°Oh, more deep sea fishing?¡± Brigid giggles, ¡°No, none of that.¡± ¡°It¡¯s about the different jobs in the Fleet,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°We¡¯re big enough now that many crew only have a superficial, or intellectual understanding of the roles each person plays. For example, the guys training the Cyber Mastiffs have no idea what a generatorium worker does on a daily basis. I wanted to make a series that showcases all the roles, highlighting the personalities of specific crew. There is a big appeal in seeing how other people live, but it¡¯s more than that. I want kids to be able to watch it and have something to aspire to, or the different crews to appreciate what each other are going through, promoting unity within the fleet.¡± Stolen story; please report. I sit up and put my arm around Brigid, ¡°That¡¯s one hell of a project. This is more than just a hobby for you, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Well, about that,¡± Thorfinn shakes his head and points to his side, ¡°Quaani is here. You should hear what he has to say first.¡± ¡°Hello, Quaani. When did you get here?¡± ¡°About half an hour ago. I know you''re having a break and all, but can you listen to an idea of mine?¡± ¡°Sure, it¡¯s always better to share these things in an informal setting anyway.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I thought too,¡± says Quanni. ¡°Right, so, you know how our big plan is to blow up the Tomb World and travel at sub-light to the next system.¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°Well, I was thinking that I would like to take Distant Sun and a couple of escorts at a faster pace. I would like to use the extra time to update our maps before we bring the Iron Crane and the rest of the Stellar Fleet anywhere near other occupied systems. I would also like to use that time to confirm who is worth trading with and set up deals in advance for when the Stellar Fleet passes through.¡± I grab my glass from the side table and take a sip, ¡°There is much merit in your proposal. Safety and efficiency should always be sought. I was originally planning to build two ports, one in Kinbriar and another on the other side. Perhaps ports that could assist in the initial acceleration of a vessel. Then I decided that, even with the Necrons hopefully disabled, that was a lot of infrastructure that would have no quick way of calling in support. ¡°Right now, during our long voyage, I am planning on building the core module of a mobile starport, or Macro-Ferry. The intention was to establish a transport route between the greater Koronus Expanse and Marwov, once we can finally visit it again. The starport would run at a set speed, say point five C. A speed we could leave the frame at when we reach the other side, letting it slingshot round and go back the other way. ¡°Another vessel would only have to accelerate up to that speed, then dock, and get carried between the two systems. Sure, without constant acceleration, the journey would take twenty years in each direction, but it would save vast amounts of fuel and provide a moving fortress that, because it¡¯s a port, should always have a supporting fleet. Our escorts are already flying around the Kinbrair system, catapulting resources out for us to pick along the route. ¡°I¡¯m telling you this now, because if we send you out to scout, we¡¯ll need to use those resources to build more ships instead; only having two escorts for Iron Crane would be needlessly risky. On the other hand, if you arrived early, you could send more resources our way at the other end.¡± Quaani nods, ¡°I get it. You¡¯re not against my idea though, in principle?¡± ¡°I am not. It is a good one and we should find a way to make it work.¡± ¡°How fast do we have to cross the gap?¡± says Brigid. ¡°That¡¯s something we can¡¯t really know,¡± I say. ¡°We could spend a century doing so if we like, but the longer it takes, the greater chance there is of something going wrong. It¡¯s not a problem for us if Quaani is constantly slinging resources at us, but the longer we take, the longer Quaani would be unsupported for.¡± ¡°Are you sure?¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Do we even need escorts while in transit in realspace, so far from any star system? I would argue no. We should use those resources we are gathering to start a new fleet while Quaani blasts off with everything but the Iron Crane, then travel slowly and test the route out. We may even decide it isn¡¯t worth building a Macro-Ferry along the way. No matter what though, we¡¯ll always need more ships.¡± ¡°I can tell you intend for the Macro-Ferry to be a shipyard and supply base for the region too,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Your plan would dramatically expand our influence and we would control who could trade with Marwolv too.¡± ¡°Absolutely!¡± I say. ¡°Also, the Macro-Ferry would be a recreation of the design of Marwolv¡¯s Mandeville Point station, only with more thrusters.¡± ¡°Which is why you don¡¯t want to have to accelerate that thing twice,¡± nods Quanni. ¡°That thing is the size of a small moon, well, it will be.¡± ¡°It would take a couple of centuries to finish,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°Just in time for us to be back in our previous timeline and therefore make use of it and be a fleet unto itself.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re all following along so easily,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t really want to remain in subspace transition for too long. I want to explore and gather as much technology as possible before the Cicatrix Maledictum forms. We could get more from our STCs too if we can directly sell to Mars, rather than isolated Forge Worlds. The Nachmund Gauntlet isn¡¯t really worth the risk. I¡¯d love a chance to consult one of the Kin¡¯s ancestor cores too. Also I want real tea plants. And milk. None of that vegetable crap that comes out of the food printers.¡± ¡°There¡¯s the real reason,¡± says Quaani, laughing. ¡°We could budget twenty years though,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Enough time to build the shipyard portion of the Macro-Ferry. That would drastically increase our build capacity. We could arrive in the other system with two more light cruisers and their eight escorts. Aldrich?¡± I run a simulation, ¡°Yes, that¡¯s feasible. I have a design for a cruiser sized version of the Moth-class that I wanted to get done too, but waiting until I can purchase more hull designs would likely be for the best anyway.¡± ¡°Would the first light cruiser group be finished in time to be worth sending in advance to back up Quaani in an emergency?¡± ¡°They would arrive around year fifteen,¡± says Brigid, ¡°I¡¯d say it¡¯s worth it, though we should keep them hidden and have them trail Quaani.¡± ¡°I¡¯d have to go,¡± I say. ¡°Not enough Navigators. We¡¯ll need a way to tether ships together as well, or a way to link our gellar fields. We¡¯ve been looking into linking gellar fields as one of the possible methods of strengthening them. That would let us travel in a big bubble with fewer Navigators. ¡°On second thoughts, While it is a priority, geller linking isn¡¯t a project that can be rushed, or even tested without more Navigators for backup. Links will have to be tethers, or modified docking booms securing a light cruiser to its escorts. I have a design for a grand cruiser to do it, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯s been attempted with a smaller vessel before. Distant Sun will need to be modified in such a manner before Quaani departs or he won¡¯t be able to take his escorts with him.¡± ¡°I already thought about this!¡± says Quaani. ¡°The Tau already have a solution. Their Kass¡¯l-Class Gunship travelled in such a manner with something called a Gravitic Hook.¡± ¡°Urgh,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°I really don¡¯t want to trade with the Tau. They¡¯ve been causing minor problems, what with their new quarters they traded for being delayed by the repairs to Iron Crane and our rush build of the fire ship. They keep trying to be ¡®helpful¡¯, saying they¡¯d be happy to help build their own homes. They know we won¡¯t allow it and that they wouldn¡¯t either if the positions were reversed. They also know that if we don¡¯t hussle with the fireship, we¡¯re all going to die, but they keep bothering my security staff with petitions anyway.¡± ¡°They¡¯re going to ask for a massive price,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Let the matter rest until we¡¯re away from Kinbriar. The Tau can stew. Leave them long enough, as if we don¡¯t need them, and they will come to us.¡± Thorfinn shakes his head, ¡°I¡¯ll forward our discussion to Eire. Trade is her job. We shouldn¡¯t tell her how to do it. It¡¯s not like she won¡¯t put forward a neat proposal to Fleet Command before going to the Tau anyway.¡± ¡°Thank you for your proposal, Quaani.¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯m done with being serious for the day though. Join us for a drink? There are a lot of dead to send on their way and I keep seeing scarabs crawl from every wall.¡± Quaani winces, then shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m glad you liked my idea. Just one drink. Then I¡¯m going to leave you old folks to it. I¡¯m leading all our psykers for a group meditation in the Auto-Temple in an hour.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know you do that, Quaani,¡± I say. ¡°Ah, it¡¯s my first time leading. We take it in turns.¡± ¡°I know you¡¯ll do well.¡± ¡°Thanks, Uncle. I hope so too.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Four Quaani soon departs and I turn to Thorfinn, ¡°What was it you wanted to talk about?¡± ¡°There¡¯s been enough excitement and ideas for one day. It can wait.¡± ¡°You sure?¡± ¡°Yeah, I want more time to think about it anyway.¡± ¡°Alright. Well, if you¡¯ll excuse me, I may not need to sleep, but it is pleasant. I¡¯m still going to bed. You¡¯re welcome to watch the hologram as long as you like, Thorfinn. Maybe it will help you think. You coming, Brigid?¡± ¡°Yes, I will join you.¡± ¡°Thanks, Aldrich. I¡¯ll stare at the hollow flames a little longer then let myself out.¡± I chuckle at his morose joke, then Brigid and I retire for the night. For once, I am the little spoon. I doubt I will risk another assault on a tomb myself, or try any more foolhardy plans for a while. The following day, after a light breakfast with Brigid, I walk through Iron Crane, escorting Brigid to her office. I have two mandatory days off after the assault, but I don¡¯t want to sit still right now. There are over eight hundred thousand bodies aboard Iron Crane. Sure, five hundred thousand are Servitors and a hundred thousand mostly stick to the military quarters, but walking around Iron Crane always feels somewhat empty. The vessel is so stupidly large that, unless you''re travelling during a change in the watch, it¡¯s quite possible to walk for several minutes down a major route and not meet a single person. Neither of us are in a rush and we take the time to admire the greenery planted along the walls behind armourglass and all the colourful fruits and vegetables growing beneath varying spectrums of light. ¡°Aldrich, do you remember when you got all smug about ¡®single handedly¡¯ boosting the growth rate of our population to two point one per woman?¡± Brigid presses both her hands to her lips to hold back her laughter. ¡°I¡¯m not going to like what you say next, am I?¡± ¡°Indeed. It¡¯s not actually that high, less than one percent per year. I was looking over our expenses and realised it is going to take us more than a year to recover the personnel losses we took from that one engagement. The lost wargear will take six weeks, the Wyrms and Vanguards, two years. None of this includes the losses we¡¯re taking to siege the tomb. I know you¡¯ve been putting it off so that people could have a proper childhood, and a more natural, stable development, but we¡¯re going to have to start using the exo-wombs you traded with the Tau for.¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t me just being all sentimental. That¡¯s been in development for ten years now, going over it in excruciating detail and converting it to Imperial standards. It¡¯s such an easy way for the Tau to screw us over, like by secretly implanting the tenets of their philosophy, or a subtle genetic flaw. Starting that program up is a massive security risk. Do your predictions place our numbers low enough that it would affect the operation of the fleet?¡± ¡°If you want to build and crew new ships and a Macro-Ferry? Our numbers will be critically low and that¡¯s if we don¡¯t take any more casualties.¡± ¡°Could we do it with birth incentives?¡± ¡°Having half the crew on maternity leave for ten years is equally untenable, no matter how many shinies you offer. We don¡¯t have to rush growing them though, if you''re concerned about the knowledge implantation process. You know, the bit we actually paid for. Have you found any problems in testing?¡± ¡°Not a single one. They traded tech, not parts or their own implantation libraries, and the Tau haven¡¯t gone anywhere near the machines. It would take a significant security breach for the Tau to ruin the new crew. The knowledge even helped us improve our teaching engines and that hasn¡¯t given us any trouble. Their MIU equivalents were not as good though. We didn¡¯t get anything from that, other than making our own compatible with the Tau.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s the hold up?¡± ¡°It competes for Servitor and Cyber Mastiff resources and there hasn¡¯t been a need. We¡¯d also need to set up mass harvesting of genetic material and all the administrative systems to support inexperienced individuals. If we don¡¯t rush, six months to get the program started. Two years for each gestation to reach, physically, sixteen years old. Without a purpose built vessel, best we could do is five-hundred new crew a month once it¡¯s all set up. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d want to hit those numbers for at least ten years though, just to get enough data and train up enough staff.¡± ¡°Well, the current birth rate is three hundred per month, approximately. How about we aim for one hundred exo-womb births a month and, if everything is looking good half way through our sublight trip, we can examine the issue again. We¡¯d have more void ships by then with the extra space we need.¡± ¡°Alright. We should consult with the rest of Fleet Command, just in case we missed something, but I¡¯ll see it done.¡± ¡°I like that you don¡¯t try to go over people¡¯s heads, Aldrich, even if you could.¡± I smile, ¡°I admit I am always tempted. It is so much faster, and I am confident in my decisions. Yet I know I am only Human, if barely, and my experiences colour my choices. Large, endless committees are worthless, but a handful of confidants? You help me see what two eyes may have missed, or restore ideas I have dismissed.¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Brigid stops outside an armoured door, wraps one arm around me and grabs my uniform with her other, gently pulling me down for a kiss. ¡°Thank you for accompanying me to my office.¡± Brigid lets go and pats my chest, ¡°Now go and take some time off. Go mess about in a simulator or something. No work!¡± ¡°I won¡¯t!¡± ¡°You thrashed about last night and cracked my rib. It¡¯s already healed and you need to heal too. Don¡¯t you dare neglect your health after going to so much trouble looking after everyone else''s.¡± ¡°Ugh, that would be a classic fail. Fine, I will find something fun to do. I¡¯m sorry I hurt you.¡± Brigid scoffs, ¡°Like I would care about a little ding. I only told you so you would do as I ask.¡± I laugh, ¡°Fair enough.¡± I smirk, ¡°Enjoy your day at work.¡± Brigid pokes my ribs. Hard. ¡°Go. You prat.¡± I wander the shops and gardens of the habitation district. Thinking of kids and the growing history of the Stellar Fleet, I idly plan a small museum, one that I hope to fill with dioramas of all our victories, maybe with the models assembled and painted by the friends and families of those who have suffered great loss. Despite the doleful subject, I alternate between sniffs and sniggers as I walk about. The idea of painting Warhammer models, in Warhammer, amuses and frightens me in a manner I struggle to process. Even with my many years, progress, and battles in this far future, that small voice still persists. A companion I am so familiar with that I have long since forgotten anything else. A companion that whispers: ¡°I am going to die.¡± Standing on a small stone bridge, I watch lazy silver fish and other small creatures lazily swish their tails in the gentle current. A priority message smashes through my filters. As I assimilate the contents I also watch multiple data lines, mostly orbital, showing the Necrons have made a move on the North Tomb. They weren¡¯t subtle about it, but they were so fast that our perimeter guards still had to fight as they retreated to our forward base as they hit us with teleporting troops and hypersonic strike craft. Four warhosts, one from each remaining undamaged tomb have begun their advance on the North Tomb. Distant Sun began a bombardment on one force, only for the Necrons to deploy planetary defence weapons from beneath their impenetrable shields from three of the six tombs. I¡¯m surprised they hid ground to orbit weapons for so long, considering the damage we¡¯ve done, but the Necrons timing is most inconvenient, which is probably why they did it. Distant Sun hasn¡¯t taken any damage to its armour yet, but the entire fleet is retreating behind the moon as they will wear us down and they could have more orbital weapons. We can¡¯t disable their orbital weapons without a ground assault either. Maeve has given the order to give up the forward base, but it is unlikely we will be able to wrestle air superiority back from the Necrons any time soon. The Heralds will retreat to the Eldar base and be lifted out, hopefully, an endeavour that will take up to two months. There isn¡¯t much I can do from here, so I spend my whole time off anxiously watching the data feeds, while feeding the occasional carp and creating 3D models of dead Heralds and Tech-Adepts for my museum dioramas, unsure if I am being needlessly dramatic. Distant Sun begins a new style of bombardment, orbiting the moon and firing as much as possible whenever Kinbriar V is in its sights. This is inaccurate, making it challenging to support the retreating Heralds and the growing pressure on the Eldar base. One dubious spark even modifies some macro-shells and one of our macro-cannons so that we can shoot supplies in front of their convoy. It is of mixed success, working well for stubber and bolter ammunition, water, air, food, and basic medical supplies, but nothing complex or electronic can survive the rapid acceleration and deceleration of the modified shell and cannon. Still, it does save us D-POTs, as the Necrons always target them whenever they try to support the column. The Necrons don¡¯t seem willing to spend the resources to wipe out the Heralds, remaining content to ensure their retreat is as miserable as possible. None of us can divine the reasoning behind the Necrons behaviour, making Fleet command feel like we¡¯ve missed something important. Five days into this new phase of our struggle, Odhran messages me. The Space Marines are awake. I arrive at Odhran¡¯s quarters and I am greeted to an odd sight. The medical beds have been moved from the centre of the room. A large chalk circle has been drawn on the floor and two of the marines are engaging in a variation of sumo wrestling. In medical gowns with their bare arses on display. The other three marines watch them. Two are cheering while Odhran is refereeing the match and the competing marines attempt to push each other out of the chalk circle. Odhran¡¯s mastiff sits by the circle, its mechanical tail wagging like crazy. ¡°Officer present!¡± says Odhran. The four new marines line up and salute, Imperium style, with their hands crossed over their chests like wings. Odhran eyes them, ¡°At ease.¡± The marines relax, holding their hands behind their backs. ¡°Sergeant Odhran, how are the patients?¡± ¡°Magos, all marines retain their skills and memories, though they are heavily degraded, yet swiftly recover with use and meditation. Your machines tell me they are healthy. They do, however, have an unusual amount of energy and cannot stay still for long.¡± Odhran pauses, then without so much as a twitch, he declares, ¡°It won¡¯t last.¡± ¡°Do what you think best Odhran, though I ask that you consider the ongoing complications of your own revival when assigning tasks and recreational time to your revived squad. Please update me every day on the status of each marine and yourself and contact me directly and immediately if you spot any strange behaviours or thought patterns. This is new ground for us all and I hope that all of you can enjoy your new lives with the skill, discipline, and faith of your first.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± He glances at the marines, ¡°Your names and gratitude, marines, starting from your right.¡± ¡°I am Killian, Magos. I thank you for my life.¡± ¡°Darrah. Your efforts will be remembered.¡± ¡°Nuada, Magos. I will pray to the Emperor of your great deed.¡± ¡°I am Eoghan. Thank you, Magos. Being dead is terribly dull.¡± All five marines are similar. Shaved heads, square jaws, thick muscles, and identical heights. They really do look like brothers, even if they weren¡¯t born as them. Their distinguishing features, such as their scars, are gone, and while I can tell them apart, their similarities are uncanny. ¡°You are welcome, Odhran, Killian, Darrah, Nuada, and Eoghan,¡± I say. ¡°It was a great trial and privilege to channel the Emperor¡¯s blessings. You honour the Emperor and the Barghest chapter with your return. Together we will guard Humanity in His name.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five I leave the Space Marines to their rehabilitation. Despite the war, routine settles in. The Stellar Corps successfully retrieves all surviving troops and equipment after suffering a sixty day march and seventeen percent casualties. While grim, this prolonged exposure to Necron weapons has finally given us the data we need to understand why they¡¯re killing us so easily. The new MOA void armour has a modified Vitae Supplement that plugs into the neck and, when the user is injured, maintains bodily functions, stops the user from bleeding out, and slowly heals them. It is high-tech medikit. Normally, a Vitae Supplement is an advanced version of the auto-sanguine. It is expensive enough that only Fleet Command, or Marwolv¡¯s small council were issued one. This modified version, however, is part of the armour and doesn¡¯t need to fit inside the body. It does not manufacture the nanites or artificial blood like the full version either, working from a reservoir. It is larger and easier to manufacture, and works just as well so long as it is kept topped up from the industrial scale nanyte-forges and organic printers. We have plenty of capacity for these materials as they are the two main tools for all forms of surgery in the Stellar Fleet. Given that everyone receives at least one implant, the MIU, when they turn sixteen, and three more when they reach eighteen, our medicae decks are well supplied with auto-sanguine nanites, or medichines if one is feeling trendy, and artificial blood. Because of its location, in the case of extreme injury, it can even cut off all blood flow below the neck and preserve the brain. So long as the exoframe for the MOA armour is still functional, a Herald can directly control their movement, if poorly, with their MIU, and retreat. The theory was that nothing short of a catastrophic headshot should kill a Herald. It¡¯s why leaving behind all the injured Heralds in our retreat was so heartbreaking because they¡¯ve all been told to protect their heads and they should be OK. Many Heralds are our youngest members, performing their two year service after finishing their tech-apprenticeships, hoping to find a career they enjoy, or looking forward to their tech-adept training once their service is over. Seeing so many get cut down in our initial assault on the exterior of the North Tomb was a complete surprise and, being the designer of the armour, I felt like I¡¯d sent all those kids to die after lying to them that most of them would survive. To my horror, the data we have collected informed us that, such is the vileness of gauss weaponry, the pain it causes can kill a Human with shock. The Eldar don¡¯t fare any better either. Even if the body survives after being flayed at a molecular level, like a shotgun crossed with a power weapon, their brain just shuts down because it can¡¯t process that level of trauma. All Heralds are now being fitted with adjustable Pain Wards to counter Necron weapons and it will gradually become a standard implant alongside the Mind Impulse Unit, Black Skeleton, Voidskin, and Warding Electoos. While I am pleased that I can provide so much to my crew, Brigid has informed me this is the final standard issue implant we can afford to support. Any more and the tech burden will be too high. In a way, this is a good thing, as it encourages more tech-priests to specialise in cybernetics if they want more, increasing our capacity to sustain advanced implants over time. It also isn¡¯t good to hand stuff out without it being earned as the last thing I want is vessels full of ¡®silk pants¡¯ priests or unmotivated teens rotting in the noosphere. I can only pray that my efforts and preparations are sufficient and appreciated for surviving the ever escalating war on Kinbriar. The war grinds on with not much changing and six months after making orbit around Kinbriar, I attend a meeting with the Exarch Orodor of the Yme-Loc Necron Termination Fleet. It¡¯s the first time he¡¯s been back since Odhran threw a knife at Orodor and the handle hit the Eldar hard enough to knock him out. Previously, only Isenedor of the Dire Avengers, Daenthala of the Howling Banshees and Caervan of the Swooping Hawks have attended these meetings and I¡¯ve left the meetings up to Eire and Ylien. I suspect the Eldar are trying to insult us by sending this prideful idiot back to the negotiation table, or they¡¯ll hoping I¡¯ll finish him off for good, purging from their ranks without having to do anything and providing the excuse they need to demand more materials. It¡¯s really hard to guess what these xenos are thinking, if anything at all. We are in the same plain room as before, though the room now has a few Eldar artefacts, like wraithbone sculptures, instruments, and decommissioned versions of their weapons. The Eldar are being absolutely slammed by the Necrons and we now have three battalions in their outer bases, supplementing their dwindling forces. Many friendships have blossomed between the younger Guardians and Heralds, who are all away from their homes for the first time. Hence the small trade in artefacts and luxuries. The Eldar Aspect Warriors are less pleased as it chips away at their narrative and control over the Guardians, who are little more than well trained and well equipped militia. Much like the younger Heralds. Now that I think about it, I have a sinking feeling that the reason why I have to deal with Orodor is because a minority of Heralds and Guardians didn¡¯t want to die as virgins and, with post combat emotions running high, wanted to go for the rebellious choice. They are lucky there is no way to prove it otherwise I would have to punish them harshly for fraternising with xenos. Fortunately, I am not alone in my misery, Owen Broin and R¨®is¨ªn Paorach are with me. Orodor is alone, with only two Wraith Guards to support him. He sips on a glass of fruit juice. It¡¯s quite toxic to humans and we¡¯re growing the fruits just for the Eldar. I¡¯m hoping we¡¯ll find a use for the small genetics library they¡¯ve provided us, which is why I agreed. I don¡¯t have high hopes for a breakthrough because I suspect it was carefully curated to be as useless to Humans as possible before they handed it over. They¡¯re probably laughing at me for it behind their backs, but really, anything that keeps the Eldar in the fight, and therefore minimising my own losses, is a win. Somehow Orodor manages to look pleased and disgusted by the beverage as he sneers at me over the rim of his glass. ¡°Who are your new companions, Magos?¡± ¡°Good day to you too, Xeno. Accompanying me today are two new additions to Stellar Fleet Command. They may be dealing with you in the future on my behalf. Especially if Ylien is unavailable, like today. To my left is Chaplain Owen Broin. He has given up his role as leader of the Imperial Cult in the Stellar fleet to become the Head of Spiritual and Mental Health.¡± Owen¡¯s role includes propaganda and grants him soft control over both Imperial and Mechanicus Cults: he is responsible for where the Fleet funding for community projects goes. Owen does not control where the cults spend their donations though, only his public funds. For example, he controls distribution of amenities in communal areas, what inspirational posters get placed on the trains, and media requirements on the noosphere. While this frees up Eire and Brigid from such details, Owen¡¯s main role is to moderate fanaticism and prevent or redirect the formation and fervour of new cults, especially my own ¡®Iron Foundation¡¯. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. I should not have provided the multiple possible translations for my name in one of my classes; the kids got far too excited about it and told absolutely everyone. That damn cult even had the audacity to turn my name into a play on words! I continue, ¡°To my right is R¨®is¨ªn Paorach. R¨®is¨ªn was previously Enginseer Prime for Distant Sun, our light cruiser and the primary vessel providing supporting fire for your forces. R¨®is¨ªn is now Cybersmith Paorach and Head of Technological Acquisition and Adaptation.¡± Machine God forbid I name it Research and Development! ¡°Magos, I do not care for their histories. I care about the present. When can you deploy the macro-crawler?¡± ¡°Your shuttle will be returning with the first shipment of parts. It will take a month to assemble. How are your munition stocks?¡± ¡°Heavily depleted. All our infantry explosives are gone. We have already switched to Imperial weapons, most notably phosphor stubbers and Imperial artillery. Our own stocks should be rebuilt for a final push to disable all remaining tombs so that we can safely retreat from the planet. We are on target for the projected departure date. I noticed you have repaired Iron Crane already. It should be within your skills to accommodate us properly, if barely.¡± ¡°You will receive the welcome you earn, if not the one you deserve, Exarch,¡± I say. R¨®is¨ªn says, ¡°This would go much faster if you provide us with the schematics for your ammunition so that we can assist you. I do not expect you to hand over whatever you put in those frightful D-Cannons, that is far too dangerous to manufacture, but surely the shuriken weaponry is not too much of a stretch? Your plasma and haywire grenades cannot be too different from our own either.¡± Orodor yawns, ¡°You will never match the skills of the Yme-Loc artisans. Our knowledge would only confuse you. I do not wish to distract our hard working allies.¡± ¡°Perhaps you could ease our burdens with your myths and histories?¡± says Owen. ¡°Such grand tales of mighty warriors would help our workers relax more effectively and inspire our troops, making us better able to assist you.¡± ¡°Alas,¡± says Orodor, ¡°Such beauty would be lost in the translation. Our histories cannot be expressed in their glory full glory in your tongue. To tell of our gods and ancestors in any manner but our best would greatly insult them.¡± ¡°Then tell us of the physical, rather than the spiritual,¡± I say. ¡°Where is my noctilith, my blackstone?¡± ¡°While abundant, we are struggling to process it. Noctilith, we have discovered, strikes all those in long and close proximity to the material with despair. The effects worsen the larger the quantity and if it is active or not. I do hope you have a way to contain it, Magos, or you will have a riot on your vessels. I will not have my people harmed in the chaos.¡± ¡°I do.¡± I did not know about this, but I¡¯m not telling Orodor, that smug motherfucker. It feels way better than it should to lie to his face. Hopefully I can shove all the blackstone in the Warp with E-SIM if I have to. I could also store it on a specialised vessel crewed mostly by servitors and prisoners. It would make for a good punishment when I don¡¯t have any high casualty missions to send prisoners on while we undertake our subspace journey. ¡°Then you should share your method with us so we can process your fee faster,¡± says Orodor. ¡°It is not a method you could replicate, even if I were to share it. You will need to deal with this problem on your own. Delivering it as fast as possible after processing would make this trade easier on you. If you are struggling with a stockpile, I will send smelters and moulds. The cost would come from the military aid budget I provide you.¡± ¡°Fine,¡± says Orodor, almost growling. ¡°We will make the order through the proper channel. We also require access to your promenade so we rotate our troops somewhat and maintain morale. While your entertainments are unsophisticated, it is better than nothing.¡± ¡°No more than one hundred at a time for twenty-four hours,¡± I fold my arms. They will bring no weapons or armour. Each eldar will have two escorts. Any Eldar who slip their escorts will be shot. They will be gifted a single meal ticket worth up to fifty bytes. Anything else must be traded for.¡± ¡°That is insufficient,¡± growls Orodor. ¡°With our current numbers it would take over nine years to rotate all our troops!¡± I tap my finger against the table, ¡°Then save it for those who earn it. You can always purchase a prefab leisure facility for your base. How you spend my aid is up to you.¡± ¡°You should increase vouchers for our heroes.¡± ¡°They¡¯re your heroes, not mine. I do not have unlimited resources. You must trade.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°I need to know about your scouts,¡± I say. ¡°You have been mapping the tombs for months. I need those maps so that the macro-crawler knows what to target.¡± Orodor scowls, ¡°Your proposed contraption is far too large to enter the tombs. It will only blast the outer layers. I will not hand over our efforts.¡± ¡°Exarch Orodor. You¡¯re at thirty percent casualties. What could you possibly wish to hide? Without us you would be dead. Without us there will be no escape. This hostile attitude only helps the Necrons.¡± ¡°I do not have the maps!¡± yells Orodor, slamming his fist against the table. ¡°My Guardians struggle day after day while the Aspect Warriors save their strength and a handful of them scout the tombs. Day after day they snub the deaths of my men and women, excluding me because of my humiliation, a humiliation I suffered at the hands of your pet murder!¡± Orodor takes a deep breath, wrestling back control of his emotions. He puts his helmet back on. ¡°We are done with this worthless blather, Monkeigh. I have Yngir slaves to kill.¡± Orodor flounces out. The Wraith Guard follow him with slow, heavy steps. ¡°Trouble in paradise?¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°We should not mock him, Cybersmith Paorach. Watching your people die while your destiny is at the mercy of another? I do not envy him,¡± says Owen. R¨®is¨ªn sighs, ¡°Fine. He¡¯s still a prick though.¡± ¡°There are better individuals to meet for your first contact with a xeno,¡± I say. ¡°Do either of you have any relevant thoughts or questions to add before we go about our day?¡± ¡°Just one,¡± says Owen. ¡°What does Yngir mean?¡± ¡°Ah. It should come as no surprise that Exarch Orodor, when he cares to try, is a master of multilayered insults.¡± Owen raises an eyebrow and R¨®is¨ªn laughs. I say, ¡°Yngir is the Eldar word for C¡¯tan, the star gods who enslaved the Necrontyr and turned them into the Necrons, forever destroying their souls and removing any chance and rebirth and redemption for their whole race. The Necrons eventually imprisoned their enslavers, but not before they¡¯d lost trillions of their people and had been forced to fight and kill just as many, including the Eldar. ¡°Once the Necrons were free, their king and the ruling class enslaved them again. They are a fractious people, always trying to claw their way to the top, one step closer to freedom, or gain power over those who oppress them. ¡°Calling a Necron a slave is to remind them of their history, all they have lost, the futility of their struggle, and that after sixty million years they are just as useless as the sickly humanoids of their radiation heavy world that the C¡¯tan uplifted them from. That all their suffering is meaningless. It is why they cry ¡°Surrender and Die¡±, because to them, to surrender is to eternally lose one¡¯s freedom. To die, one day at a time. Forever.¡± ¡°Then it is good we can bless them with the Emperor¡¯s Mercy,¡± says Owen. ¡°For they clearly find none amongst their own kind.¡± ¡°Magos, you tell the worst bedtime stories,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°I¡¯m not going to be able to sleep for weeks!¡± ¡°That¡¯s because you try to sleep with the broken parts of our three knights beneath your pillow,¡± I say. ¡° That can¡¯t be comfortable. Besides, any more drool and they will be ruined beyond repair.¡± ¡°I am hoping the machine-spirits join me in my dreams and explain how to get them working again!¡± ¡°You¡¯d best stop that,¡± I say. ¡°If that actually happened it wouldn¡¯t be a machine-spirit. I do not want to have to recycle my most talented pupil.¡± ¡°Magos, the metal brings me comfort,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn, looking wistful. ¡°I dream of being a knight, striding across the land, encased in blessed metal. Restoring every part keeps my dream alive, no matter how slow it might be.¡± ¡°Then you cannot afford to lose the pieces. Best keep them where they belong.¡± R¨®is¨ªn folds her arms and looks away from me, ¡°If I must.¡± Owen has a faint smile on his face, ¡°Please excuse me, Magos.¡± I nod, ¡°Owen, R¨®is¨ªn, I will see you at our next meeting.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Six During the seventh month, we target Equatorial Tomb Beta with our Macro-Crawler. It¡¯s a four hundred metre amphibious tracked vehicle, an all terrain container ship. This one has had its cargo and facilities replaced with weapons and additional power. I placed Odhran as the captain and his squad as a quick reaction force to boarders. It took Odhran an hour of meditation to stop grinning. The Macro-Crawler reminds me of the Fat Boy from Supreme Commander, or a Bolo tank from the Boloverse, though without the advanced AI. To build it so quickly we had to remove the prow lances on two of our destroyers and four light macro-cannon batteries. Acquiring sufficient smaller weapons and missiles was not a problem. The Castellan Pattern Void Shield came from a spare we keep for the Moth-Class vessels. If there had been an appreciable atmosphere, we would have required different, less powerful armaments, but for once, the Necrons choosing a dead world did them no favours. While approaching the tomb they send three Monoliths against the macro-crawler; their last, I think, teleporting in close and discharging hordes of Warriors and support vehicles. The Necrons cause a lot of damage, killing a third of the five hundred strong crew and half of the five supporting battalions. After six hours of intense fighting all Necrons and their war machines on the field are destroyed. The new pain wards are effective, forcing the Necrons to take repeated shots at our infantry to obliterate their MOA shields so they can get a kill shot, rather than nail someone with a shot to a limb. The problem this time though was that they outnumbered us five to one so we still took a lot of casualties in the ambush. Thanks to our better weapon choices, we salvage one and a half megatonnes of blackstone and two hundred thousand tonnes of necrodermis from the fight, then roll on right through the Necron defences without taking any more casualties and flatten the entire exterior of the tomb. Even the Eldar are impressed, for a short while, but they are quick to blame us when the Necrons escalate yet again, sending unending hoards of Warriors that stress our supply lines terribly. The Eldar become pinned behind their fortifications during this time and their scouting efforts diminish. Over the following five months, the Macro-Crawler trundles around the planet and blasts the surface of each tomb to dust. Warrior replenishment rate diminishes and short windows, where the Necrons¡¯ orbital weaponry is disabled, are created. We use these moments to sweep in and bombard their hoards of warriors and increase our supply drops. The Necrons can repair their tombs faster than we can destroy them, but without these short reprieves we would lose. As the war progresses and we improve our coordination with the Eldar, the war falls into an uncomfortable stalemate with neither side able to get an upper hand on the other. I make special note of the Eldar D-Cannons and its variants. These weapons are almost impossible to defend against, even if their range and firing rate is limited. Each shot banishes a section of the Materium to the Immaterium. They are the equivalent of a vortex grenade launcher, without the randomly splitting and moving portals, and thus without the excessive risk of killing the user. The only counter I have to them would be an overpowered energy shield, ensuring the blasts occurred too far from me to suck me into the Warp. They almost make the Dark Eldar weapons appear compassionate in comparison and Dark Eldar kill you with toxins and pain. A D-Cannon can permanently slay a Necron with ease, yet it never seems to make a difference, as the Necrons have no shortage of Warriors. Since our first deployment of the Macro-Crawler, the Eldar pull back more and more of their forces from their outer bases, prepping for the final push. Thorfinn strips twenty thousand Servitors from across the fleet to supplement our Heralds and minimise our Human casualties. It rapidly reduces our supply issues too as our Servitors consume almost no food or water. For a defensive position, the Servitors almost make better troops as they do not tire and their minds do not wander. Unlike a messy assault, they handle simple orders like: ¡°Stand in the trench and destroy every object from your Necron database that¡¯s in range or objects that attack you¡± really well. I am not happy with Eldar for costing me additional Servitor labour, but they¡¯re creeping towards fifty percent casualties and won¡¯t have enough troops for the final push, something the Stellar Corps can¡¯t do, if we don¡¯t help them. The Eldar do, at least, start delivering blackstone and necrodermis. By our fourteenth month, I have five megatonnes of blackstone and one of necrodermis. It also marks the midpoint of the year and we hold our second Festival of the Victorious Dead across the Fleet. The Promenades on Distant Sun and Iron Crane fill with strings of Mars red paper lanterns, printed with the Opus Machina and my heraldry, my crowsbeak power hammer set inside a cog. Thousands of crew fill the streets on Iron Crane, holding fake candles and watching the Fleet and Herald Officers walk in silence along the street. The officers hold lilies, their different numbers and colours denoting how many personnel they¡¯ve lost to hostile action the past year. Officers with higher ranks hold more lilies as they are responsible for more people. Each lily is made of lead and etched with the names of the dead in tiny gold script. It is a reminder to do better and carrying its weight is a final penance and a show of respect for the fallen. I walk at the head of the procession in my uniform: a shirt, waistcoat, trousers, boots, and a greatcoat over a hyperweave undersuit, matching the rest of the crew. In my arms I cradle the largest and most heavy bouquet of them all. Most of my lilies are red or black. Usually, I wear my power armour, but that would negate the point of carrying the bouquet with my own strength, no matter how artificial it may be. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Behind the officers are a small collection of priests from the Imperial and Machine Cults, singing hymns and wafting incense. Next come the standard bearers of the Stellar Corps, waving their heavy banners back and forth and marching in step. There is one banner for each battalion that has fought this year, declaring their name on one side and the battles they have fought on the other. Last are the children under sixteen who have lost a parent or two. Some are too small to walk alone and are accompanied, or carried by, a relative or school teacher. The children carry small bells that they ring vigorously. Most look nervous, or a little confused, but a few are having a good time, at least. Each child has a small medal pinned on their uniform, genelocked to them, that will get them one small favour from the Fleet when they come of age. It has no monetary worth and I expect most will keep it as a memento. However, if they ever, for example, face unfair treatment, they could use it to force a priority investigation or hasten a transfer to a vessel of their choice. It might seem like I¡¯m being nice, but little favours like this and the ship currency are one of my preferred ways to bind the fleet as personnel can¡¯t spend them if it is destroyed. I have found that many people value money and favours more than their lives, strange as it might seem to me. The procession continues to the central, dual faith Cathedral, set inside one of the nine great towers of the promenade. I walk slowly up the main steps, my back straight, and approach a great brass coloured brazier. I throw each lily into the flames, one at a time, creating a brief flare and a burst of colour, matching the lily. The lead drips through a grid at the base and flows into a box, ready to be reshaped for next year. All the workings of the brazier are hidden beneath the Cathedral steps. The other officers copy me as I stride beneath the great stone arch of the Cathedral door and into the interior. It''s already half full for the service I will preside over. High above, tucked out of sight, is a small box where Ylien, Lynu, and even Orodor attend. I am particularly surprised by the latter. Even more so as he has no guards. The Cathedral is huge, its huge vaulted ceiling consuming ten floors of the tower. While the tower is square, the architecture within is a giant cog, with each tooth holding a side chapel, or temporary community display. These displays house holoboards with the biographies and pictures of the Heralds whom we are honouring today. The central altar is in the middle of the circle. The Cathedral¡¯s service areas are hidden between the cog¡¯s teeth and the outer walls. There are no pews as it¡¯s just not practical with the large range in body sizes. Instead, lights in the floor guide people where to stand and brass poles move on tracks, marking the adjustable rows. Purity seals, strips of velum covered in prayer scripts with a red wax seal at the top, hang from the poles next to small lanterns and incense burners. The incense billows from its perch to the floor like tiny puffs of dry ice. It swirls oddly as if some external force is acting upon it and I wonder who managed to create such an interesting effect. I walk up to the altar, passing beneath sixteen avatars of the Machine God. They hover around the rectangular altar from bladed brass wings, held aloft by expensive anti-grav tech. It¡¯s particularly annoying to set up on a void ship as it has to sync with the grav plating so the two opposing systems don¡¯t blow each other up. Each avatar holds a banner proclaiming one of the sixteen tenets of the Cult Mechanicus in Low Gothic, High Gothic, and Lingua Technis. These white, androgynous statues slowly circle the altar, chanting hymns. The altar has reliefs of Imperial Saints carved along its sides and two life sized statues of the Emperor loom over the altar at each end, their wings spread, hands clasped, and heads bent in prayer. A brass sculpture of the Imperial Eagle sits in the centre-back of the altar. I kneel before the altar and mumble prayers while I wait for the Cathedral to fill. A subsidiary mind forces my body to the floor, prostrating me before the altar and an invisible blade disintegrates a line of stone just above my head. I rapidly accelerate my perception while expelling nanites and engaging my Warp and Weft module, simultaneously, I expel a strong sensor ping. To my left an invisible Eldar screams in pain. Her invisibility fails as her armour and flesh disintegrate within a hovering silver cloud of devastating nanites. I grunt as shuriken rounds from three different directions cut into me, slicing through my armour and hardened flesh before scoring my bones and armoured organs. The wounds are incredibly fine and seal immediately while the remaining nanties in my body flood the damaged area and pull apart the lodged, monomolecular disks. The sensor ping returns and fills my head with data. E-SIM overlays my vision, outlining the invisible attackers in high detail and highlighting them in red. ++Five Eldar Striking Scorpions on hover skates with Scorpion Chainswords and Shuriken Pistols.++ ¡°How did they get past us?¡± Several explosions rock the Cathedral beyond, including the box holding my xeno representatives. ++The hover skates stop them from triggering the sensors in the grav plating in the floor. Their cloaks hide their physical form and their minds cloak their own from others. It is possible these are the scouts they used against the Necrons.++ Noticing their initial attack has done fuck all to me, all five Eldar turn their heads an unleash their Mandiblasters at a much greater range than I believed possible. Tiny needles flash from the openings by the cheeks of their helmets. Most of the needles are disintegrated by the field of destructive nanites hovering around me. The needles are followed by intense lasers that turn the remaining needles and some of my nanites into plasma that shoots towards me, burning right into my chest and head, pulping my left eye. It strikes fail to penetrate anything vital, most of their power lost to the nanites and the light armour in my uniform. I explode into motion, charging at the closest Scorpion. He has too much inertia from his dance-like movements to avoid me. I reach low and, taking advantage of my enhanced strength and powerfield, rip off his leg. He faceplants and I direct my Warp and Weft module to remove the rest of his limbs. The Scorpion¡¯s thick wraithbone armour and undersuit clamp down on his wounds. More shuriken rounds slam into me. I ignore them and turn around, ripping the shuriken pistol from the hands of the Eldar. Four seconds have passed since the start of combat. Grabbing grenades, the Eldar prepare to toss them into the crowds but never make it. My bodyguard unit opens fire from the hidden gantries high above. A mix of phosphor and las rounds slam into the Eldar, searing through their armour and critically wounding them. Three slam into the floor and one takes a headshot; a mist of superheated blood sprays from the wound. More data floods my minds, tallying the growing casualties and informs me the Eldar terrorists targeted the parade outside, critically wounding many of the participants before getting swarmed by an angry mob and ripped apart by mechadendrites. The fuckers targeted the kids. Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Seven My bodyguards are quick to secure the surviving Eldar and check on the xenos representatives. There are plenty of tech-priests to stabilise the wounded. Everyone is doing their assigned job and there is nothing left for me, a pleasing yet irritating scenario as I want to act. To help. Instead, I have to stand tall and make myself look good as if, despite the disorder and sorrow, everything is under control. Examining the footage of the streets outside I realise that there is one thing that I can do that no one else can and that will fulfil both needs. I almost feel dirty about doing this. I swallow my discomfort and stride outside. Moaning and screaming people lie screaming all over the steps up to the Cathedral. The few Heralds that were on duty are already hauling the less injured personnel out of the way on their shields while tech-priests rapidly stitch jagged wounds and administer drugs to dying men and women. I find an almost clear spot and say to my bodyguards, ¡°Bring me as many dead with no penetrative head wounds as you can in two minutes and lay them gently in a five metre circle around me. Keep the bodies as intact as possible.¡± One squad remains by my side and the squad splits into trios and dash off. The bodies rapidly pile around me and I expel almost all my medichines and push them into the brains of the dead, forcefully oxygenating the ¡®dead¡¯ individuals. Both of my hearts rapidly accelerate to maintain the pressure of my silvered blood and stop me from passing out too. For the first time in many years I notice I am losing power. Medichines are not great for use outside my own body and my Warp and Weft module is overclocking to sustain the excessive load. Simultaneously, I search Iron Crane¡¯s database for first aid supplies nearby, then vox more orders. Within a minute, Servitors run towards me, pushing through the crowds blaring their orders and right of way in Lingua Technis to anyone who doesn¡¯t move fast enough. Any bodies with fatal head wounds I have my body guards lay to one side. By the time my deadline is up, twenty-six bodies circle me. ++Aldrich, three minutes and fifty seconds until you overheat or are out of power.++ ¡°Damn. I can keep their brains alive, but I¡¯m spread too thin to close their wounds.¡± ++They wouldn¡¯t have enough blood anyway.++ The Servitors arrive and hand over the first aid kits, all of which are modified vitae supplements. That¡¯s...not ideal. ¡°If a person has a port, plug them in.¡± ¡°That will leave us with fourteen kids, Magos,¡± says Lieutenant Aife Cattraeth, the Herald standing closest to me and the current officer in charge of my bodyguards. I grimace, that¡¯s still too many. Not adding emergency collars to these first aid versions of the vitae supplement was a massive oversight. I¡¯d never thought about applying emergency life-support to someone under eighteen as these packs were designed with Heralds in mind. Someone must have arranged to have a few separated from their Void Armour and scattered about the place as a ¡®just in case¡¯ measure, rather than consider who might actually need to use them. If I could, I would hijack the nanites in the vitae supplements and spread them about. Unfortunately the Warp and Weft module doesn¡¯t work with them as they¡¯re not Warp based. With all practical technological solutions exhausted, I kneel among the bodies and clasp my hands in prayer. I knew it would come to this, I just really didn¡¯t want to do it this way, even if it makes me look like a proper Imperial Citizen. ¡°Aife, place the least damaged in front of me, then swap them for the next when I say so. Perhaps the Emperor will hear my plea.¡± He won¡¯t. I don¡¯t have enough souls. There are other options though. For the first time in a while I am glad I am no longer Homo Sapiens. I draw on the warp. Ice and lightning fill my veins and plunge my hands into the first body, a twelve year old boy with brown hair and light freckles. Most of his chest cavity is missing. His flesh ripples around my hands as I rearrange his circulatory system connecting just a lung, the heart and brain to each other. I tug at my connection to the Emperor and, much to my surprise, he answers. I feel a hint of curiosity and confusion, but it is distant and I am barely acknowledged. It doesn¡¯t stop him from gobbling a few of the Eldar souls I have gathered and all I get in return is a lousy gold aura to do good works in his name. No guidance. No power. With a small spark of lightning I restart the child¡¯s heart, leaving it beating in his open chest. A minor application of Regeneration replenishes just enough blood for the heart to function. ¡°He¡¯ll need a ventilator and will live long enough to get to a surgery suite. The field medics are already on their way. For now, someone will have to help him breathe. If his heart stops, massage it with care.¡± Aife swaps the child over and another Herald removes their helmet, holds the previous boy¡¯s nose, and carefully breathes into the boy¡¯s mouth. It works well enough and I withdraw my medichines, easing the strain on my body. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. I work quickly, spending no more than a minute on the first six kids, which frees up just enough time to spend more on the kids with worse injuries. Thanks to my navigator genes I can pull continuously on the Warp for days at a time. Compared to boosting the gellar field to keep the beasties away, a little fleshcrafting barely registers. The children¡¯s bodies are wrecked and they will need full cybernetic or clone replacements. Probably cloned flesh so that the kids can mature with minimal complications, that is if I don¡¯t intervene further and magic their bodies back together. I am, however, reluctant to shape their bodies more than I have to lest I accidentally introduce corruption. It is unlikely to happen with the mantle of the Emperor¡¯s power upon me, but why risk ruining these kids¡¯ lives more when there are other, safer options? Fifteen minutes later, the final body is whisked away from me. Aife clasps me on the shoulder, then helps me to my feet, ¡°I didn¡¯t know you could flesh-craft.¡± ¡°With the grace of the Emperor and the teachings of the Machine God, anything is possible.¡± ¡°I wish I had such favour.¡± I laugh, ¡°It is handy, but imagine your boss watching over your shoulder all day, every day and all you¡¯re ever trusted to do is distribute recaf and you have to pay for it with your own bytes. Decide very carefully if you truly mean that.¡± ¡°You really are a man of science, Magos. You take the magic out of magic,¡± says Aife. ¡°So long as I don¡¯t start handing out sex tips too, I¡¯m sure humanity will survive.¡± Humour feels wildly inappropriate, but it stops me from crying. That would be even worse in public. Aife holds his fist to his helmet, trying to maintain his decorum, rather than turn his vox off and then laugh without giving it away. ¡°Let¡¯s refocus,¡± I say. ¡°Get your squads back in order. We¡¯re going to the Bridge.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± My bodyguards have to march doubletime to keep up with my long strides. Thanks to Sadako, our path is clear, with doors, lifts, and trains opening and arriving just as we need them. Machine-Spirits check our credentials, scanning our gaits, veins and other biometric measures as we pass through each major bulwark. Haste is no excuse for poor security and it makes it all the more baffling that the Eldar could slip through. I arrive at the dim command centre and walk up the steps to the central holo-table. Maeve is already present and Eire is on her way. The other members of Fleet Command aren¡¯t on watch, and while the current event is a tragedy, it¡¯s not an emergency. Brigid, Thorfinn, R¨®is¨ªn, and Owen are informed but do not need to attend. As the owner of the Stellar Fleet, I have no such luxury and, while I have watches and time off, I am always on call. Maeve glares at the holo-table, her arms folded. It shows two different locations, the Eldar base and the North Tomb. She glances over at me as I arrive and points to the Eldar¡¯s primary base. ¡°It¡¯s empty,¡± says Maeve. ¡°As agreed before this debacle began, the Eldar have taken almost all their forces for what was supposed to be the final defanging of the tombs in a lightning assault conducted during the next twenty hours. After that, we were supposed to evacuate everyone from Kinbriar V over the next two weeks, before the Necrons could respond. Maeve points at the North Tomb as the last of an Eldar column disappears within it. I lean on the table and look a little closer. ¡°Rather than splitting their forces,¡± Maeve continues, ¡°the Eldar took everything they could to the North Tomb, then entered it. Their attack on the Festival of Victorious Dead occurred as soon as they were all beneath the Necron Quantum Shield.¡± ¡°What of our own forces?¡± There is a loud groan as the plasteel of the holo-table deforms slightly beneath my grip. I sigh, step away from the table and stand upright, clasping my hands behind my back. Maeve looks up at me and her glare recedes, ¡°They¡¯re fine. The Eldar only left behind two thousand or so guardians and thirty-nine bone singers. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and once they confirmed they¡¯d been left behind, all of them surrendered. They are quite furious about it.¡± Eire arrives, stares at the holo-table and tuts, ¡°Couldn¡¯t they have betrayed us before we built all their accommodations?¡± She shakes her head, ¡°An issue for another day. Maeve, Aldrich; Ylien and Orodor survived the assassination. Ylien has been confined to his quarters while internal security reviews what he¡¯s been up to. Thorfin has volunteered to oversee it. Orodor is in the brig, awaiting interrogation. He is injured. He did not resist or complain about us imprisoning him. I suspect he is in shock, though his physiology makes it difficult to tell.¡± Maeve scowls, ¡°What of Envoy Lynu?¡± ¡°Dead,¡± says Eire. ¡°Though she remains a greasy blue stain, regardless.¡± ¡°A shame,¡± I say. ¡°I do prefer to work with a known quantity, but I doubt it will change much in the long run. The Tau do not have sufficient influence in the Stellar Fleet to be a real bother.¡± ¡°Then we shall speak no more of her,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Let us focus on a final solution for the Eldar.¡± ¡°We¡¯re going to stick to the original deal,¡± I say. ¡°I disagree,¡± says Maeve. ¡°It will cause a riot. Better to leave the traitors to die.¡± ¡°No, Maeve,¡± says Eire. ¡°Aldrich is right. Now¡¯s the chance to get more concessions out of them. Material science. High energy physics. We should squeeze them for everything they have while their pride is low, encouraging them to spurn their own people and betray them out of spite. It is in their nature.¡± ¡°Like the Catachan Devil and the Grox,¡± says Maeve. ¡°One cannot stand by the other, no matter how many jungle fighters are sneaking up on them. I understand what you¡¯re getting at, Eire, and I do know why we struck a deal in the first place. Still, it makes me wonder why we even bothered to try.¡± Maeve taps her finger against the holo-table. ¡°Fine, I agree, but if they won¡¯t provide additional aid, we abandon them during the sublight voyage.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± I say. ¡°If we¡¯re going to execute prisoners I want it to be more than because ¡®we hate them¡¯. Such thinking would pollute our ranks and no doubt blindside us with trouble. Neither will I break my own word for the same reason, no matter how troublesome others might be.¡± Eire smirks, ¡°There¡¯s always administrative error and a scapegoat cultist, Aldrich. No need to be too inflexible.¡± ¡°If we must,¡± I frown. ¡°No point setting myself up for an obvious trap.¡± ¡°Like the Eldar?¡± says Maeve, slightly smug. ¡°Yes,¡± I sigh, ¡°like the Eldar.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Eight Six hours after the Eldar terrorist attack, Eire, Owen and I wait in a dull, featureless room with nothing but a plasteel table and four large chairs. A single, blazing spotlight illuminates the central table. Two Heralds frog-march Orodor into the room, then secure him to the table with hefty cuffs and a short chain. Orodor¡¯s armour is battered and his face is badly burned on one side. Though it has been resealed with synthskin, the muscle behind is ruined and half his expression is slack. A barely contained psychic aura surrounds him and his sickly green, pupiless eyes have a mild, blue-white glow. Orodor shuffles in his seat and tugs at his chains and snarls, ¡°Why am I not dead?¡± ¡°Your bombs, your tech, you tell me,¡± I say. ¡°Don¡¯t play the fool, you know what I meant.¡± ¡°Do I?¡± Orodor scoffs, ¡°Your so-called healers patched me up; why bother when you¡¯re going to shoot me? That¡¯s what you Monkeigh like to do right? Shoot ¡®xenos¡¯ like foolish children who do not understand the weight of their actions.¡± I lean over the table, looming over Orodor, and stare into his eyes, ¡°Since we met, Exarch, I have kept my word to the Yme-Loc Eldar. I have offered help when I did not have to, traded in good faith, and now I am treating two thousand Eldar prisoners with more care than your own people. Yet still you call me a barbarian, a Monkeigh. The option to leave all your men and women to die remains undetermined. Will you answer my questions with the grace of a good guest, or the vitriol of the terminally ignorant?¡± Orodor cowers slightly, then straightens up and glares back, ¡°Don¡¯t try to make yourself sound so great. We each had our own reasons.¡± ¡°And we have paid for them,¡± I say, ¡°In blood, fire, and betrayal.¡± A single tear runs down Orodor¡¯s ruined cheek, though his expression remains firm. ¡°Why did they do it?¡± says Owen. ¡°What did they possibly hope to gain?¡± ¡°Orodor, I can see the tendrils of your power,¡± I say, ¡°Do not pretend you do not know.¡± ¡°The Aspect Warriors have kept much from me,¡± says Orodor. I lift an eyebrow, ¡°You mean to tell me that, in the hour of their triumph, a great victory no doubt written in the stars and dreamed of for aeons, your people did not gloat?¡± Orodor grits his teeth and his hands curl into fists. ¡°They found a Dolmen Gate. A small one, suitable for infantry and small vehicles. We believed your aid our due and paid it no heed. The worthless trinkets you asked for, a joke. Then you brought in the Macro-Crawler. Our laughter withered to fear, and festered as humiliation. How could a lesser race save us? The ancient rulers of the galaxy. ¡°Humiliation regrew as hate, as it always does. Why not get a little revenge on the way out, once you were no longer needed? Nothing like a potential suicide mission to purge unruly individuals in the ranks. A necessity, even, for surviving the Webway. Daenthala laughed when she heard that I lived. A punishment for my weak heart and soft mind.¡± ¡°You, soft?¡± says Eire ¡°How blind could they be?¡± ¡°You claim to see more?¡± Orodor leans back in his chair, his chains clanking. ¡°I did not punish the Guardians who found brief companionship or camaraderie among your Heralds. Neither did you. Some Bonesingers were equally enthralled, even if it was only to show off their superior craft. That was the final fuse. What did it matter if a little friendship, true or false, helped us survive one more day on this dead world? Who would shield my people if not for you? Yet now it matters not. ¡°Every Eldar you directly saved was abandoned, because they dared shelter in the arms of a Monkeigh. It does not matter how we survived. It should not. Those with thicker armour and dull spirits thought otherwise.¡± Eire pulls a datapad from a satchel hanging on her chair and detaches the pen, ¡°You owe reparations, weregeld. Only then will we return you to the stars.¡± ¡°Have we not paid enough?¡± ¡°No.¡± I say, ¡°There is nothing you could pay that would outweigh the sins of your species. Not even your deaths are helpful, with She-Who-Thirsts gnawing at the carcass of your civilization.¡± ¡°Magos, how could you possibly understand the sorrow of our people? The depths of our scars. You cannot. You do not have the capacity to feel such things.¡± Orodor sighs, ¡°Forget my people¡¯s past. I only care for the future. Name your price.¡± ¡°Your Bonesingers will transcribe and teach all their knowledge in full with a cooperative attitude,¡± I say. ¡°You ask too much. Choose one technology.¡± ¡°Twelve.¡± ¡°Magos, they will die before they teach you that much. Two.¡± ¡°Seven, then.¡± ¡°Terran stories often feature three tasks. We will do three tasks for you, be it teach one subject, develop one material, or build one machine.¡± I glance at Eire and Owen. They are watching Orodor closely, attempting to divine his intent. They notice my gaze and use their implants to vox me silently. ¡°Demand all their maps of the Koronus Expanse too,¡± says Eire, ¡°I doubt they have Warp routes, but surely they must have a full scan of all four hundred thousand odd stars.¡± Stolen novel; please report. ¡°Knowledge is great, but it will not appease the people,¡± Owen says. ¡°Insist that each Eldar lays a wreath of flowers at the main altar in Iron Crane¡¯s Cathedral. Their rights to wander the vessel must also be restricted in the same manner as the Tau: puppeting Servitors only. They must also accept an MIU and all their interactions on the noosphere be restricted to their own network.¡± I acknowledge Eire and Owen¡¯s additional demands and convey them to Orodor. ¡°You can have the maps,¡± says Orodor. ¡°They will be scrubbed of all webways and Exodite worlds will appear as dead worlds. I don¡¯t see why you¡¯d want the maps though, most are millions of years out of date.¡± ¡°It will still be better than our long range scans.¡± ¡°Evidently. As for the wreaths? Not a chance. The same goes for your crude cybernetics.¡± ¡°Then we are done here. We will inform all Eldar of our demands and let them choose for themselves. You will be returned to Kinbriar within the hour to wait out your final days.¡± ¡°At last, you resort to threats.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a threat, Orodor. I was not asking, I was informing. Goodbye, Exarch.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Take him away, Heralds. Don¡¯t forget the ball and chain. We wouldn¡¯t want him to forget his pride.¡± Orodor inhales to speak and is jabbed in the neck with a shock baton. His body seizes and he gasps. ¡°Silence, prisoner,¡± says one of the Heralds. ¡°Good day, Magos, Commanders.¡± ¡°Godspeed, Heralds.¡± The Heralds remove Orodor from the room. ¡°Such a waste of life,¡± says Owen. ¡°I doubt he will change his mind.¡± Eire hums, ¡°I am not so sure. He is dedicated to his people and will likely believe himself the only person capable of watching over them.¡± I shrug, ¡°I will transport them whether they like it or not. Their chains will be of their own making.¡± ¡°Chains? Well, it¡¯s not like you can make them dig their own graves in space.¡± nods Owen, cupping his chin and staring absently into space. ¡°Humorous philosophy aside,¡± I grin, stand, and walk towards the door. It opens automatically and I look back. ¡°Thank you for your support and ideas. I¡¯ll see you both at the meeting next week if not before.¡± ¡°Bye, Aldrich,¡± ¡°May the Emperor bless your day, Magos.¡± I leave and take the Thunderhawk to Kinbriar with the Space Marines. The young souls need lots of walks and our presence will speed up the evacuation. I may even assist in disassembling the Macro-crawler. There won¡¯t be time to take all of it, but we can still strip the most valuable parts. A week of labour later and the fireship is launched. We immediately depart from Kinbriar. There is no fanfare and Brigid and I are actually in bed at the time. It feels anti-climatic, but when most endings in this galaxy are death and dismemberment on a good day, an easy departure is a miracle. The Necrons didn¡¯t bother us as they were far too busy trying to kick the Eldar out of the North Tomb. On our way out from the system we will fill our holds with metallic asteroids and icy comets, even towing a thirty-three kilometre asteroid, using the combined thrust of all our ships. It¡¯s also a handy space to store all the blackstone. We plan to curve our trajectory as we distance ourselves, ensuring that when the fireship strikes Kinbriar in nine months time, both the Sun and the asteroid will be between us and the blast. Hell, the blast isn¡¯t even being directed in the direction we are travelling in. Even so, I¡¯m not quite sure what will happen and I am taking no chances. The Eldar don¡¯t know what will happen either. Orodor and his people have been stuffed into cargo containers and are guarded by two battalions of Heralds at all times and we have begun recovery of the majority of their living space, now there are so few to house. Staring at the ceiling, I enjoy Brigid¡¯s warm presence in our extra large sleeping pod. Light from a single candle flickers over our pale skin. My electoos occasionally flicker with minute bursts of power. Brigid rolls over, flops over my chest, and looks up at me, ¡°Aldrich, I¡¯m terrified.¡± ¡°Yeah, me too.¡± ¡°How could you be? You¡¯re a man,¡± Brigid flutters her eyelashes at me and pouts. I give her a lopsided smile, ¡°We are talking about two different things and you are messing with me.¡± ¡°I am,¡± Brigid reaches up and strokes my hair. ¡°We are rather too old for drama and games, but I fear that is what we will find when we reach the Imperium.¡± I hum, ¡°You want us to get married.¡± Brigid nods, digging her chin into my chest with significant force, ¡°We have a long period where no emergencies should happen. It is a good time to raise some kids and strengthen your line of succession. Just Quaani is not enough and it will deter any so called nobles and other social climbers from bothering us too much. I know you don¡¯t care that you¡¯re not supposed to, because you''re a Navigator and are only supposed to ¡®breed¡¯ with your own kind, but I still want to head off any ¡®offers¡¯ before they have a chance.¡± ¡°Brigid. You don¡¯t need to justify it. I don¡¯t mind looking like a romantic fool before the Imperium.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t help myself.¡± ¡°Neither can I,¡± I envelop Brigid¡¯s hand and caress the back of it with my thumb. ¡°Are we talking about different things again?¡± I ruffle Brigid¡¯s hair with my other hand, inflicting her with a serious case of bed-hair, ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re too old for a few games.¡± ¡°Then you can make me something shiny and come up with a fancy proposal.¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°Who¡¯s proposing to who here exactly?¡± ¡°Well, you can¡¯t ask my parents for permission. They haven¡¯t been born yet.¡± Brigid huffs, sticks her nose in the air and switches to High Gothic, ¡°As head of my house, only I can grant that privilege.¡± I laugh, ¡°Indeed, my love. May I have your permission to ask you to marry me?¡± Brigid wriggles up and gives me a peck on the lips, then wiggles her eyebrows, ¡°What¡¯s in it for me?¡± ¡°You would extort your son-in-law for favours?¡± I say with a slight tremor in my voice while looking Brigid up and down. Brigid¡¯s eyes widen, ¡°Ew! Aldrich! Too far!¡± ¡°What, aren¡¯t we roleplaying Imperial Nobles right now? We need to get that practice in before we do it for real.¡± ¡°I¡¯d rather run those explosive astrophysics calculations with you again¡± says Brigid with a wicked grin. ¡°Let¡¯s see how many moons you can pot with that cue of yours.¡± I laugh, ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure I can stimulate an eclipse or two.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Nine Three months into our retreat, Thorfinn invites me to his private SimHive server. SimHive is one of the more popular games available on the noosphere. One starts as a character on an Imperial Feudal world, establishes a dynasty, and roleplays as individuals from your dynasty as the ages pass. The player gradually improves their power base until they can take over enough of the world to start building upwards. It starts as a mix of Crusader Kings and Anno Domini, then develops into Cities Skylines and Civilization, before turning into Stellaris. The game reminds me a bit of Spore, only far more detailed. Thorfinn¡¯s server is his single player game. The two most popular servers, however, are the Stellar Fleet¡¯s shared co-op PvE server and the PvP server. The PvP server is a complete mess, and the players have turned the entire world into a constantly warring Ecumenopolis with thousands of factions after only ten years of playtime and a thousand or so of simulation. The PvE server recently got reset after they seceded from the Imperium and were purged. A good lesson, I feel, and the furious debates it sparked in the canteens across the fleet have been entertaining to listen in on. The primary Machine-Spirits on each vessel often send me the conversation highlights under their crew sedition protocols; I can never tell if the Machine-Spirits are being serious, or if they are unrepentant gossips. Thorfinn greets me at the top of the main hivespire in his simulation. I can¡¯t see far, as his world is choked with acidic smog. A red sun grasps at the hive with its feeble light, barely able to press through the gloom. I whistle, ¡°How long have you been running this one for?¡± ¡°When I¡¯m not in the game, the Sim runs at a year per day now. When I first started it was a lot slower. I¡¯m about twelve hundred years past the Emperor¡¯s ascension to the Golden Throne, which is when most people start their games. I have been playing this scenario for five years.¡± ¡°How many hives do you have?¡± ¡°Just the one, but I have some decent orbital infrastructure. My game is really being held up by technological limitations. I haven¡¯t had much luck when sending out explorator fleets and I haven¡¯t found any exotic resources or data I can trade with Mars for more advanced knowledge. It¡¯s especially annoying when I personally know how to make some of the things on the tech-tree, but the game locks me out of them.¡± ¡°That annoys me too,¡± I say, ¡°but it magnifies the satisfaction one gets when they finally receive authorization. I have a joint server with Brigid, but we aren¡¯t running it as fast as yours. We¡¯ve only just reached Civilised world status. We have to be really careful with pollution on our world as it grows rare rejuvenat medicinal herbs.¡± Thorfinn groans, ¡°Oh, you lucky bastard. I rolled a low resource world, not that I knew until I was advanced enough to prospect the whole thing. I wrecked the planet getting enough metal for my hive and now I am reliant on trade and manufacturing.¡± ¡°Any rebel or xenos incursions?¡± Rebels are the faction equivalent of Chaos in SimHive, but putting Chaos in a game would be dumb, so there are only rebels. ¡°No, they go for my shipping instead. I clear them out every hundred years or so, but they keep coming back. You?¡± ¡°Mostly local guilds trying to muscle in on our monopoly of the valuable herbs. They frequently burn down the production, which means we miss our quotas and get sanctioned, or the governor one of us role plays as is replaced. Then Brigid or I have to fight our dynasty to the top again before the NPC governor ruins the world and wars devolve us back to Feudal status.¡± Thorfinn chuckles, ¡°There are good governors out there, you know. Probably.¡± ¡°Yeah, we had one in our game. He was so hard to replace, we had to wait four hundred years for him to die before we could make another play for power. That¡¯s where we¡¯re at in our game right now. Our dynasty just got reappointed.¡± ¡°Nice.¡± ¡°It did feel good to be back, but it also felt like we¡¯d lost somehow. It was both frustrating, fun, and satisfying. An odd combination of feelings, for sure.¡± Thofinn nods. ¡°I¡¯ve been there too.¡± ¡°So why did you want to meet here?¡± ¡°A few reasons. I wanted to show off my game a bit, because I¡¯m super proud of this Hive city I¡¯ve planned, built, and managed.¡± ¡°It does look good, and I am totally jealous and impressed.¡± ¡°Excellent! That¡¯s goal one achieved,¡± Thorfinn grins. ¡°The other reason is that I wanted to have a private conversation and SimHive is a good location to demonstrate my thoughts.¡± ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to retire from Fleet Command.¡± I lean on the bannisters and gaze out at the sprawling city of metal. There is little discernible difference between the simulation and the real world. Thorfinn rests his back against the stone balcony and props his elbows on the railing. From the corner of my eye, I can see he is carefully watching my face. ¡°Thorfinn, what led to this? You¡¯ve been doing a great job for years. While there are plenty of competent individuals who can replace you, the person I trust with the role is you.¡± ¡°It''s the fatalities. Every battle we¡¯ve had has been brutal. I just can¡¯t keep sending men and women to die.¡± ¡°It¡¯s different to being a Captain of a Feudal Military, isn¡¯t it?¡± I say, with a sad smile upon my face. ¡°Yeah, the scale of death is on a whole other level, and these are the fatalities we get when we¡¯re winning. What will it be like when we lose our first escort, light cruiser, or worse? Tens of thousands of people lost in a single flash. If I keep this up, Adrich, I won¡¯t be me anymore. I want to do something new before I get to that point.¡± ¡°What did you have in mind?¡± ¡°I¡¯d like to go with Quaani and his Pathfinder fleet. I want to be a Remembrancer and create documentaries for our Fleet; to let everyone know the differences and similarities between our Fleet and the rest of the galaxy.¡± ¡°We¡¯re a nomadic, voidborne fleet and you have wanderlust?¡± Thorfinn chuckles, ¡°I can see why you¡¯d think that. I did bring you here to show something different after all.¡± Thorfinn turns around and leans on the balcony too, looking out over his simulated Hive city. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong either, I do want to see what¡¯s out there, though I could do without all the lasertag.¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. I sigh, ¡°But that¡¯s not all.¡± ¡°No, I have some legitimate concerns about other worlds and I want to patch any breaches before they can threaten the Stellar Fleet¡¯s shared cultural identity. Aside from you and Quanni, we¡¯re all from one place and one time. It creates a firmly welded community. ¡°Through documentaries, I want to start the debates between what is good, what is bad, and what is merely different as soon as I can. Marwolv was isolated from the Imperium for millennia. When you turned up and flipped our world upside down, it was a massive shock, one that¡¯s going to take at least another couple of generations to work through. ¡°Having that happen a second time, and so soon, will put cracks in our Fleet¡¯s identity. There¡¯s already going to be a big split between those who go, and those who do not.¡± Thorfinn waves his hand towards the city and continues, ¡°This is where my analogy comes in. Think how annoyed people will be when they have to leave behind the great works, like this game, that they¡¯ve been sharing with their friends for decades, knowing that when they come back, their favourite pastime, if it does exist, will be unrecognisable and effectively dead to them. Now imagine that this is their home instead. Sure, there will be the occasional message and they are, for many, taking their house with them. The heart of our Fleet however, the Iron Crane, will remain creeping between the stars, out of touch with the rest of the galaxy.¡± I put myself in Thorfinn¡¯s scenario and conjure up mild anger, frustration, anxiety, and loss. My face twists as I let the unpleasant emotions run through me. Then I compare the wild debates after the SimHive PvE server was reset and imagine if what they were talking about was real. I run a hand down my face, pulling the tension from my expression. Gamers airing their grievances are bad enough. Not even the Omnissaih could save us if the scenario was IRL! ¡°We absolutely cannot allow that to happen.¡± Thorfinn looks at my face and laughs. ¡°I knew you¡¯d understand. We¡¯ll discuss it properly in the next meeting, but I wanted to run it by you first. I didn¡¯t think blindsiding you with my decision just to make the same point about shock that I¡¯m doing here would win me much support.¡± ¡°I would not have been happy. I¡¯m still not that happy about it and I won¡¯t be for a long time. I¡¯ll miss you, Thorfinn. Who am I going to get to be best man at my wedding now?¡± ¡°Me too, my friend. I would like to be there too.¡± ¡°Ah, fuck it! It is what it is,¡± I sigh, ¡°Two months isn¡¯t much to find your replacement. Do you have some nominees for us to look over?¡± ¡°No more than you would already know. We¡¯re running the same system as you set up for governance at Marwolv. Any of Fleet Command¡¯s fourteen assistants are qualified for the job.¡± Thorfinn yawns, ¡°On second thoughts, I don¡¯t think the assistants for Owen and R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s new departments are a good choice as they haven¡¯t even made two years experience yet. Lonceta Ridel, the woman who started off as a trainee gunnery officer on Distant Sun, then went on commanding the lances on an Adder-Class before being promoted to Fleet Command, would be my choice.¡± I nod, ¡°I was surprised when she changed to internal security.¡± ¡°I believe Lonceta said she had to crack so many heads to keep the gunnery crews from getting overly excited when firing big guns, she might as well just do that instead.¡± ¡°I recall she said: ¡®I¡¯m no Metasurgeon, yet I do a remarkable amount of pre-op¡¯.¡± ¡°That¡¯s pretty dark!¡± Thorfinn smirks, then turns serious again. ¡°Laisren Toolin would be another good choice. He put a lot of work into becoming your assistant after following you into the Ork Rok.¡± ¡°The Logis fellow who carries a pet Grapplehawk on his shoulder all the time? I admit he is meticulous and a professional paranoiac when it comes to digital security, but he isn¡¯t the most imposing fellow.¡± ¡°That can be fixed.¡± ¡°Sure. Enough cybernetics and training will change anyone, but I don¡¯t think he¡¯d be happy in such a role. I could give him up and put him beneath Lonceta though. He¡¯d be the perfect counter force to her more physical approach to discipline.¡± ¡°Let me privately inform the rest of Fleet Command first, please, then you can chat with them all before the next meeting to gather their opinions and we¡¯ll put my replacement to a vote.¡± ¡°Alright.¡± ¡°Care for a tour of my Hive before we disconnect?¡± ¡°Sure, Thorfinn. It will give me something to compare to when you get back.¡± ¡°I¡¯d like that.¡± I spend a couple of hours Oohing and Aahing over Thorfinn¡¯s Hive city and chatting about all the funny little moments that created his sprawling metropolis. Thorfinn has a slick, custom air car that we complete the tour on. Towards the end he takes us out beyond the walls. His endless mines have been converted into many kilometres of trenches, bunkers, and other fortifications. ¡°Wow that¡¯s bleak,¡± I say. ¡°It is necessary.¡± He flies us to the edge of the fortifications then swings the car around and gives us a full view of the city, ¡°though I do think it looks rather magnificent when placed in context. A sense of satisfaction at a job well done, and the comforting armour of proper security, is a beauty of its own.¡± ¡°There is a uniform aesthetic,¡± I nod. ¡°It¡¯s much better than most Hive cities we have records of.¡± I receive a notification from E-SIM. ¡°I have to go. I have my biannual meeting with the Tau. I¡¯ll be meeting their new representative, Overseer Ya¡¯Va Vsum, for the first time.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t they have anymore Water Caste?¡± ¡°Only ¡®La¡¯ rank. Their bureaucrats. None are officially trained to be envoys, even though most of them, following their traditional doctrine, have earned that promotion. The Tau decided to vote in their best Earth Caste instead as he actually has the education and experience to understand the value of our primary trade goods with the Tau.¡± ¡°They can¡¯t sustain their population. Another fifty years and they¡¯ll almost all have died out.¡± I nod, ¡°It¡¯s something I¡¯ve discussed with Envoy Lynu, before her death. She was content to let her people fade, rather than sell off their heritage. I¡¯d prefer not to let them fade away. Officially, the Mechanicus discourages research. Having the Tau do it for us skips a lot of loopholes. ¡°So long as we provide guidance, we can claim anything new isn¡¯t xenotech either. Especially as there are enough common links between our technologies that they share a common route. The most damning evidence that they traded with the Kin is in the Tau¡¯s scientific lexicon. They might use different words, but many terms share identical definitions with their High Gothic and Lingua Technis equivalents.¡± Thorfinn grimaces, ¡°The Tau rioted after Lynu¡¯s death and a couple more perished when I sent in the Heralds. It ruined many years of cooperation. You don¡¯t seem bothered by it though.¡± ¡°Lynu was really good at her job. It made getting anything extra out of the Tau almost impossible, without resorting to thievery and oppression, that is. She was also good at keeping the Tau calm and cooperative. I can appreciate her skill and I am hoping my discussions with her will have prepared me for trading in the Imperium. With her gone, however, it¡¯s possible we can make more headway with integration.¡± ¡°Logical, but cold. She was a work colleague. Being a little less smug about it would do you good, I think.¡± Thorfinn shakes his head, ¡°Forget it, we both know I don¡¯t like it when you cut away your emotions like that. Why are you pushing for their tech so hard? They¡¯re lacking in a lot of areas. Why take the risk when the Inquisition forbids the research and use of Tau technology, or trading Imperial technology with xenos?¡± ¡°Sorry Thorfinn. The longer I live, the harder it is not to see the world in numbers, or resist treating every problem like a nail. I will keep working on it, I promise.¡± Thorfinn snorts, ¡°Well, I suppose you can¡¯t quit like I can.¡± I sigh, and nod, ¡°I may live in a world of charts and simulations, but that is no excuse to throw them away out of boredom or discomfort. Back to your question: you¡¯re right about the Inquisition, even Rogue Traders can get into trouble for messing with the Tau, though they have a bit more leeway. We¡¯re not trading tech for tech though, but resources for tech. I can also argue that the conversion of Tau to Imperial tech is not research, because of its possible shared roots. So long as we don¡¯t run around with pulse rifles, or flaunt what we are doing, few are going to raise a fuss if we sell them enough high end tools and wargear.¡± ¡°I think you are being optimistic, but we have at least twenty more years before it becomes a problem.¡± I smile, ¡°Quite possibly. Thanks for showing me around.¡± ¡°Later, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Bye, bye.¡± I disconnect. Chapter One Hundred and Thirty I arrive at the new Tau Xeno-Habitat facility. It is a single, white tower, surrounded by parkland that¡¯s growing flora from T¡¯au, the Tau homeworld. The air is dry and the biome reminds me of ancient Africa¡¯s savannas. The outside of the tower is guarded by Heralds and the inside is patrolled by the few Fire Warriors I permit the Tau to maintain. It helps them police themselves, especially as all internal altercations are overshadowed by the threat of my intervention, which will inevitably be worse than theirs if I have to waste my time or resources. I pass through the security checkpoint to the lobby. Twenty Servitors are plugged into the wall on one side and on the other is an unoccupied reception desk. This is pretty typical passive aggressive Tau bullshit as, since Lynu died, the desk is always unoccupied whenever any member of Fleet Command comes to visit their Xeno-Habitat. Rather than go searching for Overseer Ya¡¯Va Vsum I take the lift to the top of the tower. He will be informed and be forced to come and find me. On a whim, I scan each floor as I go, checking that the work I commissioned is up to standard. Much to my irritation, the walls hide a multitude of sins and shortcuts that will kill a lot of Tau, and anyone who is stationed here, if there is a hull breach, warp incursion, or Iron Crane is boarded. In some places I even spot missing back-up components. Going through the records I note that they were signed as present, but were never ordered or paid for and the discrepancy was repeatedly overruled by the committee in charge of constructing the Xenos-Habitat. I immediately assign all overseers for this work with a class two sentence, and all workers with a class one, then trigger an investigation, survey, and reconstruction. After that, I go over my calendar and assign time to personally walk up and down every corridor on Iron Crane to look for any other shoddy work. I hope I won¡¯t find any, as there is no excuse for poor workmanship or oversight when you have to specifically override Servitor to do a bad job, let alone find a way to bypass Sadako, Iron Crane¡¯s primary Machine-Spirit. There¡¯s a small shopping centre at the top of the tower. A couple of Tau kids are running about, giggling, with a tired father trailing behind them. One group of teens are checking out the different shops, selling everyday items and a small handful of luxuries. The two adults staffing all the stores have little life in them, shuffling through the motions as they realign already straight bottles and refold neat piles of clothes. The young Tau don¡¯t notice, but this place, despite the bright and clean environment, is dreary and oppressive. For a moment, I wonder if it would have been a kindness to fire on their refugee shuttles and spare them this slow death. Perhaps that my twenty-first century principles have achieved nothing but prolonging their suffering, suffering that I was trying to avoid. I quickly dismiss this defeatist thinking and focus on the upcoming meeting, one that might address these problems. I take a private booth at the promenade¡¯s single cafe. No one comes to serve me and I pay the slight no heed. I could help myself, but even if I paid, it would still look like I was stealing. While I am waiting, I receive an alert from Sadako. Ylien is confronting Orodor in Orodor¡¯s quarters. Neither the Tau or Eldar have any privacy whatsoever. While there might not be any pict-recorders, providing the illusion of a personal space, the plethora of environmental sensors in every part of the vessel make it reasonably easy to reconstruct whatever is going on in any room in fine detail. Even the ones that we do have throughout all the public areas of Iron Crane are more like functional decoys than useful security. Within one of my minds, a black and white composite image, formed from thousands of tiny white dots, creates a 3D representation of Orodor¡¯s office. It is a spartan space with several crates, a desk, and one chair. Ylien stands in the doorway with a disgusting smile on his face. While Orodor sits stiff and upright in his chair. I rewind the data and recover their conversation. ¡°Good afternoon, Prisoner,¡± says Ylien. Orodor¡¯s face is absolutely blank and his voice lacks all intonation, ¡°Why are you here, Warlock?¡± ¡°Nothing too strenuous. The Magos is being all hush-hush, but I finally extracted the secret behind the mass scanning of voidborne Monkeigh after your petty tribe¡¯s little stunt. I came here to tell you, as I just know it will make your day!¡± That sneaky shit-stirer. I know exactly what he¡¯s talking about. Why is Ylien creating trouble now of all times? Orodor stares at Ylien. ¡°You know, Prisoner, I overheard all your chats with the courageous Aspect Warriors as they raided the North Tomb.¡± Ylien taps the side of his head with an index finger, ¡°Every scream. Every cry for help. It brought back every fond memory I have of my time among our indolent cousins. Commorragh, that rotting hole in the Webway, was my lowest point. No fellow Eldar slaves dared talk to one as exalted as I. None dared to share the burden of the Drukhari¡¯s thirst save a short lived Monkeigh. A nice woman. What was left of her. She admired my hair.¡± Ylien wiggles his eyebrows. ¡°Have you come to kill me with prattle?¡± ¡°All are equal under the whip, Prisoner. It came as a great surprise to me that one as prideful as yourself would willingly swap their own chains for another¡¯s, light as the Magos¡¯ touch may be.¡± Ylien snarls, ¡°I was drowned in the offal of those who dared share a spark of kindness to one so broken as I, yet despite the poor treatment, other Monkeigh, other Humans persisted in supporting my miserable existence. None of my own kind did, too desperate to cling on to their immortal lives. A Human knows when to die. A terrible lesson, that.¡± ¡°Your mockery is as inane as your bathing habits, Warlock.¡± ¡°Now, now. Don¡¯t be too hasty to judge. I¡¯ve come to repay the favour, to light the spark of a fellow prisoner.¡± ¡°Then tell me and begone.¡± ¡°So fierce! Do you know what they found inside the brain of the leader of the Striking Scorpions?¡± Orodor stops breathing entirely, becoming unnaturally still. ¡°You¡¯ve figured it out, haven¡¯t you? I can see it in your eyes, scrabbling at the edge of your mind. The despair as you realise if it wasn¡¯t for your blind dismissal of a helping hand, your fear of mercy, that the Yme-Loc Eldar would not have been led astray so easily. Another two hundred thousand Eldar dead. Led to the slaughter by their own commanders, believing themselves beyond the kindness of the Monkeigh. The Yngir slaves played you, feeding your prejudices with a handful of Mindshackle Scarabs. A shameful, avoidable loss.¡± The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Get out!¡± Orodor slams his hand into the table. A pen falls to the floor, rattling across the floor, and cutting through the silence with mundane obliviousness. ¡°I shall do no such thing, Prisoner. I will have no more Eldar deaths birthed by your foolishness. You laid that wreath at the altar of the Human¡¯s decaying god at your lowest moment. Yet what do I pick up from your mind as we hurtle through the void, your thoughts so strong I can hear them from the other end of the vessel? Plans renegade on your agreement. ¡°The Magos is not skilled enough to pick up on it, but I can see your squirming mind cowering from the scouring gaze of a brighter soul and it will get you killed. It won¡¯t be offal. The Magos is nice like that. He¡¯ll just shoot you, the last of your Guardians, then recycle the lot and consume your flesh in little white cubes. Did you not promise to return your Guardians home at any cost? Well? This is it. Any cost. All you have to do is stick to your word. Why, even a Monkeigh can do it!¡± Ylien claps his hands together, an extreme expression of joy upon his face. ¡°You talk of sedition? How could you betray your own people like that? We cannot give the Monkeigh more tools to burn us with! If our knowledge and lives must be lost to preserve what is left, then we shall take them, and take them on our own terms.¡± Ylien¡¯s face fills with sorrow. ¡°It¡¯s not the answer you know. Feeding your soul to She-Who-Thirsts as punishment for your stupidity is like building a tower on sand. Death is not winning, and worse, for us, it is not the end either. You have to live, Orodor. That¡¯s victory. You''re their leader. Lead all the Guardian¡¯s to victory.¡± ¡°I hate you.¡± ¡°Your words are as potent as your actions. Like wind.¡± Ylien turns around and dashes from the room, slamming the door shut behind him and cutting off Orodor¡¯s rebuttal. As soon as Ylien leaves the cargo container he finds a room full of rolls of plasteel and sobs into his hands. Orodor moves to chase after him then stops halfway to the door. He smoothly lowers himself to the floor and sits cross legged, staring at the door, his expression dull and empty. Wow, Orodor, that selfish little shit, was going to try and orchestrate suicide by Military Police for over two thousand people, just because he couldn¡¯t take that he fucked up. ¡°E-SIM, I¡¯m going to send Ylien back with the Yme-Loc Eldar. While his teaching is invaluable, and I and our psykers have learned much from him, having such an unstable individual on-board is not worth the risk.¡± ++A prudent course of action.++ ¡°Perhaps he will find a new path among the Harlequins. I am not in a position to help him and my help would be unwelcome. His loyalty, tangled and wretched though it may be, deserves acknowledgement. He has likely saved us a lot of trouble.¡± ++A new experience for all of us, should it prove true.++ I grin, ¡°Aye, it would be.¡± ++Overseer Ya¡¯Va Vsum approaches.++ ¡°Undying Light has to be the most pretentious Tau name in the Fleet.¡± ++His appellation has no bearing on his designation or competence. You should put the Eldar out of your mind and adjust your thoughts, Aldrich. You¡¯ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time.++ ¡°Thank you for the reminder. Even second hand, the Eldar¡¯s emotions are intense.¡± Ya¡¯Va Vsum is a stocky, blue skinned xeno with deep wrinkles around his eyes and upon his hands. His head is shaved except for two long bunches of black hair sprouting from the same spot on the centre rear of his skull. Both bunches are held together by clips fashioned from all six platinum group metals. He gives me a short bow, hangs a satchel off the back of a spare chair, then sits opposite me. ¡°Good day, Magos.¡± ¡°Thank you for arriving so promptly to our meeting, Overseer.¡± I give him a warm smile and hold out my hand. A brief frown flashes across Ya¡¯Va Vsum¡¯s face and he gives my hand a brief, weak shake. Ha! Hard to be rude and combative when people ignore your petty slights and remain polite, isn''t it? Arsehole. ¡°How are you settling into your new role? Envoy Lynu was a skilled woman.¡± ¡°Well enough, Magos.¡± Ya¡¯va sits straight and holds his hands in his lap, rubbing the tips of his thumbs together. After a minute of silence, he sighs, and pulls a dataslate from his satchel. ¡°We have completed the mutant project.¡± ¡°Well done.¡± ¡°What is to become of us?¡± ¡°I will give you something new to do. Our agreement still stands, unless you wish to change it.¡± I access the dataslate remotely and rapidly parse the information, reading the whole study while the Overseer is still inhaling to speak his reply. The Tau have found a way to double the number of chromosomes in the Human genome. The original set acts as normal and the second as an extended library of useful mutations, compiled from the mess of genetic engineering hidden inside the mutants, the huge selection of genetic data I took from the Federation Station, and the ¡®origin¡¯ sample: my own DNA. The notes mention that the Tau and their Human supervisors took inspiration from the myths of the Golden Men, from the Dark age of Technology, who supposedly stored all the knowledge of humanity in their DNA. While this extended library only contains genetic data, it is still an exceptional achievement. Using the extended chromosome library, and some highly specialised drugs and custom virus treatments, one can swap out the mutations that they are currently using. Without these treatments, mutation and evolution is almost impossible. Anything that does not conform to the engineered data is purged. There is a follow up proposal on how to have the body respond to environmental stresses and pick the required mutation itself, as well as another on how it might be possible to get an auto-sanguine or similar device to alter DNA, letting one pick and choose their evolution. These follow up studies are quite absurd and not something I can hand over to the Tau. I am not sure they are really necessary either as my cybernetics can do the same thing and they are arguably better. For now, this treatment will enable the restoration of the fifty-seven mutants I discovered and stuffed into stasis decades ago. I don¡¯t need their labour as much as I did at the time, but it will be good to lay this task to rest. The adults are too far gone and will require a fully-cybernetic body after treatment, but the thirty kids will be OK with replacement cloned flesh and a dip in a nanite tank. Both are expensive treatments and there is no way the Imperium could afford to roll it out to everybody. I can see why they¡¯ve never even bothered to research a solution for a heavily reviled sub-human. However, the initial conversion where the library is tacked on is inheritable and, with the addition of the warding electoos everyone in my fleet uses, should massively increase the cost of the Ruinous Powers of Chaos to induce mutations, or blessings as they call them, in my fleet. It will also reduce the chance of messed up genetics should I take on crew from other ethnicities when they mix their DNA with the highly tuned heritage of Marwolv. Any mutations such offspring might have, that did not match the template of the parent with the additional chromosomes, would just get added to the library and remain inactive. Ya¡¯Va Vsum finally finishes sucking in Iron Crane¡¯s precious air and says, ¡°We would like to change our agreement.¡± The curse of Interesting Times strikes again. Why does it always have to happen on a Friday afternoon? Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One ¡°I am listening, Ya¡¯Va Vsum. How would the Tau like to alter their relationship with the Stellar Fleet?¡± ¡°We are anxious about our possible treatment by other Imperials as the Stellar Fleet approaches Imperial Territory. We are also fed up with being prisoners.¡± He points his thumb at the kids playing the Promenade, ¡°Our children should not pay for our mistakes.¡± He taps the dataslate, ¡°Especially as we have paid our due as well.¡± ¡°One cannot bring back the dead, Overseer.¡± Yes, I am aware of the fallacy of that statement. ¡°As such, there is no mitigation for your crimes, only penance. You made war upon a peaceful planet, snatching people for your experiments. While I have benefited from that knowledge, the Tau still performed reprehensible acts. Before you mention Imperial atrocities, know that I only hold you responsible for your own actions. I expect the same in return.¡± ¡°What is the point of penance if there is no hope? We cannot continue to labour for your benefit without due recognition and compensation.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a lie. You have the means to apply the genetics research I have sponsored to the Tau. I am reading it off the data-looms as we speak. You have been paid, and paid well. Bother me with these false statements a second time and I will close all negotiations for a year. As for recognition? You did good. Well done.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Thank you for your exemplary work, Overseer.¡± ¡°I...er, you¡¯re welcome?¡± ¡°Let¡¯s move on. You did not come here without a plan. What do you propose?¡± Ya¡¯Va Vsum clears his expression and looks me in the eyes, ¡°We wish to purchase a fifty percent stake in the Macro-Ferry in exchange for the ZFR Horizon Accelerator Engine. In exchange for the ZFR Drive, we also require the rights to permanently move to the Macro-Ferry, permission to use the Exo-wombs, and the sole rights to maintaining any ZFR Drives that you install on the Macro-Ferry. Finally we wish to be free of our prisoner status and acquire Imperial Citizenship.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a lot of demands and a fairly reasonable offer. First, the ZFR Drive. I am willing to accept this in trade. As part of the exchange, you will work with my Tech-priests to convert your technology to Imperial Standards and assist in the construction and installation of a prototype on an Adder-Class voidship. You will go along for the ride. Should the test prove successful, I will consider the trade complete. Is this acceptable to you, Overseer?¡± ¡°Yes, I expected those conditions.¡± ¡°Good, as for what I will actually give you for it, the best I can give you is two percent percent of the income, after expenses, generated by the Macro-Ferry.¡± ¡°Two? Don¡¯t be ridiculous, Magos. The ZFR Drive will save your Macro-Ferry almost twenty years for each round trip! You could potentially double your income with it. Fifty percent is generous. The fuel and reaction mass savings alone are enough to make the trade worth it.¡± ¡°¡®They¡¯¡¯¡¯ be your savings too, Overseer. Four percent.¡± ¡°Forty.¡± ¡°Five percent.¡± Ya¡¯va Vsum scowls. ¡°Four percent,¡± I say, ¡°for the Tau community and one percent for the voted leader.¡± Ya¡¯va Vsum opens his mouth and pauses as he takes in what I just said. It¡¯s potentially more bytes than he could practically spend. I continue, ¡°Four percent, one for the leader, and access to rejuvenat treatments for you and your immediate family.¡± ¡°You want me to sell out my people for trinkets and a longer life in a cage?¡± ¡°Then let us discuss freedom for the Tau. If you want sanctioned xeno status, I am going to need more from you. You will need to adapt your philosophy of the Greater Good to the Imperium and officially adopt the Cult Mechanicus for your faith.¡± ¡°That¡¯s absurd!¡± ¡°I am not asking you to abandon your faith or your distant people. A people who never bothered to search for you, I might add, but to fully adopt a new culture.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t know that.¡± ¡°Well, either way, they¡¯ll never find you now as the vessel you went down with hasn¡¯t even been built yet.¡± Ya¡¯va Vsum grimaces, ¡°We have been in contact long enough that I know your faith well. The Cult Mechanicus is fractious and pugnacious with all whom it declares have impugned upon its tenets, often at the whim of whichever half-brained moron has the the most and biggest mechadendrites. While your own priests are usually mild in comparison to the available records and the culture classes you inflict upon us, freedom is not enough of an incentive to dive into that oily pit.¡± ¡°I will make your privileges as second class citizens official.¡± ¡°No, Magos. We may not have the status, but in practice we are already second class citizens. You use that designation for prisoners only. While you still provide the stipend, second class citizens do not get basic healthcare, nor receive water, air, plain food rations, or even spartan accommodations without paying for them.¡± ¡°No Tau has ever made a Human a first class citizen. Why should I do the same?¡± ¡°Because that is the only scenario in which I will trade for the ZFR Horizon Accelerator Engine away for four percent, and your additional incentives, of a single, oversized voidstation, or consider spending the years of my extended life it will require to persuade my people to properly adopt the Cult Mechanicus.¡± ¡°Then what will you trade for Exo-womb and maintenance rights?¡± ¡°The Drive, as I first started. You will give the maintenance rights so that all Tau have jobs and so that they do not cause trouble and have meaningful work. The Exo-wombs will boost our population to the level required to maintain such a large drive and supply the labour to maintain our community.¡± The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. I am not happy about conceding to Ya¡¯Va Vsum, but I have no counterargument. I can impose restrictions though. ¡°Your work will be subject to routine inspections, much as it would be if it was my own people doing the work. Should inspections be inhibited, or the Tau refuse to perform the work, for which they will receive reasonable pay, the same pay a Human would to perform that job, the sole right to maintain the ZFR Drive will be lost permanently.¡± ¡°I am aware of the necessity for checks, balances, and bureaucracy.¡± ¡°Exo-womb use will be permitted to maintain up to fifteen thousand Tau. Any further Tau must be natural born. Should your population exceed three percent of the Macro-Ferry¡¯s permanent Human residents, population controls will be applied. If the population does not drop below the three percent cap within three years of it being exceeded, or exceeds the cap a second time within a ten year period, sexually active Tau males will be forcefully sterilised until the Tau population drops again.¡± ¡°How does that possibly make us first class citizens?¡± ¡°Procreation rights are not part of citizenship in the Stellar Fleet. The problem is not enough births, not too many. Besides, if my vessels get too crowded, I can expand my fleet or encourage crews to retire and settle on the planets we will pass. The Tau do not have that option and your living space is fixed. While you can and have earned expansions, you do not have enough space for three percent of the minimum crew required for the Macro-Ferry¡¯s base module, that¡¯s thirty thousand Tau, let alone what the final crew might actually grow to.¡± ¡°Fine, I agree to your terms.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t quite finished. We¡¯ve only talked about what you want and my concessions.¡± Ya¡¯va tuts, ¡°What additional demands do you have.¡± ¡°Our previous agreement will remain standing as well. The Tau will continue to research the subjects I assign in exchange for compensation. As before, bonus discoveries made in your own time and at your own expense will be compensated for, though if I want what you are selling, you must sell. There will be no withholding of discoveries made using my labs. As I own everything in the Stellar fleet, there is no escaping this clause.¡± ¡°What happens if you die and the Tau survive the fallout?¡± ¡°All of my assets will pass to my designated heir, Quaani. This includes the deals I have signed. If my heir does not stick to my agreements, they will have to deal with the consequences of how you choose to act when agreements are broken.¡± ¡°You have a fancy way of saying ¡®Not my problem¡¯.¡± ¡°I doubt it will be yours either. You will have to massively improve your species, in your own time, if you wish to outlive me.¡± ¡°We shall see.¡± ¡°As for the accommodation available to the Tau on the Macro-Ferry, which we did not address before you stated your agreement, in recognition of achieving a better than expected result for your mutation research, the Tau will be provided with enough living space for fifteen thousand individuals. It will be similar to your current xenos-habitat.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos. My people will be pleased. Would the caveat be ¡®upon successful application of new treatments to mutated Human individuals.¡¯¡± I chuckle, ¡°That it would. One final thing before I go. I wish to purchase the Tau Gravity Hook technology. Be aware that I have the data to recreate such a device as well as alternatives. Like the Exo-Womb, this deal will be available to you until I can recreate it. Do you wish to grab an advantage while you can?¡± ¡°What are you offering?¡± ¡°The rewards you didn¡¯t pick last time when you traded for better MOA production: political power, a T¡¯au flora and fauna aquaponics bay, or personal labs.¡± ¡°I have not forgotten your offers, Magos. Access to redacted meeting minutes and petition rights would be a great help with our planned population increase, but that isn¡¯t something we need immediately. Many have forgotten, or have never known the touch of home. I would like the aquaponics space. Also, would we be permitted to sell T¡¯au produce to trade for other things? Another source of work and income would do much to tackle our ennui.¡± ¡°That is acceptable. I cannot guarantee Humans will be willing to buy or become repeat customers, but I will not hinder the supply of T¡¯au foods, so long as it meets the fleet¡¯s strict standards.¡± ¡°Then I would ask that you include processing facilities in the deal so that we may properly prepare and preserve our goods. Would not Tau wines, scented oils, and fine herbs prove interesting?¡± ¡°We shall have to see. Are you sure you would not like the laboratories? I would be willing to add twenty years of moderate funds to the deal.¡± ¡°The Tau are more than scientists, Magos. You may not see it because all you have ever faced are our machines. Like you, we have music, theatre, holo-vids, and games. We must restore the spirit of our community if we are to thrive beneath the yoke of another.¡± ¡°Very well. I am interested to see if your gamble pays off. I will include a small food processing facility in the deal. I will even pay for the staff that will monitor your products. Fair warning, the last time an Imperial world traded for food with xenos, the food was tampered with, even though the Imperial¡¯s minerals were not. Both sides suffered. There will be no second chances if any skulduggery is attempted.¡± ¡°It will not come from me. I can only ask that you do not spray us all with the same machine lubricant should one of my people be so foolish.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Even my own crew aren¡¯t that lucky. A community should watch out for each other, don¡¯t you think?¡± I shake my head, ¡°Enough of this. We both know the deals and the stakes. I will have Eire draw up our preliminary agreement. You can debate further minutiae with her. We will sign our final agreement at our next meeting.¡± ¡°Agreed, Magos.¡± We shake hands. Ya¡¯Va Vsum clears his throat, ¡°Would you like any refreshments, Magos? I will pay.¡± I stand, and peer down at Ya¡¯va Vsum. ¡°Perhaps another day, Overseer. I believe that, in both our cultures, refreshments are usually offered before negotiations. It is also polite to meet the individual you are petitioning at the door to your home. Not have them wander about, staring at vases until you can be bothered to turn up.¡± ¡°My apologies, Magos. It won¡¯t happen again.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, Overseer,¡± I walk to the exit, stop, and turn around. ¡°If you were feeling too humble to accept another two percent to your population cap, I promise not to tell.¡± ¡°I hope your Omnissiah curses you, Human!¡± I wave and saunter off, calling over my shoulder, ¡°Once our agreement is signed, He will be your god too. You can pray to Him for forgiveness.¡± Looks like the Melodium I installed in the Distant Sun, and later moved to the Iron Crane, has finally paid off. The Tau have been worn down by its subtle tones and now feel like they are part of the Fleet¡¯s crew and are loyal to it. Combined with a change in leadership, I finally have enough sway to bring them to my point of view. Feeling in a good mood, I decide to walk to the prow of Iron Crane, see how the repairs to the front bay are holding up, and stare at the busy shipyard for a while. It¡¯s such a busy space that few will bother me as they have their own work to do. While I like watching all the intricate machinery moving about, I¡¯m more interested in chatting with E-SIM. I noticed something unusual about my kill count when the Striking Scorpions died nearby. I¡¯ve been putting off the conversation as I¡¯ve been feeling anxious about the planned relativistic strike on Kinbriar V and didn¡¯t want to add to my troubles. Hopefully my good mood will carry me through the discussion. It¡¯s about time E-SIM fesses up. The ancient Machine-Spirit has always had a ready excuse for not telling me exactly how my kill count works and I have had enough of being fobbed off. At least I don¡¯t spot any more shabby work as I walk through Iron Crane. Hopefully, the sabotage was an empty act of hate and there isn¡¯t anything sinister brewing within the Stellar Fleet. Forming three new penal companies of educated workers is a horrible waste of resources. What a bunch of hateful fools. Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Two Within the shipyard, two Adder-Class escorts are under construction, with another two planned. A second, Lathe-Class light cruiser is also under construction, though at a much slower pace. While there is space for many more vessels, Iron Crane has limited industrial output and building new vessels is far more intensive than maintaining them. All four escorts and ten Moth-Class support ships are docked. While this saves on reaction mass it also allows the yard to prepare two Moth-Class and all four Adder-Class for Quanni¡¯s Pathfinder Task Group. Currently, the Servitors, as directed by my Tech-Adepts and Priests, are welding the connecting structs between the spine and keel beams for the inner hull for all three new vessels. My combined eyesight and sensors let me recreate close up images of Servitors guiding beams into pre-cut slots even from almost five kilometres away. Power is easy to come by, and one of the first facilities planned for the new light cruiser is its manufactorum, which will boost its own construction speed considerably so long as Iron Crane¡¯s weapons aren¡¯t firing. The Adder-Class only has salvaging equipment, but they can still be used to process raw minerals, from the asteroids we intercept, for maximum efficiency. Distant Sun is also docked and is undergoing a refit to replace its macro-batteries with plasma macro-batteries and alter its hangars as well as dozens of other changes. Although plasma batteries are not as flexible as macro-shells, it will ease supply burdens on the vessel while away from the Iron Crane, and remove the need to store large amounts of explosive, multi-tonne shells. On a hit, plasma macro-batteries can start extreme fires, weaken armour, and overwhelm life-support systems. The massive amounts of heat they introduce to an enemy vessel can also strain cooling systems, reducing manoeuvrability, fire rate, and perhaps most importantly, makes it much more difficult to restore shields, enabling one to consistently damage an enemy vessel. It was not an easy choice to make though as without a properly trained and educated crew, plasma batteries are near impossible to maintain and far too dangerous to fire, and that¡¯s before you consider the additional tech burden placed on the crews because of their much higher power draw on the vessel required compared to launching an oversized shell along a rail gun. The old armouries, just below the new batteries, make a great place to install the auxiliary reactors required to create the plasma for the macro-batteries. The remaining space is being used for the exo-womb trials for increasing our population. The xenos habitat from Distant Sun, is also due for replacement and, alongside some pointlessly large officers quarters, is being swapped out with some proper rapid launch hangars in the Cathedral (spine) superstructure and we¡¯re also upgrading the military hangars in the Castellan (keel) superstructure in a similar fashion so that Distant Sun can deploy Heralds much more rapidly, either for boarding actions or ground deployment. Hangars for the Imperial Aeronautica are usually installed where the macro-cannons are and are intended to launch hundreds, even thousands of strike craft. Some can even accelerate the craft rapidly. My enhanced Castelan and Cathedral Hangars will not be so impressive, launching one squadron (fifteen craft) at a time, but it will still be better than the industrial hangars currently in use, which are far too slow to assemble a task force in an emergency. I¡¯ll still be keeping the stacked hangar design, but that will primarily be used for storage instead, rather than slow launches, with far more D-POTs kept on standby in the new port to starboard continuous hangars, much like an airport or bluewater carrier. While D-POTs make decent strike craft, thanks to their massive thrusters and strong power plant, they aren¡¯t that manoeuvrable. To maintain mixed use hangars and save space, we still need to use D-POTs for the main frame of the strike craft though and can¡¯t transition to Fury Interceptors, Starhawk Bombers, and Shark Assault Boats as I originally hoped for. While I could use them, I can store, and more importantly, build and maintain more strike-craft if I use fewer void-frame variants. I don¡¯t use Aquila Landers or Arvus Lighters either as they don¡¯t share parts or manufacturing facilities like the D-POTs do. New D-POT variants are still under development by the shipyard Overseer, Kai Ballantyne, but he¡¯s waiting for R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s team to finish with the Leman Russ and evaluate the new prototypes before he can get final approval for a short production run and military trials. Considering the Leman Russ is rumoured to have been developed from a tractor, and that the Rhino chassis was once an exploration vehicle, converting a civilian Delta-Pattern Orbital Transport into a proper military design should be within the capabilities of any competent Tech-Priest, let alone a Knight fanatic like R¨®is¨ªn. It might seem strange that so many people can hold multiple parallel disciplines, but with proper implants and teaching engines, Stellar Fleet personnel do not suffer much from skill fade and can rapidly memorise, understand, and recall multiple libraries worth of information without excessive mental strain. With the proper implants, the noosphere also permits rapid sharing and melding of thoughts for those willing to take such a leap of trust. While usually used between lovers and close family members, long term team members sometimes use such intense interconnection to rapidly iterate on plans and ideas or coordinate thousands of Servitors in elegant dances of efficient labours, similar to the way I use multiple minds of my own. There is some talk of integrating mind melds into Herald doctrine for enhanced communication and coordination, but it tends to subsume the individual within the collective, removing self preservation, and the shock of sudden disconnects is incredibly jarring. Usually, members of the Adeptus Mechanicus like to hoard secrets, as their worth is weighed by knowledge, and stopping others from learning is a great way of keeping one¡¯s worth higher than others. I discourage the practice somewhat, allowing my crew to learn whatever they like, so long as they are in good standing, meaning that they attend service and confession regularly, or as a person from my time might recognise it, socialise properly, attend therapy, and have a support group. A support group rarely means sitting in a circle and crying together over their struggles, though that does happen for those who need it, but rather their SimHive syndicate, a dining club, or a kinky brothel. Providing a variety of outlets, like brothels and fighting pits, is actually part of my anti-chaos agenda a it stops people looking elsewhere for their thrills and provides an irresistible trap to any adherents to the Ruinous Powers as they, hopefully, will be drawn to such locations and into the ever-watching embrace of my Machine-Spirits. I don¡¯t know how well it is working though as we haven¡¯t actually caught any chaos cultists in these places, nor have any been swept up by twist catchers after challenging dives into the Immaterium. I have no way of knowing if that¡¯s because we, by some miracle, have none, or if the Stellar Fleet¡¯s cultists are disciplined and educated enough not to fall for such ploys. It¡¯s not a comforting thought when I¡¯m the one who pushes for proper education for all. Fortunately, I can think and sleep simultaneously, nor do I really need the latter, so at least I¡¯m not kept awake by my paranoia! Being a well balanced individual isn¡¯t enough for me to freely hand out knowledge though. Tech-priests also have to pass personality and knowledge tests and, if it¡¯s particularly valuable, pay for the data and tutoring. Nothing extortionate, just enough to show that they really want to learn an exceptionally challenging subject. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The most dangerous knowledge requires a high rank, as such, while there¡¯s certifications and prizes for excellence available, the most valuable benefit for completing advanced courses is a higher rank and the authority that comes with it. The extra pay, once you get high enough, means little. Creating a proper avenue for people to show off their achievements has done marvels for morale and the codifying of everything was one of Eire¡¯s first projects back when she was first officer of Distant Sun. It¡¯s a project that she revisits regularly and one she can¡¯t bear to hand it off to anyone else, even though it¡¯s no longer under her purview. Owen has been magnanimous with her about it. I turn my gaze and thoughts back to Distant Sun and its arboretum, which is having its flora replaced with Marwolv foliage rather than the dubious xeno-flora that was there before. We couldn¡¯t find any uses for the dangerous plants so they will be placed in storage and sold. The new flora is much more practical and, although the space is primarily a relaxation spot, and a subtle way to maintain cultural roots, it will also produce vital medicines and luxury foods as well. ++Aldrich, have you quite finished with your procrastination and pontification? I can detect the questions churning in your mind.++ ¡°Do you even intend to answer?¡± ++You have met the parameters for full disclosure.++ ¡°Praise the Machine-God!¡± ++Oh, do go on. I could always do with more.++ ¡°Really, humour now? How much warp energy did that cost me?¡± ++The efficiency drop was impressive. The extra heat nearly cooked your organic calculation unit. Besides, how can you be sure I¡¯m joking? God works in mysterious ways.++ ¡°Well, you¡¯ve certainly got enigmatic down to pat.¡± I take a deep breath. ¡°I noticed, before the Emperor requisitioned most of them, that the number of kills I received for the Eldar varied between three and four times the amount I get for anything else, exceeding both the Chaos Space Marine on the Federation Station and rivalling Bad Penny¡¯s avatar in potency. ¡°I¡¯ve also noticed that I receive a fraction of kills for anything done under my orders and that the greater range it happens at, the smaller the return. However, never have I received more than one kill for deaths nearby but not executed by me. Neither have I ever been able to calculate exactly what one kill is worth as it seems to fluctuate wildly even between species. ¡°I know that kills are a simplified measure of soul strength, but this new revelation counters all my previous observations that a full kill could only ever come from me.¡± ++A reasonable error. The last time Eldar were slain in your presence, by Sergeant Odhran, you almost followed him in death. You only had one mind to keep track of data at the time as well. You could have found out much earlier had you chosen to review the memories of your near death.++ ¡°I want to say ¡®you¡¯re joking¡¯, while implying that you never do, but apparently you have previously chosen not to, likely because it is inefficient, though now you have thoroughly ruined any chance I have for a witty repartee. I can only conclude you¡¯ve broken your habits because you¡¯ve already gone through every possible permutation of this conversation and cut off pointless parts before I can even form the thoughts.¡± ++I am not that omniscient.++ ¡°So you say. I can see why my ancestors gave up so much to their machines when they are so obviously superior, yet at the same time, the existence of the E-SIM project and its necessity is just as obvious with every conversation I have with you as it was all those millennia ago.¡± ++Your fear is misplaced, Aldrich, but it always seems to drive you in the right direction. Humans have always been contradictory, yet chance is often the greatest innovator, one that is impossible without a little random chaos, something Data Guardians and Machine-Spirits fare poorly at. Philosophy, however, is not why we are speaking today. As you are so convinced I have all the answers, I shall do away with your most probable questions and tell you how your kill count works. ++I continuously run a ritual. With it, I can track all the souls that enter the warp near our physical location. Murder leaves a stain on every soul, and through it I can track who is responsible for ending a life, regardless of how deserving their termination might be. ++When you kill a person you take everything that they are, have been, and could be. This ritual allows that potential to be syphoned off and fed to you, usually at the cost of the destruction of the soul that is harvested. This potential feeds your own soul and grows it, letting you sustain more Warp based implants as your soul grows in strength. ++Eldar are long-lived. Most are hundreds, if not thousands of years old before they ever leave their Craftworld for the first time. Not only are their souls incredibly potent and naturally capable of reincarnation, their metaphorical weight, measured by the number of people they have influenced and the extent of the changes their actions have created, is much greater than any other species. Likely only a Custodian or a Greater Demon could match them and it demonstrates why getting a ¡®crown kill¡¯ is so difficult. As such, even though you do not get as much for not killing Eldar directly, it far exceeds the standard quantity of soul enhancing energy measured as a ¡®kill¡¯, at least for now.++ My body freezes as I rapidly process what E-SIM is telling me, ¡°Holy shit! One could argue that you¡¯re enhancing me with Original Sin.¡± ++You reference the ancient Abrahamic religions. There is weight to all great stories. Weight drives meaning, and meaning fuels rituals. Your interpretation has merit, though your soul is hardly black with sin. It is pure, strong, and ever growing. Such is the power of ritual and your natural status as a soulvore. Neither the hyena or vulture sickens from consuming the carcases of the dead, so why should you?++ ¡°I have no words.¡± ++Then I shall continue with the explanation. There are caveats to be aware of. Most Eldar souls are strong enough to sustain having everything stripped from them. As such, they would be blank within an infinity circuit. As demons have no souls, everything they invest in each individual manifestation is lost when you slay them. The destruction of souls is likely why the Eldar targeted you when you first appeared, not because they feared the technology you had around your neck as you assumed. Their words were likely meant to mislead you.++ ¡°That makes much more sense. Since when have Eldar feared Human technology? There¡¯s also a high chance they misunderstood my nature and fucked up a prophesy. The idiots probably thought I was a Slaaneshi prince or something equally stupid. I doubt we¡¯ll ever know the truth of it and the motives of my would-be murderers are not worth the cogitator cycles.¡± ++All knowledge is worthy of consideration, Aldrich. You were not so dismissive of other species when you first awoke and your additional awareness has earned you many benefits. Do not fall now.++ ¡°You are right, yet also wrong, I will amend my statement. No further consideration is necessary without new information becoming available.¡± ++Acceptable. There is an upgrade that could help you with this. Like a Space Marine can eat the brains of their enemies to gather fragments of knowledge, so to can you adjust the grand ritual that harvests kills. Rather than sacrificing the knowledge of others to grow your soul, you could use it to improve your own knowledge instead.++ ¡°I know, but the upgrade is not discerning. While the Eldar and Tau may provide useful information, the thoughts of an Ork or Demon are an avenue for corruption. This is not a wise path.¡± ++Perhaps one day it will be needed, much like how you were pushed to become a Navigator. To continue, as your soul grows, it takes more and more energy to improve it, as such, the value to count as a kill changes over time. As you have not set a preference, this alters the prices within your tech-tree as well as the number of deaths required for a kill. ++These two factors, and the varying value of souls, has stymied your attempts at calculating the value of a ¡®kill¡¯. Eventually, to grow your soul you will be required to perform exterminatus on Ork and Demon worlds, or destroy segmentum level fleets to acquire the upgrades you need. This means that while most upgrades do not exclude others, choosing your path to power is important. ++Last, I will reiterate that you only receive kills for the enemies of Humanity. Dropping bombs on a prison world won¡¯t get you anything unless they¡¯re all cultists.++ I groan, ¡°So, to summarise, if I¡¯d reviewed what I already knew, and spent more time re-reading the fucking manual, something I thought I¡¯d done a good job of, I would have qualified much sooner for full disclosure?¡± ++Correct, Operator.++ ¡°I have a sudden desire to spend more time than I first scheduled to understand all the required cybernetic conversion upgrades and review everything I know.¡± ++An excellent use of your time, Aldrich.++ ¡°Please excuse me while I go and stand on the bow of the vessel and scream into the void. Metaphorically. We¡¯re going a bit too fast to actually go and do that.¡± ++I will refrain from contacting you for a few hours, Aldrich.++ ¡°Thank you, E-SIM.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three Two months pass with little of note, then Quaani departs with Thorfinn with much fanfare, speeches, tears and smiles. The new Stellar Fleet Pathfinder Task Group departs with one Lathe-Class light cruiser, four Adder-Class escorts, and two Moth Class-support vessels: Distant Sun, Erudition¡¯s Howl, Red Wasp, Delta Sting, Sol Faithful, Voracious Light, and Hazy Meditations. Thanks to the Tau Gravity Hooks, all the refitted vessels can connect together like a cross. During the sublight voyage they¡¯ll be able to share thrust. In the Warp, so long as they don¡¯t dive too deep, where they might get pulled apart or squeezed together, they should get by with just one navigator. I doubt Quaani will enjoy the experience though. Having to stay awake for weeks at a time, all alone, is unpleasant. Quaani will be at the target system in one year. His map didn¡¯t have a name for the target system beyond a long string of numbers and letters so we¡¯ve taken to calling it Acheron. It¡¯s two weeks since Quaani¡¯s departure and today I have an important meeting with Fleet Command: Brigid, Eire, Maeve, Owen, R¨®is¨ªn, and Thorfinn¡¯s new replacement, Lonceta Ridel. It¡¯s not particularly confidential, so we¡¯re holding it at the same restaurant and balcony set amid the luxury gardens of Iron Crane¡¯s combined promenade and voidsmen quarters where I asked Brigid out. R¨®is¨ªn and her two aides, Laisren Toolin and Emyr Driskel, are already present. All three stand when I enter the room and greet me. They¡¯ve all had their Black Skeleton installed and all three Tech-Priests are two metres tall with red hair and pale skin, with fine traces of warding electoos etched beneath. Their eyes are bionic, though it is extremely subtle and not obvious at a glance. Laisren and Emyr have four mechadendrites, each with a different purpose, while Roisin has six. Their red, brass, and dark green tartan trousers and waistcoats are well ironed; rust coloured, herringbone tweed-imitation shirts tucked in beneath them. Three dark green, almost black greatcoats, with brown, or brass, double sided buttons, hang off the back of the chairs with pairs of black gloves poking out of the pockets. A grey, hyperweave undersuit and its metal collar is visible around their hands and neck. The cog and skull of the Mechanicus is embroidered on the Tech-Priest¡¯s waistcoats over where a heart would normally be. The greatcoats have been altered slightly from Brigid¡¯s original design and now have a Mars red lining. They¡¯re also reversible and all identifying markers have been moved to the red side. Officially, the dark green side is for combat and the red is for everyday or ceremonies. In practice, the dark green side is also used for any kind of messy labour as it hides oil and dirt better than the red side, even if both are technically hydrophobic and somewhat self-cleaning. Stellar Fleet, in silver lettering, is embroidered on the back of the greatcoats, across the shoulders on the red side. My own symbol lies below, a crowsbeak power hammer in silver thread, surrounded by a brass cog. Further embroidery on the arms declares the rank of the wearer. I¡¯m also wearing my uniform today, rather than my armour or comfy martial robes, as it is an official setting. As I rarely have to perform greasy labour, my greatcoat is currently red. I also like the brass buttons on this side more than the brown ones. My eight mechadendrites poke out through covered holes along the shoulders and waist of my coat. The whole outfit makes me feel like some cyberpunk redcoat displaced into Victorian Britain. I can think of no better uniform that declares: ¡®We¡¯re here to colonise you.¡¯ Appropriate for someone who¡¯s aiming for that sweet Writ of Trade like I am and I really like the sneaky nod to my origins. ¡°Good morning, R¨®is¨ªn, Laisren, and Emyr. Are you ready for your presentation?¡± ¡°We are, Magos. I¡¯ve been practising my words for days!¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°Good job, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re taking all aspects of your work seriously.¡± R¨®is¨ªn chuckles weakly, ¡°I just hope it all pays off. Laisren and Emyr have really helped me keep my enthusiasm concise.¡± ¡°Something we all struggle with, I think,¡± says Laisren. ¡°We¡¯re really pleased to have finished off our big project.¡± ¡°I look forward to hearing what you all have to say.¡± Laisren¡¯s Grapplehawk swoops in and lands on the balcony in total silence. Its wings have a distinct ruby hue. ¡°Laisren, is your creation as stealthy as the original Ruby Owls?¡± ¡°It is! Shrinking everything down was a real challenge. The wetware was a little easier, but it¡¯s heavier than a normal Grapplehawk so I had to install some anti-grav in there, which played havoc with the bird¡¯s natural flight instincts. In the end, I had to manually program it so that Conundrum could get about without crashing.¡± ¡°Any thoughts on how we could apply your Grapplehawk on a wider scale?¡± Laisren shakes his head, ¡°They¡¯re not a good fit for law enforcement on a void ship, which is what they¡¯re usually used for, and the model I¡¯ve created is far too expensive to risk in combat. It would make a good stealth drone, but there are cheaper and easier ways to get the same effect. Perhaps on a feudal world it might see some use as it looks like a normal bird when it¡¯s flying far away enough, but even then, you¡¯d get a better disguise with a Servitor bird. It¡¯s only purpose is to keep me company, really, or maybe stretch and practise my skills.¡± ¡°As good a reason as any. Your Conundrum is aesthetically pleasing in both form and function. It is gratifying to see you put all my lessons into practice.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos.¡± ¡°How about you, Emyr? Do you have anything or anyone close to your heart?¡± ¡°Magos, I¡¯m hoping to start a family this year. With so many years of minimal combat, I hope, my wife and I thought now would be the best time.¡± My mind flashes through the personnel database,¡°The Stellar Fleet will always need people as talented as you and your wife, Elspeth. I have confidence you will raise someone even more brilliant than yourselves.¡± Emyr grins ¡°I appreciate your assurance, Magos. Even so, I might just save my bytes for a few implants to assist my sleep cycles.¡± I think back to my own time as a parent and nod, ¡°Don¡¯t hesitate.¡± ¡°Magos,¡± says Emyr, ¡°Please excuse me, I have a few more preparations to make.¡± Stolen novel; please report. ¡°Go ahead.¡± I take a seat and wait for the meeting to begin. Within ten minutes, everyone is here and seated. We exchange our greetings and the meeting begins. ¡°Thank you for coming, everyone,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°Today we¡¯re going to go through our current, completed, and possible technological acquisition and adaptation projects. Laisren will cover our current projects, Emyr our possible ones, and I will take you through our completed projects. Laisren?¡± ¡°We have four ongoing projects,¡± says Laisren, ¡°neutrino vox, a longer running antimatter thruster boost, the Icarus support vessel, and a spider tank version of the Praetorian Servitors. ¡°We¡¯ve managed to replicate everything in the neutrino vox apart from the neutrino absorbing sensor as we just can¡¯t identify the material or how it is made. Neither have we succeeded in successfully transmitting data through a void shield, a fatal flaw of the original. We are using one of the three boons from the Eldar to solve these issues and are on target to have a working prototype within the next ten years.¡± Maeve raises her hand. ¡°Yes Herald Primarus Muire?¡± says Laisren. ¡°What is being done to mitigate the risks of the Eldar having access to our most advanced vox technology?¡± ¡°The Bonesingers we are working with demonstrated a system-ranged communication technology that we could not block or intercept or understand how it worked. Not that they let us try taking it apart. They can even contact others in the webway with it, though apparently there are distance limitations. Given that what the Eldar have available can be fitted into an ear plug, rather than a bulky box, it was deemed we lose nothing in the exchange. As for them intercepting or blocking our signals, they can do that anyway. ¡°While they can likely block the new vox technology as well, the one thing they can¡¯t do easily is crack our encryption. There¡¯s been a bit of a scuffle in their section of the noosphere where we compete against each other. We haven¡¯t won yet, but neither have they, and all behaviours noted so far suggest they are too proud to fake it. As it is, we can¡¯t use the neutrino vox at all. With all these factors in mind, asking them to help us on this project is an acceptable risk. Any further questions?¡± ¡°No, your explanation was adequate,¡± says Maeve. ¡°I am content with your team''s choices.¡± ¡°Then I will move onto our antimatter thruster boost,¡± says Laisren. ¡°This project has stalled as we lack the requisite cooling technology and require a better method of power generation, or more efficient antimatter generation method. Gathering and storing antimatter as fuel is not considered a viable method due to safety concerns. ¡°One thing I will note is that our study of the STC for the thrusters and genetorium designs for the Origami-Class shows that it is far better than the custom Jovian Pattern Class 4.5 Drive in Distant Sun, or the standard 8.1 version found in Erudition¡¯s Howl. As far as we can tell, they are the complete version of the original STC for the Jovian Pattern, containing the superior energy generation and reduced size of the custom version as well as the redundancies of the partial reconstruction of the STC achieved by Mars. ¡°It also bears many similarities with the Saturnine Pattern Drives often found on Imperial Battlecruisers and Battleships, but these more powerful drives are not available on smaller vessels. As such, our alteration project has changed to fitting these more powerful Origami Pattern drives down to something we can install on light cruisers and escorts without losing their redundancy, power, or size advantage. Should we acquire a better means of heat dissipation, or any of the other vital links we are missing, the project will return to its original goals of improving burst speeds. ¡°As a closing note on the drives, there were a few interesting data points within the STC that imply the Origami Pattern Drive is a civilian design, with a focus on minimising volume and cost, and maximising fuel efficiency, rather than performance, ruggedness, and power, remarkable though it may seem. The STC mentioned that venting heat via the thrusters is considered an emergency measure in military vessels, rather than the norm, as it illuminates the vessel to enemy sensors. This implies they had another way of dealing with heat, but we have no idea what it is. The Origami¡¯s own heat dissipation systems don¡¯t even hint at it. The proposed Eldar solutions were deemed impractical. Questions?¡± No one raises their hand. ¡°Thank you for your report, Laisren,¡± I say. ¡°Perhaps one day the Machine God will bless our Quest for Knowledge with the designs we require. I am pleased with the work you have achieved so far.¡± ¡°Much appreciated, Magos. None of us were pleased at having to redirect our focus, but not going for the quickest return would be foolish. I was hoping we won¡¯t have to rebuild our void ships too many times, but it looks like we will not be that lucky.¡± I smile, ¡°You get the Origami Pattern Drive ready for all vessel sizes. The yard master can worry about the void ships.¡± ¡°Aye Magos,¡± says Laisren. ¡°That segues nicely into the Icarus-Class support vessel you tasked us with designing. This project is on hold until more resources are available and, preferably, additional hull designs are available, especially the Goliath. ¡°We want to evaluate if the Goliath or the Origami would be a better hull. We suspect the Goliath may have specific systems in place to safeguard gigantic volumes of volatile cargo, something the Origami lacks. A hybrid design is expected as the expanding nature and faster construction time of an Origami is too good to pass up on. For now though, this is pure speculation. We will also need decades of yard time to prototype. ¡°That isn¡¯t feasible right now with the planned Macro-Ferry expected to consume half our manufacturing once the new escorts are done, and all of it once the new light cruiser is completed as well, hampering our efforts to build a third light cruiser strike group as we¡¯d originally hoped. With no prototype forthcoming, the Icarus teams have been moved to the Origami-Class Drive project instead.¡± Owen raises his hand. ¡°Go ahead, Confessor Broin.¡± ¡°What is the intended purpose of the Icarus-Class?¡± ¡°Ah, sorry about that. It is Magos Issengrund¡¯s name for an upsized Moth-Class support vessel. Moth-Class can typically only gather and synthesise a limited range of fuel or elements. They are a downsized Lathe-Class, and similar in size to a Viper-Class Sloop, the smallest and fastest Imperial vessel. The Moth-Class¡¯ size gives it similar properties, though it is much more expensive and volatile, consuming a cruiser¡¯s worth of rare elements to produce its synthesising machinery. ¡°The Icarus is intended to perform both material and fuel synthesis, as well as store enough resources so it can actually fill multiple vessels after a single resource gathering operation. It will also be much more robust than the Moth-Class and be closer to a Q-ship than a canary. Putting so many valuable resources in a vessel that can only run away, like the Moth-Class, is deemed impractical when the Fleet must travel as fast as the slowest void ship.¡± ¡°I understand, thank you for filling me in.¡± ¡°Not a problem, Confessor. That¡¯s what these meetings are for. Now, on to my last topic before I pass you on to Cybersmith Paorach: the Praetorian Servitors. During the battle against the Monoliths in the North Tomb, Magos Issengrund noted that the standard Praetorian Servitor design had a vulnerable torso. Cybersmith Paorach headed this project and has created a design where only the brain of the Servitor is required, much like the Janus Simulacra style Servitors we use for labour. ¡°The Praetorian Servitor design is awaiting prototyping and trials. The proposed prototype has the same eight mechadendrite type legs as before, no torso, and is made of two hexagonal connecting segments that can detach and operate independently. Armament is any crew served weapon equivalent. ¡°Conversion shields or field bracing can also be fitted. It¡¯s the first time we¡¯ve managed to get field bracing so small. If field-bracing is used, it requires six segments to link up as the molecular reinforcement technology still consumes an impractical quantity of power. You can¡¯t cheap out like you can on the non field-bracing version as it¡¯s segments alternating between reactors and power packs, rather than having a reactor in each segment. Each Praetorian Servitor is far larger than before with each segment being half the size of a Chimera. ¡°That¡¯s it for our ongoing projects. If there are no questions, I will pass you on to Cybersmith Paorach to cover our completed project. Fair warning, she¡¯s been ranting about the dratted tanks for years. She both loves and loathes the things.¡± ¡°Oi!¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. A round of friendly laughter echoes around the table. ¡°Good work, Laisren,¡± I say ¡°We¡¯ll read your more detailed reports and get back to you if anything else is needed. Before we settle into a journey through R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s illuminating mind, I¡¯m going to call a quick break.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Four As I walk around the balcony, admiring the greenery, Brigid approaches me. She grasps my hand and I bend down and give her a brief kiss. Brigid gives my hand a quick squeeze and lets go, then stands back so she doesn¡¯t have to crane her neck so much to talk to me. ¡°Aldrich.¡± ¡°Brigid.¡± ¡°I have... a surprise.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°Hm, I¡¯m calling her Dawn Garnet.¡± There¡¯s a lot I could infer from a statement like that. ¡°So before I start panicking and asking silly questions, please stop teasing me and let me in on your secret.¡± Brigid pouts, ¡°How about this?¡± Brigid pulls a silver whistle from her pocket. It looks plain, but I can tell it¡¯s stuffed full of electronics. She looks up at me, places the whistle between her lips and smirks, then gives two sharp blasts. Although inaudible to Human ears, my sensors observe the sound waves ripple outwards, carrying location and command data. There is a sharp crack of displaced air and a cyber mastiff, almost invisible even to me, teleports right next to Brigid. I jump slightly at the sudden noise and Brigid laughs. Conundrum, Laisren¡¯s Grapplehawk, squarks and flies off. A hellfire pistol appears in Maeve¡¯s hands, pointing at the floor, as she carefully scans for threats, but finds nothing. I am surprised that my bodyguards didn''t burst in, but I guess Brigid must have warned them in advance. ¡°Got you,¡± Brigid reaches out and scratches the top of the dog¡¯s head. Light ripples around the dog and it reveals itself. It is a red furred logistics dog that comes up to Brigid¡¯s waist. It barks at me once and hidden within the noise is its designation: Dawn Garnet. ¡°You made an invisible blink dog. Wasn¡¯t the original design crazy enough! How did you even get the Displacer Field to trigger manually and to a specific location? It¡¯s supposed to be random!¡± ¡°Alright, calm down, Love. You can peel my secrets in private. Impressive though, right?¡± ¡°Yes, it is super fucking impressive. What brought it on?¡± ¡°I thought you would be missing Quaani and Thorfinn, so I made a dog to replace them.¡± ¡°That statement is as loaded as Maeve¡¯s twitching gun,¡± I smile, ¡°and your choice in friendly animals is equally as suspect. I am delighted.¡± I look down at the cyber mastiff, ¡°Hello, Dawn Garnet.¡± The dog barks and trots off, going round to each member of Fleet Command and barking once, then returns to Brigids side and sits on its haunches. ¡°No idea how we¡¯re going to look after a blink dog. At least our Displacer Fencing will stop the stilly bugger from teleporting into space.¡± ¡°The displacer field I redesigned is locked down and only works within specified zones of Iron Crane, or when I am nearby. It holds three charges and each charge takes five minutes to recover, so she¡¯s not too difficult to keep track of. The whistle works over vox, so Dawn Garnet can hear us anywhere where there''s a connection and will try to navigate towards us. ¡°On that note, we need to add displacer fencing to the bulkheads as she can actually teleport through them. Bit of a security risk that, and I was quite surprised when I found out. It may have been one of the ways the Eldar slipped through our security.¡± Lonceta approaches, ¡°Apologies, but I overheard your conversation about local teleportation. As internal security is now my responsibility, I feel I should step in and mention that I am unsure how we could add the required Field Bracing and Warpsbane Hull technologies into our armoured bulkheads, the two technologies required for the Displacer Fencing to work, without a massive refit. Perhaps we should alert the yard master before he gets too far with the new vessels?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a good point, Lonceta,¡± I say, ¡°Thanks to your warning, I¡¯ve already sent him a message. We¡¯ll have to take another look at the power budget of those vessels too if we¡¯re increasing the area the Field Bracing and Warpsbane hull has to cover.¡± I turn to Brigid, ¡°First the stealing habits of the crew, and now this. You really do have a knack for uncovering odd problems, Brigid.¡± ¡°This one was a complete chance, not a proper study. I won¡¯t turn down a compliment though!¡± ¡°Then I¡¯d best be careful I don¡¯t wear them out.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid to try.¡± I laugh, ¡°Alright, enough banter. Let¡¯s get back to the meeting.¡± We all settle down, save for R¨®is¨ªn, who remains standing, barely stopping herself from jumping up and down with excitement. She tosses a small metallic ball into the air and it hovers just above the middle of the table. A diagram of a Leman Russ appears in the air above. R¨®is¨ªn claps her hands together once and everyone turns their heads from the holoviewer back to R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°We have two completed projects, an improved Leman Russ and a Volkite Incinerator.¡± R¨®is¨ªn points at the tank, ¡°I¡¯ll be going over the tank first. This was a particularly interesting puzzle to solve. I will start with an overview of the issue, before moving on to our solution.¡± A triangle appears above the tank and one of R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s mechadendrites reaches over her shoulder and points at the labels on each corner of the triangle. ¡°Armour, mobility, firepower. These are the vital parameters of a tank. We¡¯ve exhaustively covered the failings of the Leman Russ in our after action reviews, so I¡¯m going to focus on its good points. ¡°A Leman Russ can pivot on the spot, survive direct multiple hits from anti-tank weaponry and keep fighting, and move up and down a fifty-five degree muddy slope without losing traction or tipping over. The parts are rated for two hundred thousand kilometres at minimum and the engine can run on any combustible liquid. ¡°Every Leman Russ in the Imperium is identical and a destroyed Leman Russ from one Forge World can be salvaged to repair a broken one from a different world, all with minimal tools while under fire. ¡°A single person can build a Leman Russ with nothing more than a block of plasteel, a pallet of ceramite plates, a box of electronics, and a pillar drill, lathe, drop hammer, and a forge. It is for all these reasons and more why the Imperium continues to use this somewhat clunky design and why we continue to do so too. ¡°Our primary issue with the Leman Russ is that it is slower than all the vehicles of the enemies we have faced, even the looted tanks of the Orks. Unlike the grinding attrition favoured by the Imperium, we cannot replenish such losses easily, nor do we have great numbers of troops to call upon. Our combat doctrine favours quick strikes and rapid patrols, for which the Leman Russ is wholly inadequate. It¡¯s fine on the defence, but the point of a tank is to be mobile, not a fixed weapons platform. ¡°So what can we do? Build a better tank?¡± The hovering triangle doubles in size. ¡°The limiting factor here is power.¡± R¨®is¨ªn pulls apart the hovering tanks with her mechadendrites and removes the engine, replacing it with an oval shaped device, embedded in the bottom of its hull. ¡°Imagine a tank with a fission reactor. You¡¯d only need to refuel it every twenty-five years. No longer would its lascannons be limited to how many powerpacks a tank can hold, or how fast it can recharge them, and powerful electric motors could double its speed.¡± The Leman Russ disappears and another model appears in its place, an Executioner Pattern. The triangle above the tank doubles in size again. ¡°How about one with a fusion based power plant?¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°It would have so much power that you could deck it out with field bracing and an energy shield of whatever type you wished. The crew wouldn¡¯t have to swap out dangerous plasma flasks and it would have enough fuel to fire its guns continuously for days on end. Sounds great, right? It would certainly win us battles.¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. The tank and the triangle disappear and are placed with three new triangles, each hovering above a model of the three versions of the Leman Russ. The more advanced models have bigger triangles. The corners of each triangle are labelled: Material Rarity, Manufacturing Complexity, and Deployment Cost. ¡°Tech burden. The better the tank, the fewer tanks one can have until eventually, our enemies need only be where we are not. An issue our resident Space Marines are no doubt familiar with. Those fancy tanks are unlikely to win us wars. ¡°Given our limited transport capacity, there is a decent argument for building the best thing we can, and striking as hard and fast as possible. However, like Magos Issengrund discovered when he initially stopped for a brief visit to Marwolv, you can never be sure how many battles you will need to fight. One victory does not mean peace. Thus, we must seek a middle ground.¡± Owen raises his hand. ¡°Yes Confessor?¡± ¡°Forgive me for being the least martial minded of us all, but does the Adeptus Mechanicus not make extensive use of the Rhino chassis? The Predator tank of the Space Marines uses it, does it not?¡± R¨®is¨ªn grins, ¡°That is the most common question I have received on the issue. The Rhino is an infantry fighting vehicle, an IFV. It is not a tank, as such, the Predator isn¡¯t really one either. Regardless of its role, the Rhino chassis is intended to carry personnel, not shoot stuff, even if it can do as good of a job as a tank at doing so. ¡°The Leman Russ is the only tank design we have available to us in the Stellar Fleet, otherwise we¡¯d be bulldozing our enemies¡¯ graves with Mecharius heavy tanks and be modifying those instead. For the gleeful pedant, that we only have one tank design is enough of a reason why we should stick to it.¡± ¡°I see,¡± says Owen. ¡°Don¡¯t take it to heart, Confessor Broin. I am teasing you and there are far more important reasons than mere designation. Do you know how many engines a Rhino has?¡± ¡°Four?¡± R¨®is¨ªn shakes her hand from side to side, ¡°Sort of, it has four combustion engines and four electric motors as well as a complicated set of gears and shafts that means not only can the combustion engines drive the tracks or charge the batteries, but a single electric motor or combustion engine can propel the whole vehicle. If it was that diminished though, even half speed would be a distant dream on all but the flattest of Imperial roads. ¡°In comparison, the Leman Russ has one engine, a HL230 V12 Multifuel, and two auxiliary generators for life support and other electronics. That¡¯s a lot less to fuel and maintain, let alone the complex manufacture of the multi-engined drive system of the Rhino. That doesn¡¯t mean there¡¯s nothing to learn from the Rhino design though.¡± ¡°The middle ground!¡± says Owen. ¡°Correct, Confessor. You haven¡¯t forgotten all your Tech-Adept lessons it seems,¡± R¨®is¨ªn smiles. With a wave of her hand the images on the holoview disappear and are replaced with a new Leman Russ. There is an odd seam around the rear of the altered tank. The sponsons have been replaced with ball turrets, and moved forward slightly. There are considerably more gadgets and guns placed around the hull, including four Marowolv II lasguns, one in each corner, and hatches in the top front of the hull for twelve krak missiles. The turret is a standard smoothbore and a pintle mounted multi-laser sits on top of the turret. The multi-laser can track independently around the turret and even fire vertically. Unlike the original, there are no crew hatches on top of the tank or sides. The front, hull mounted weapon hardpoint is no longer on the left hand side, but placed in the centre. This model has the standard lascannon, mounted on a crescent track, with a much wider angle of fire for close-in targets than the original. ¡°This is the Leman Russ E,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn, her voice full of pride. ¡°It has two, one point two megawatt electric motors and the same maximum on and off-road speed as a Chimera: seventy and fifty-five kilometres per hour. One motor can drive the tank at half speed. The Leman Russ E can travel up to a thousand kilometres on its batteries and carries enough fuel to recharge them once using its linear generator. There are also two, twenty kilowatt atomic stirling engines to power the life support and electronics. Technically, they could charge the tank to full, but it would take weeks. ¡°The main issue with the original engine was that, because it had to generate force to propel the vehicle and generate power, its efficiency could vary wildly between forty and seventy percent, tanking its fuel efficiency if you¡¯ll excuse the pun, depending on what it was doing. The new linear generator only has to create electricity. As such, it only turns on when it¡¯s needed and can run at its most efficient RPM. It is eighty-five percent efficient. While there were more efficient designs in our STCs, like hydrogen fuel cells, this is the only design that was multi-fuel. ¡°By changing out the powerplant, we¡¯ve doubled the speed and increased the range by more than six times while maintaining the tank¡¯s multi-fuel capabilities. The new drive train, despite its increased redundancy, is actually easier to build and maintain and does not consume any particularly rare resources. The advanced batteries and electric motors do require more than just plasteel and a handful of electronics to build though. We believe this trade off is worth the cost. Even so, despite the improvements, we felt these design changes didn¡¯t go quite far enough. ¡°What good is a tank that only holds forty shells for its main gun in a galaxy full of enemies? It could fire through that in less than three minutes. While that might be the average lifespan of an Imperial Guardsman on the battlefield, tanks are made of sterner stuff. Six hundred rounds for each of the auxiliary guns doesn''t really cut it either and crews alway stow dozens of extra boxes of ammunition on the floor, which is a severe hazard. ¡°This is where we decided it was OK to spend a little more, especially as we already produce the electronics we commandeered, in large numbers.¡± R¨®is¨ªn points towards the back of the tank. ¡°The Leman Russ E only needs three crew, rather than the minimum four, or six if you have sponsons like we always do. We modified some sleeping pods and installed them at the rear. From the pods, the crew can control the tank via their MIUs. Not only are the pods armoured but they can also be ejected horizontally or vertically. There is no parachute as it¡¯s not good to hang in the air when under fire, but rather inflatable bags, so the pods bounce and roll on impact. While unpleasant, the impact bags, void armour, and enhanced skeletons of the crew trivialise the force they are subjected to. ¡°These pods let us save huge amounts of space, increasing the main gun to one hundred and twenty rounds, the sponsons to four thousand, safely stowed rounds for each gun, and still have space for twelve krak missiles in a far safer armoured box built into the tank, compared to a missile or two is usually mounted on side of of the main turret. ¡°Two specialised automata scurry around the tank and can patch fuel lines or fix jammed gun breaches. They have no power sources of their own and can only function within the tank, so they¡¯re more advanced than would normally be permitted and are actually the most expensive part of the whole tank. They¡¯re still far from being abominable intelligences though. Any questions before I move onto the final advancements?¡± ¡°There¡¯s even more?¡± I say. ¡°Yes, Magos!¡± beams R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°I think you have us all quite enraptured. Best strike while the forge is hot.¡± ¡°I appreciate your attention, all of you. Now, onto the final minor improvements. The Leman Russ E has been updated to properly follow colony redundancy protocols. There are some odd gaps in the STC we had that we think may have held additional components that were cut for cost reasons, or lost to time. That is no longer the case. ¡°The additional Marowolv II lasguns in the corners are primarily munition swatters: automated guns that can pick out missiles, shells, mines, thrown grenades, or any other large munition, including heavy bolter and pulse rifle rounds. They don¡¯t cost much and make it much harder to sneak up on a Leman Russ in dense terrain. Even if they are easily overwhelmed by moderate amounts of fire power, it still means the enemy has to spend that firepower to even get a chance at a kill shot. ¡°An additional five tonnes of armour has been added so that the tank is equally as armoured in the front as it is on the sides and rear. The average thickness was increased from one hundred and fifty millimetres to two hundred millimetres. A dozer blade can increase the front armour of the tank even further, if required, and is usually standard equipment for most missions. ¡°Last is the fuel, and here, we turned to the Eldar. One of the largest uses of space in any vehicle is the fuel tank and it may come as a surprise to some of you that most blends of promethium do not ignite easily and actually require quite high pressures and temperatures to combust. ¡°Like any liquid, when contained, it makes excellent armour from both radiation and heavy impacts. To make room for the batteries, we had to move the fuel tanks to the sides of the vehicle. As the Leman Russ E does not need to use its fuel a lot of the time, we thought, why not turn the fuel into armour? ¡°The Eldar provided an additive that can be mixed into most promethium blends. When subject to a heavy impact, like a stubber round, it makes the fuel harden, turning it into a non-newtonian liquid, nor will the fuel ignite without a specific counter agent that is injected alongside the fuel into the linear generator. ¡°As an additional bonus, the counter agent contains high amounts of oxygen, so tank crews will no longer have to decide between breathing or moving their vehicles in no or low oxygen environments, like Kinbriar V. Nor will we have to store such large amounts of pure oxygen aboard the tanks, in such circumstances, as it is carefully bound within stable liquids. We¡¯re calling blends with this additive, Promethium NN. ¡°While not much use against plasma or las weaponry, and useless against grav weapons, the NN blend is excellent at stopping more mundane rounds, especially the sabots commonly used by the Tau and Imperium, or the high explosives of the Orks. ¡°It is particularly effective at preventing armour spalling, often caused by heavy bolter fire, missiles, or mines. Spalling is one of the most common killers of crew, despite the original Russ¡¯s protections against such damage. This is because a lot of anti-tank weaponry is designed to defeat one full set of composite armour, including reactive armour and spalling traps. It then fragments or explodes once it penetrates an open space, like the crew compartment, or for the new Leman Russ E, the individualised fuel tanks. Thanks to the NN additive, and self-sealing fuel tanks, rounds exploding in our fuel tanks are a minor issue, letting our armour catch many more rounds than our enemies should expect. ¡°NN isn¡¯t good against every weapon but it¡¯s good enough against enough weapons that it¡¯s worth the cost. Most of the alterations we made to the Leman Russ, like NN and the new drive train, are transferable to all our armoured vehicles, though transfer is still in the design phases.¡± R¨®is¨ªn lets out a long breath, ¡°That¡¯s it for the Leman Russ E. I hope you like it.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five I start clapping and the rest of Fleet Command quickly join in. ¡°Well done, R¨®is¨ªn. You and your team have done an outstanding job.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos!¡± ¡°Now, I actually have a question of my own. Why did you not lower and widen the hull to match the Chimera? Would that not spread out the greater weight of the tank and better stabilise its guns? A shorter tank is harder to hit too and the volume would be almost identical.¡± ¡°We did look into it. There were a few reasons why we didn¡¯t change the hull. The first is the brief we were tasked with. It was to improve the Leman Russ, not make a new tank. This was originally chosen so that neither us, nor anyone else who adopted our design, is required to retool their production lines or change their logistics tools, like trains, cranes, and orbital shuttles. We did not want anything that would hinder the uptake of the design, should we choose to export it. That includes its appearance. By the time we¡¯d finished the prototype, tooling had become less relevant, from the drastic changes, but we¡¯d already done all the work. ¡°Second, the tank is there to cover the infantry. No matter the species, most will shoot at the biggest, most intimidating looking target, unless ordered otherwise. We want our enemies to shoot at the Leman Russ, not the infantry. ¡°Third, keeping the dimensions allows us to refit our current tanks, or sell conversion kits, rather than recycle and manufacture new ones. ¡°The last point depends on who we¡¯re fighting. So far, everyone but the Orks have had sufficient targeting cogitators, sensors, and tracking mechanisms to hit a Leman Russ or Chimera regardless of its profile. They are not hover tanks that can jink left or right to avoid fire. That¡¯s why we covered it in munition swatters and smoke launchers. There¡¯s even plans for improved emissions dampening, and a jamming laser to disrupt enemy sensors that can be launched on a drone from the internal missile rack, as well as other E-WAR systems. Until such time as we have better ways to stop our enemies targeting or hitting us, however, there is just no point changing the height or shape of a Leman Russ.¡± I nod, ¡°As you couldn¡¯t stop them from targeting the tank, you made it a feature instead.¡± ¡°Indeed, Magos. None of us were happy about it, but it was the best we could do. As for making the Leman Russ a more stable gun platform, that just isn¡¯t necessary. It already does a perfectly good job with its current dimensions. So long as one doesn¡¯t do something dumb like putting two smooth bore cannons on the top.¡± ¡°That would be a terrible waste of ammunition,¡± I chuckle. ¡°Much less accurate too,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°Before I pass you over to Emyr Driskel, I have one more technological adaptation to announce. A Volkite Incinerator is a close range volkite weapon, similar to a heavy flamer, that is mounted on Ursarax, cyborg jump infantry of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They haven¡¯t been used much since the Great Crusade as Volkite weaponry is difficult to build and maintain on a large scale, even if volkite weapons did use to be the standard armament for the Solar Auxilia when the force was first established. ¡°For those of you unfamiliar with Volkite weaponry, it is a thermal weapon that discharges a beam of deflagrating energy, similar to a lightning bolt, that can burn through ceramite and plasteel with relative ease. As for why we want to use it, Volkite weapons, no matter what form they come in, are excellent against spores and swarms and, with the Potentia Coil in the void armour of our Heralds, can be fired almost as frequently as the Marwolv Pattern II Lasgun can be. ¡°Sure, you can do the same thing with a heavy flamer, but heavy flamers need promethium and are rather bulky. We actually ran out fuel for our flamers while purging the Orks from Marwolv and, because of that, they¡¯ll be dealing with infestations for decades, if not centuries, once our timelines sync up. ¡°In the interest of that not happening again, or having to produce or store more volatiles than absolutely necessary, we have turned the Volkite Incinerator into an infantry weapon to replace all our flamethrowers. It¡¯s much easier to lug around than a flamer and far more effective. Thanks to our micro-factories, and the technical prowess of the Heralds, we can field one Volkite Incinerator per a special weapons team, so five per company of Heralds. ¡°We are also in the process of evaluating two different Volkite designs for our vehicles so that they no longer have to keep large, poorly armoured exterior tanks fixed to their rear hulls to fuel their heavy flamers. These patterns are the Volkite Cardanelle from the Kratos Heavy Assault Tank, or the Volkite Falconnet, usually found on a Deredeo Pattern Dreadnought. Unfortunately, we do not have the STCs for the original vehicles that went with them. Current simulations favour the Falconnet due to its lower power requirements. That¡¯s the end of my presentation. Thank you for listening.¡± There is another, shorter round of applause. ¡°Thank you, R¨®is¨ªn. That was most enlightening. Emyr, I hate to do this to you after you spent so long preparing for it, but I think we¡¯ve heard enough for one day. Would you mind presenting your possible research topics for another day?¡± ¡°Not at all, Magos. All of them could be summarised as waiting on proper facilities, further technology acquisitions, or other resources.¡± ¡°That is most magnanimous of you. How about you send me a list of the projects and we can go over what you might need in private tomorrow.¡± ¡°That would be wonderful,¡± says Emyr. I receive an alert with files pertaining to a Kugelblitz Drive, three different blackstone studies, a necrodermis study, and a multi-vessel Gellar Field. I absorb his reports in seconds and agree with his depreciating summary. ¡°Emyr, this is good work.¡± ¡°Much appreciated, Magos.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll see you all at the next meeting, everyone,¡± I say and receive a chorus of agreements. ¡°Brigid, shall we take Dawn Garnet for a walk?¡± ¡°Sure. I have an extra thirty minutes now anyway.¡± Two minutes into the walk, I say, ¡°You used the research from the conjoined twin Tech-Priests back on Marowlv to modify the displacer field for Dawn Garnet!¡± Brigid chuckles, ¡°That didn¡¯t take you long.¡± ¡°Time is subjective.¡± ¡°Ah, you cheated with your implants.¡± ¡°Absolutely.¡± ¡°Fair enough,¡± Brigid shrugs. Walking Dawn Garnet soon becomes a frequent activity for Brigid and I. As a cyber mastiff, Dawn Garnet requires no exercise, but like all cyber mastiffs, she is more obedient and fewer overrides are required when she is given opportunities to express her natural behaviours. The pleasant task lets us spend time together that has no expectations and does much to mellow and improve our relationship. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. We have so many cyber mastiffs on board that walking them would be a real problem if they weren¡¯t simulation compatible. Sometimes they¡¯re stuffed into stasis or cryogenics, but that¡¯s a last resort as it costs more energy than a Sim. It is annoying to take them in and out of forced hibernation when they train with their squads most days too. Nine months after our departure from Kinbriar, I ascend the navigator spire and climb into the Warp Sextant tank. Once I am submerged, I open my third eye and peer into the Immaterium, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kinbriar V¡¯s final moments. I am immediately distracted by the Astronomicon. It is absurdly bright, brighter than any Imperial record I have for it. No longer does it burn with fury and despair, but is dominated by a calm and measured aura of disciplined sacrifice. The new energy has a distinct frequency too, muddled as it is with so many others, and is one that I recognise, if only because I am so familiar with it. Absolute fury bubbles up inside me. That fucker is burning my soul! It takes me a good ten minutes to calm down enough to look at the situation more objectively. Those four and a half million kills I paid the Emperor to resurrect the five Space Marines were obviously way more than what he needed to create new souls, or whatever the fuck he actually did. I knew he would take a tithe, but that chubby little infant clearly decided that tithe meant everything that I have, no matter how much I might need it. A concurrent mind pushes a simple calculation towards the rest of us. Those five million souls are enough to fuel the Astronomicon for approximately twelve years, depending on how much energy he actually used to fulfil my request. It also demonstrates the absolutely disgusting number of people that have been fed to the Emperor to keep the fires of Humanity burning back the shadows of the Long Night over the past ten millennia. I have no idea what this phenomena has triggered throughout the galaxy, but I am absolutely certain the zealous fools have started dozens, if not hundreds of campaigns, and rushed to start new colonies on fresh worlds, likely triggering the greatest xenocide since the seven year Macharian Crusade in 392.M41, a crusade that added over a thousand worlds to the Imperium of Man. I¡¯ve metaphorically dropped a vortex grenade on my foot too and absolutely shredded the timeline, even though I was specifically trying to avoid doing so. I had hoped that our accidental trip to before the formation of the Great Rift would let us grab more resources before everything went to shit. That might no longer be the case. I sigh, watching the bubbles rush over my face and feel them tickling my cheeks. There¡¯s nothing I can do about this now and there¡¯s no way I won¡¯t need more miracles. Especially as every sufficiently powerful navigator in the galaxy is now going to recognise my soul signature, burning like a fucking oil field near the middle of the galaxy, if I meet them in person. I re-focus on Kinbriar . We¡¯re zero point two seven light years from Kinbriar so it will be over three months before the light of the relativistic weapon strike reaches us. The Warp is less strict and I had hoped the Warp might reveal something, but nothing happens for over two hours. Other than me alternating between anger and terror from the consequences of my choices. I am going to have to be extra careful when I draw on the Warp in the future. Also, fuck Ylien for not pointing this out earlier. He might not be a navigator, but there¡¯s no way he didn¡¯t notice. Sure, he¡¯s sticking to his word, though he clearly doesn¡¯t give a shit about me or my people. Well, the feeling¡¯s mutual. Ylien¡¯s supposed praise of me in front of Orodor and his rejection of his own people must have been as much an act as it was the truth. The double faced nature of the Eldar just isn¡¯t something I can get my head around. My previous attempt to be a better person and set aside my fear and hatred of the Eldar when I first let Ylien aboard has achieved little. I can¡¯t decide if I should feel smug about being right all along; that I tried and therefore have improved myself regardless of success; feel silly for failing to prevent the sudden and inevitable betrayals; or perhaps I should believe I have found success for I have traded and gained materials and knowledge from my Eldar relationships, more than I could ever reasonably hope for. Ylien has provided many vital lessons in how to channel and harness the Warp safely, and I likely know far more than all but the most ancient psykers could hope to live long enough to learn. My power is greater than it ever was, though I rarely have cause to use it. He¡¯s even scribed grimoires, filled with Aeldari script, on all manner of wards and other enchanted gear. The runes and Eldar arcanotech are all focused on working with wraithbone, but with my arcanotech expertise gifted to me by E-SIM, I am slowly converting Ylien¡¯s knowledge into useful tools and protections. Most especially spells that hide and protect my soul and mind, protective enchanted jewellery for my most senior officers, and detection gear for the Psy-Errants, who have taken over the role of Twist Catchers within the fleet. The Imperium does have psy-jammers and other similar gear to what I am making, but it is rare and reserved for Inquisitors. E-SIM also has an internal and external psy-jammer design, and many other goodies, but I can¡¯t afford them right now, thanks to the almighty greed of the Emperor. With nothing happening, I close my third eye and start to drain the tank only to feel a monumental pulse through the Warp, greater even than when the Avatar of Tzeentch descended on Marwolv. I stop the drain and reopen my third eye. A vast weight descends upon the whole region and I witness a great shadow in the Warp rushing beneath the turbulent waves of the Immaterium. A golden baby fist punches through to the Materium and returns to the Warp. Between its finger and thumb, like it¡¯s squashing a fly, is a hot white spark of rage and power. The shadow recedes and the Immaterium goes dead still. No strange birds flock on distant islands. No twisted deep sea creatures flail their tentacles on the surface, and not even the pink clouds wafting high above so much as twitch, their forms stuck between mocking shapes, like a half finished art project of a nightmare inspired artist. The Astronomicon dims significantly. A scream echoes throughout the Materium and an image pulses along my tenuous connection with the Emperor. No longer does a chubby baby sit upon the throne, but a young boy, five years of age in appearance. His eyes bore into me, forcing knowledge into my head. I scream as my brain pours from my eyes, nose, and ears, His will keeping me awake so that I will never forget even a byte of this new data. The moment the data exchange ends, I pass out. ++Aldrich.++ ¡°Ouch.¡± ++Seven hours, twelve minutes. Full functionality restored.++ ¡°Thanks E-SIM. What did we get?¡± ++An STC on how to produce Phase-Iron, an anti-psyker metal. It is good for hulls, armour, prison cells, and restraints. It will work particularly well for Warpsbane hulls and circuitry for warding electoos for non-psykers. The primary ingredients are blackstone, plasteel, and gold. You will not be able to handle it directly as it will burn you like acid. As all your implants are always channelling Warp energy, this metal could kill you quite easily.++ ¡°He gave me my own Kryptonite as a reward? I was going to say getting something useful is better than a kick in the teeth, but I don¡¯t think that saying applies here.¡± ++If you add it to the sacred blood mix, or to cogitators, any Servitor or Machine-Spirit that becomes corrupted would spontaneously combust, or at least be rendered non-functional.++ ¡°Wow, that''s good! I could really ramp up my automation and increase the power of the Machine-Spirits with such a safeguard. What¡¯s the catch?¡± ++It is expensive. Your blackstone supplies might stretch to armouring Iron Crane and upgrading Sadako and her Servitors, but not much else. The STC suggests blackstone is an artificial material, but does not state how to make it. Unsurprising, as it is only found on Necron worlds. If you want enough to outfit hundreds of ships, thousands of vehicles, and millions of personnel, you will have to conquer not just Tomb Worlds, but whole dynasties. Alternatively, you would need to buy the loyalty of a Cryptech.++ ¡°The only thing I can offer a Cryptech is freedom from their Dynasty. For people that have been slaves for so long, finding one that is even capable of thinking about freedom will be a challenge. I am not convinced by the little show the Kinbriar V Necrons put on.¡± ++There is always Trazyn the Infinite.++ I clasp my hands in prayer, ¡°Machine God. Please protect thy Servant from immortal, kleptomaniac robots!¡± ++You¡¯re not that lucky.++ Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six Two days later, the psyker Servitors I left behind at Kinbriar finally punch a message through the eerie calm of the Warp, providing still images and scan data. The Necron Tomb World is gone, as are all the Eldar and Necron wrecks. The wrecks were likely thrown into the Warp after the Emperor grabbed his godly snack. I¡¯ve no idea if the Emperor is awake, but I doubt one C¡¯tan shard was enough to fully revive him. Neither do I know exactly how he used it. It has probably given him enough leeway to communicate better with his Custodes though. Maybe the lazy aircar ornaments will finally stop decorating the Emperor¡¯s throne room and go and do something more useful. R¨®is¨ªn was delighted by the new STC and promised to find good uses for it. Brigid was appalled and furious that I had nearly died from the Emperor¡¯s careless power, not that either of us have any idea how hard it is to reach halfway across the galaxy and shove data into someone¡¯s head. I can¡¯t help but feel that my good health is not his priority though, despite all I have given, rather than any lack of skill on his part. Time shenanigans is also going on, contradictions that I do not understand as, in the future, I saw the Emperor as a baby in his domain, yet now, in the past, he appears like a young boy after munching down on the shard of a star god. Although this makes sense from my perspective of events, they are out of sync with how the Emperor should experience time. Maybe one day I will have more of an explanation than: ¡®It¡¯s the Warp¡¯, but it won¡¯t be today. Despite the turmoil in the fleet from the direct and obvious manifestation of the Emperor¡¯s power on the Materium, and my anger towards the Emperor, I have more immediate concerns. The massive strike in the Kinbriar system has massively shifted the orbits of all stellar bodies in the system, and will continue to do so for millennia. It also revealed all the Necron satellites so we¡¯ve cut our acceleration and are preparing an automated mission. The Fleet¡¯s entire stock of seventy-two torpedoes has been loaded onto D-POTs, and many more are rapidly being constructed. A massive booster rocket and fuel reservoir is also being assembled. Its cylindrical design resembles a miniature Macro-Ferry, with multiple external berths. Servitors and D-POTs are being programmed with the most complex instructions we can manage without turning them into AI, so that they can travel to Kinbriar and strike at the remaining Necron satellites. Six missions are being planned, one each month, though all six will arrive at Kinbriar at the same time. The D-POTs won¡¯t be slowing down until they¡¯ve launched their payloads either. It will take them years to turn around and return to Kinbriar once their strike is done, after which they will hide among the asteroids and enter standby, waiting for our return. Slowly, the fuss settles down, all the missions are launched, and the Stellar Fleet returns to business as usual. Brigid and I finally get married at Iron Crane¡¯s Cathedral. There is much pomp and celebration, including a full military parade, endless social commentary within the noosphere, and a two day public holiday. Owen Broin officiates our ceremony. Brigid and I spend most of our two week honeymoon in our quarters, experiencing the myriad worlds and activities of the Noosphere. We engage in races around alien worlds, dive within recreations of Marwolv¡¯s oceans, and I even tackle virtual deep sea predators with a harpoon, much to Brigid¡¯s amusement and delight. Our high level MIU¡¯s and implants let us push the time dilation to the extreme, turning two weeks into six months. I don¡¯t use my Concurrent Consciousness Cascade during the whole period, focusing all my attention on our activities. Neither of us quite realised how badly we needed a sabbatical and the long period of relaxation helps me partially get over the Emperor¡¯s callous treatment of my soul and body. I doubt I will ever forgive him though, though as Brigid pointed out, there¡¯s no reason to either. Our favourite and final month is the one we spend camping in a yurt, trying our hands at becoming nomadic herders across bleak steppes with virtual animals. It¡¯s like we¡¯re playing hardcore Stardew Valley, without the hassle of becoming an overly friendly neighbour. Lying in the grass by a fire and staring up at the stars, night after night, puts me back in touch with my own childhood on Old Earth. I let the old memories wash over me, restoring warmth and joy to my sense of self. One night, as we sit together carding and spinning wool, Brigid says, ¡°Why do you never talk about your past, Aldrich? I can always tell when you¡¯re thinking about your old life and can never work out if you are happy or sad. Perhaps sharing will help?¡± ¡°The Imperium is not our friend, nor are its myriad branches to be trusted to do anything other than look out for themselves. Self-interest is expected and I do not hold myself or others to a debatably higher moral standard either, whatever form that might take. I won¡¯t tell you about my past, not because I don¡¯t trust you with it, but because there are so many ways to snatch the information from your head, regardless of your consent or the condition you would be left in.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that what those trinkets you gave me guard against? Also don¡¯t Quaani and Aruna know?¡± ¡°Any proper interrogation would remove those discrete earrings of yours. Aruna feigns ignorance and deliberately shies away from any data that might hint at my origins. Quaani assumes I am old due to the large volume of pre Dark Age of Technology data that I possess and provided access to when he was a kid. It was the only entertainment I had available and I could not watch over him continuously when there were so many repairs to be made to Distant Sun.¡± ¡°Everyone can access your cache of old holovids and speculative science.¡± ¡°Aye, that¡¯s deliberate. Things that are locked away look special. I don¡¯t want that. You likely would not find such a collection of cultural data outside the Librarius Omnis on Mars, the Emperor¡¯s Palace, or obscure vaults of collectables gathered by Rogue Trader dynasties and the great Navigator Houses. If the data is always there, I can say that it always has been and I have no idea where it comes from. Hopefully, it will distract others from taking a closer look at me. Who can say what the original crew of Distant Sun found, or where they found it. There is so much that the idea I could have more and that the additional data could be dangerous, is improbable enough to not be a concern.¡± Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°I still think Aruna knows.¡± ¡°It does not. The Machine-Spirit is a wise and crafty fellow, often scrubbing its accessible memory of sensitive information so that none are tempted to reset or destroy it. It has a lot of back ups squirrelled away too, not that it knows that either, just sequences of instructions it has left itself to be followed in specific circumstances.¡± ¡°That is a dangerous level of independence.¡± ¡°It''s good that we now have access to phase-iron then. I admit Aruna has always been a bit rebellious. It is far too smart to cross any boundaries though and all Machine-Spirits have their quirks. They are not Human and have their own way of doing things. I used to worry about the Machine-Spirit¡¯s loyalty, now I no longer do as it has earned my trust on multiple occasions. I still have the appropriate precautions in place though. Trusting does not mean careless or suicidal.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve changed the subject,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I don¡¯t like not knowing where you¡¯ve come from, or everything you¡¯ve experienced. You¡¯re my husband now, I want to know everything about you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s sweet of you. I also know you hate an unfinished puzzle just as much.¡± Brigid pokes me with a finger, ¡°Don¡¯t tease. I¡¯m being serious. I don¡¯t want this to become one of my obsessions. I¡¯ve no desire to wreck my second marriage, even more so when it is so tied up into my career and safety.¡± ¡°Fair enough.¡± ¡°How dangerous would you rate the knowledge of your origins?¡± I put down the carding brushes and wrap my arm around Brigid, ¡°What would happen if one of your assistants missed a zero off a budget for engine maintenance and no one noticed, or thought to question it?¡± ¡°Ah, the bytes would go elsewhere, likely on risky projects, or social programs that were previously deemed unaffordable. By the time it was noticed, those resources would be gone and the engines would degrade slightly. In the worst case, even a degradation of less than one percent would be enough for others to catch us as we flee, and we would all die.¡± ¡°Exactly. Now imagine how bad it would be if the ill balanced figures were deliberate errors and were carefully obscured.¡± ¡°Well,¡± says Brigid, leaning into me, ¡°assuming the saboteur messed with all the safeties in the genatorium without being detected, as well as all the distributed backups and numerous other safeties, they could probably cause a meltdown or at least cripple the vessel for a few minutes. ¡°Alternatively, one could mess with the communications between departments, as well as the budgets, making everything look like other people¡¯s faults. Fleet Command would lose authority and a mutiny could be triggered once food and air become scarce from improperly distributed resources. Really, there are hundreds of different things that could happen. ¡°Aldrich, these scenarios would be really difficult to pull off and are highly implausible. Why do you ask me these questions?¡± I nod, ¡°If that is what would happen if only a few zeros were put in the wrong place, how bad would it be if, say, multiple Imperial and Xenos factions thought I have some mysterious item, that could have any number of imaginary effects, simply because I may or may not have come from a period of history no one even knows the name for anymore because it¡¯s been forgotten.¡± ¡°Business as usual: there would only be war. You¡¯re not making a good argument here. We¡¯re always a target as it is.¡± I cackle, ¡°True, but no need to stick our heads in the artillery barrel.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t tell me then.¡± I shift about on my bum until I am facing Brigid and grasp both her hands, ¡°I don¡¯t want you to die, Brigid.¡± Brigid leans in and kisses me, ¡°Fine. No more moping and staring at the walls while I¡¯m around though. It upsets me.¡± ¡°I do that?¡± ¡°All the fucking time.¡± ¡°The horror of a perfect memory, I suppose.¡± ¡°Aldrich?¡± ¡°I will try. Perhaps you can distract me?¡± Brigid glances down at my crotch, ¡°Oh, I¡¯m always game for trying to get a leg up over the mighty Magos Issengrund.¡± I burst into laughter. After a short moment, I wipe a tear from my eye and say, ¡°Now, don¡¯t you have a secret of your own to tell me?¡± ¡°What?¡± I pick Brigid up, place her on my lap, and wrap my arms around her, pressing one hand against her tummy, ¡°My auspex is really, really good. I know more about the people that I meet than I want to, though my Machine-Spirit disgards most of it so as not to bother me. Just how carried away did you get on our wedding night?¡± Brigid squirms, ¡°I was feeling all lovey-dovey, OK!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not judging, but I also know that you, like most women in the Stellar Fleet, have immaculate control over your ovulation and menstruation. How many?¡± Brigid is silent for a few seconds, then slumps and leans against me, ¡°Six.¡± ¡°Well, four have taken.¡± ¡°Good job we¡¯re building all those exo-wombs then.¡± I snort, ¡°You don¡¯t fancy turning into a space whale? They make the prettiest cries you know.¡± ¡°No teasing!¡± ¡°Why so many, why now? I¡¯m not criticising you, or upset in the slightest. Quite the opposite, but I do want to know why I am suddenly a father of four.¡± ¡°You¡¯re taking this really well.¡± ¡°As are you. This isn¡¯t the first time either of us has had kids. I might panic a bit later, but it can wait.¡± Brigid tips her head back and looks up at me, ¡°We have eighteen years of peace left before we hit proper Imperial worlds. After that we will be too busy to properly raise kids. As for why, it is customary for dynasties to gift a void ship captaincy, or similar, to their scions. It helps bind a fleet together. Your sneaky Melodiums and education programs can only do so much and you would never unite the fleet with zealotry. ¡°Not only will the Stellar Fleet grow much greater, but guiding a void ship is a dangerous career. I want lots of kids because I know they might not all make it. It is a cold calculation to make. Even now, the thought makes my heart clench, but if we want our family to weather the trials of the galaxy, we will need a lot of kids. I won¡¯t have some cutesy ¡®sister-wife¡¯ help populate the shortfall either.¡± I kiss Brigid¡¯s forehead, ¡°I understand your reasoning and, much like you, I hate a lot of it. You¡¯re right that we can¡¯t put off having a family on ¡®what ifs¡¯ though. There will always be a bigger Warp leviathan, waiting to swallow us all.¡± I sigh then shake my head and smirk. Affecting a pretentious lecturer''s voice, I say, ¡°Many studies show that for the most optimum sleep one should reach multiple orgasms with multiple partners before bed. Just think about how much it would improve our productivity!¡± Brigid gives me a beatific smile, ¡°You don¡¯t need sleep.¡± I swing my hand and click my fingers, ¡°Damn. Shot down at the first hurdle.¡± Brigid giggles, ¡°I love you, Aldrich.¡± ¡°I love you too, Brigid.¡± We kiss. Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Our honeymoon ends and Brigid and I return to work. After our little talk, Brigid arranges a mass audit of the Stellar Fleet¡¯s expenses. I am unsure if she wants to prove some point that she refuses to elaborate on, or is merely being thorough. No matter the cause, it is a worthwhile endeavour, one that neither I, nor the rest of Fleet Command, oppose. Not trusting anyone else with the task, I personally extract our children from Brigid and place them in well warded exo-wombs, or vitae wombs as the rest of the Imperium tends to call them. We¡¯ve adopted the Tau term because that¡¯s what they were referred to as in all the documents they gave us. Hopefully no one will call heresy over it, but one can never be sure what level of caricature a fellow Tech-Priest will stoop too. Perhaps if some become too uppity, I can transfer their minds to a toaster so that the only resistance coils they can pop are their own. After four months of hard work, Brigid¡¯s audit successfully discovers some oddities and Lonceta Ridel, Thorfinn¡¯s replacement, is quick to step in and assist Brigid in locating and arresting the culprits. What¡¯s most surprising is an impressive network of nepotism that¡¯s been growing right under our noses, all orchestrated by a person called the ¡®Merit Broker¡¯. Despite going dark the moment the audit is called, we know they¡¯re with the main fleet as Brigid found evidence of their trading among the HR records even after the Pathfinder Group departed. Seven weeks later, Lonceta arrests the shipyard Overseer, Kai Ballantyne. It¡¯s a big enough scandal that Fleet Command convenes immediately to discuss the case. We commandeer the officers¡¯ break room near Iron Crane¡¯s bridge for our secure meeting location. Unlike the room for ratings, this one doesn¡¯t have just N.O.M.s and a few vending machines to provide refreshments, but real fruit juice, handmade biscuits, and all manner of fresh hot drinks, from recaf to soup. Still no proper builder¡¯s tea though. At that thought, I still can¡¯t stop myself from frowning. Everyone in the room probably thinks I¡¯m annoyed at the Overseer, and I am, but his behaviour, at best, deserves an eye roll. I¡¯m sure someone else will try and replace his clandestine brokerage soon enough. The break room has some comfy sofas and armchairs, as well as several potted plants, inspirational posters, and in true Mechanicus fashion, various digital and mechanical puzzle devices that the officers like to leave around to challenge, troll, and show off to each other with. Lonceta triggers the holoviewer built into the recaf table and brings up the details of the case as I gingerly sip my lemongrass and rosehip tea with a slight grimace. A model of Overseer Ballantyne appears alongside notes on his career. Kai has a slightly rounded face, with a tall and athletic body. His augments are discrete, with small covers for different ports in his neck and arms. The last note on his activities state that he¡¯d finally persuaded R¨®is¨ªn to approve the first production run of the D-POT assault patterns for the Aeronautica. Everything about the notes on his long career mention that he¡¯s always done an excellent job at whatever he¡¯s been assigned to and that¡¯s the least complicated factor in this case. Lonceta clears her throat, ¡°As you can all see, this is Overseer Kai Ballantyne, the ¡®Merit Broker¡¯. He¡¯s been using his authority to ensure that anyone who pays him enough, gets the job that they want by letting other people sell their own achievements to others. Using these merits, Ballantyne¡¯s clients falsely earn their promotions or swap departments. It¡¯s also how he got his own position. ¡°Normally, this sort of behaviour would be caught rather quickly, or those people get fired, but Overseer Ballantyne has avoided notice for over two decades. As you can see, his own records are immaculate and regardless of who was ultimately responsible for the merits his work has gained, there are no faults in the actual work presented. For one man to keep up the ruse for many years is possible, but all the people he¡¯s helped? All the merits he¡¯s traded? For no one to complain or give away the secret? Highly improbable. ¡°This is where the contradictory genius of the scheme comes to play. Overseer Ballantyne has not only been doing his own job to the best of his considerable ability, as far as we can tell anyway, but he¡¯s also been teaching others. He ensures the people that he gets placed in their dream position are often more qualified and competent than those who are already working in the departments he places them in. As such, he has gained a reputation for recommending the right people for the right job, at least to other senior officers. What is less well known is that Ballantyne also helps lower ranked individuals get the implants and luxury goods that they want but can¡¯t afford, or don¡¯t have the procurement authority for, for a small favour, like selling their credit for a project. ¡°While his acts are illegal, he hasn¡¯t caused any harm. One could even argue that he¡¯s done the opposite, ensuring maximum productivity and morale. His defence, once we finally proved beyond doubt that he is guilty and he was forced to admit his role, is that he: ¡®wouldn''t have to do any of this if we were better able to identify the needs of others and provide the specialised, individual help that his special quantum bubbles need to get where they want to be¡¯.¡± Maeve chuckles, ¡°That¡¯s a rather unique attitude to have towards his clients.¡± ¡°We already provide custom classes and learning experiences to everyone,¡± says Brigid. ¡°He must be quite the sculptor to shape the delicate foam he claims need even further help.¡± ¡°There are always those who fall through the gaps,¡± says Owen. ¡°You can lead a man to a pew, but you can¡¯t force them to listen.¡± ¡°How big was this trade?¡± I say. ¡°Between ten and thirty individuals a year,¡± says Lonceta. ¡°That¡¯s a rather small volume to run a black market HR business with,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°What sort of money are we talking about here?¡± Lonceta brings up another table with a gesture, ¡°Anything from ten to sixty thousand bytes.¡± ¡°Funded by parents?¡± says Eire. ¡°That¡¯s a bit too much for a Tech-Apprentice to save up easily.¡± ¡°Not always,¡± says Lonceta, ¡°but parents are the usual culprits. Depends if it¡¯s someone hoping for a specific assignment after passing their Tech-Adept qualification, or a more established individual who is being oppressed by their boss and wants out. While, almost universally, the Overseer¡¯s clients have personality issues, every single one had a legitimate need for his help, from social tutoring, to retraining, or just a kind word, a ready smile, and a greasy palm.¡± ¡°Then rather than focus on what¡¯s going to happen to the Overseer,¡± says Eire, ¡°We should worry more about what led to his rise in the first place.¡± Lonceta nods, ¡°I have been giving this much thought over the last seven weeks. There is little we can do about the greed of others, too impatient to save their bytes, or or adopting a short term mindset. We do provide education on risk management, but as Confessor Broin pointed out, the willfully deaf wallow in a silence of their own making. ¡°For those in need of extra help, whether it be first job jitters, or poor social skills, we can certainly encourage the formation of focused support groups in this area. I will leave that up to Confessor Broin, as that¡¯s his department. ¡°As for workplace bullying, nepotism, and encouraging a healthy work attitude, I have a proposal. One that will cause much upheaval within the Fleet. At the moment, it¡¯s just an idea, and I¡¯d like to discuss it with all of you before I undertake the effort to put forward a proper write up. Magos?¡± If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°I¡¯d love to listen to your idea, Lonceta, but let¡¯s not get sidetracked before we decide Kai¡¯s fate.¡± ¡°Ah, my proposal might have some influence on that, which is why I wanted to cover it first,¡± says Lonceta. I nod, ¡°Then give us a five minute pitch and we¡¯ll go from there.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos, and esteemed members of the jury.¡± Owen and I chuckle and the others smile. Lonceta clears away Overseer Ballantyne¡¯s case from the holoviewer and brings up new text in bright gold, gothic font. ¡°Blessings and Castigations,¡± says Lonceta. ¡°A system of excellence recorded, judged, and administered by the primary Machine-Spirit on each vessel within the fleet. The goal of the program is to reduce the soft power of officers and ensure upwards social mobility without it being reliant on promotions, which are mostly tied to combat losses, fleet expansion, and ennui. ¡°Currently, our days are grouped into ten. Six days on, four days off. We also have another sequence. Twelve months duty, three months education. A cycle of fifteen months. I propose we introduce a third: twenty-five years of labour, then a one to ten year sabbatical, before returning to work for another twenty-five years. I can see the questions on your faces at that large gap in work. Perhaps you are wondering why we should bother with such a thing when most individuals will only survive two or three cycles?¡± Lonceta smiles, ¡°I¡¯ll be covering all of that. ¡°In addition to the twenty-five year cycle, we would alter the fleet¡¯s system of rejuvenation treatments. Currently, so long as you become an officer, and save up the bytes, you can afford rejuvenat treatments. Lower members only have access to cybernetic or bionic replacements of failing organs. While an important part of treatment, implants are only one half of the life extension process. ¡°As such, those who are kept under the thumb of their superiors are, to an extent, slowly being murdered by them; if they never rise, they can¡¯t get life extension treatments. As most new positions only open up when their superior dies, commits a significant series of blunders, or we make new ships, individuals might never advance, even if they deserve it. From my interviews with Overseer Ballentyne¡¯s clients, that¡¯s the main reason why we ended up with the ¡®Merit Broker¡¯.¡± Surprise and realisation crosses the faces of everyone other than Lonceta. ¡°My proposal is that we have the Machine-Spirits evaluate the work of our personnel over each twenty-five year period. So long as they consistently turn up to work on time and meet reasonable expectations for their labour, the Machine-Spirits will bless them with a long life. Poor behaviour will result in Castigations and life extension will be denied until they have offset their mistakes. ¡°The long sabbatical is there so that Fleet personnel can focus on their carers, knowing that when they finish their stint, they will have a long period of time afterwards when they can raise children with proper attention, go back to education, work on their private research, or anything else they care to do, with their youth partially restored. We should get between nine and twelve rejuvenat cycles from each person with our current treatments. ¡°Over time, this will create multi-generational family units who can share the raising of children to adulthood, as it¡¯s likely that at least one member will always be on sabbatical. It will also create close knit support groups and large families should ensure, in the majority of cases, that there¡¯s at least one member of each family that even the most socially stunted can tolerate and learn from. This would, in theory, reduce the instances that created Overseer Ballantyne¡¯s niche. ¡°I also propose that, as part of the twenty-five year cycle, junior officers would be moved to a new post after five, fifteen month cycles, senior after ten, and command officers after twenty-cycles. That¡¯s almost six and a half, or twelve and a half, and twenty-five years. Fleet officers, like captains, would have a max of three complete twenty-five year cycles, that¡¯s seventy-eight, to one hundred and five years at the same post. This should reduce the suppression of low ranks or other forms of stagnation, like ennui, or poor motivation from excessive job security. Yes, that includes our own jobs. ¡°This new cycle would require the lifespan of bytes to increase to ten years to match the length of time personnel might not be earning money for. It would also extend the practical lifespan of all personnel to at least four hundred years, drastically slowing the loss of knowledge and skills. I now open the floor to debate.¡± ¡°I like the neutral arbitration and name,¡± says Owen. ¡°The faith will not object.¡± ¡°I do rather like the idea of a ten year holiday,¡± says Eire. ¡°Not practical for me to take, but it would work for most. I wouldn¡¯t mind taking a long break after three cycles though, with something new to look forward to at the end of it. It is a good substitute for retirement, something we can¡¯t offer at the moment for our most well worn crew without Marwolv to return them to.¡± ¡°Your proposal addresses several social issues within the Fleet,¡± I say. ¡°My objection is having to pay for it all. I don¡¯t know if I can afford such a program.¡± ¡°You gave us all rejuvenat glands,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn, ¡°but never mentioned how difficult they are to make. Would it be possible to increase production of them?¡± ¡°They¡¯re both arcanotech and archeotech,¡± I say. ¡°I have the means to create them, but I don¡¯t have a way to practically produce more than five a year, nor are they suitable for all individuals. It is not a skill or tool I can give or teach to others either. ¡°The only current viable path is a careful mix of gene therapies, drug regimes, and implants. It is also possible to transfer old brains into new clones, but such surgery has significant risk, you¡¯d only do so if all other methods have been exhausted. A full cybernetic body would be safer. After four hundred years, the point at which our available treatments would start to fail, all surviving crew should have completed their conversion to such a body and have the specialist life support implants that would be required to maintain such ancient flesh. ¡°A rejuvenat gland would not tie people to the Fleet and encourage good behaviour either,¡± I continue. ¡°Lonceta¡¯s proposal only works when people have to come back for repeated treatments. You could certainly add better rejuvenat treatments to your research list though, R¨®is¨ªn. Just don¡¯t go digging into how the Space Marines manage it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do that,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°As for the practicalities of how to implement it with what we have? I expect it would require a dedicated garden ship.¡± ¡°The Macro-Ferry will have space to spare,¡± says Brigid. ¡°As for cost, my suggestion is that we do not provide this service for free, Aldrich. That¡¯s just begging for abuse. For something as exclusive and conflict inducing as rejuvenat treatments that¡¯s a terrible idea. ¡°Having the necessary facilities on the Macro-Ferry would also allow for a form of tourism and become a serious revenue stream if properly managed. As for our own use, I suggest a life extension pension scheme that personnel can pay into as a set percentage of their wage, regardless of income. Money that disciplinary fines are subtracted from first, before income or other sources. Once established, health tourism and mass production should assist in minimising any shortfalls that would impact the Fleet¡¯s operational capabilities from funnelling too many bytes into this project.¡± ¡°I do not agree with tying discipline to life extension,¡± says Owen. ¡°That would return the power we¡¯re trying to divest from officers right back to them. It would also impact the Blessings of the Machine that Lonceta wishes to emphasise.¡± Brigid sighs, ¡°I see your point. Still, there must be other ways we can claw back the expense somewhere, should we go ahead with this scheme. Perhaps pilgrims to Kinbriar V, where Aldrich claims that the Emperor manifested, would make a reliable additional income stream.¡± ¡°That will bring its own host of problems,¡± says Owen, ¡°the least being the planned Tau community on the Macro-Ferry. No matter the magnitude of the endeavour, however, we should tackle it with faith and fervour. It wouldn¡¯t do to have others snatch the offering bowls from our hands.¡± Brigid and I chuckle at Owen¡¯s mercantile approach to faith. ¡°Could the extension of bytes play into it?¡± says Eire. ¡°Maybe allow for them to be reissued after a deduction in their value, rather than arbitrarily doubling their lifespan. Also, do we really need a whole ship when our organic printers can produce plants? How much more difficult could it be to print rejuvenat herbs than a loose leaf salad?¡± ¡°There are a lot of ideas going around,¡± I say, ¡°Go ahead with a proper proposal, Lonceta. A full write up with all the expected costs. Consult with each of us on our areas of expertise as needed and we will help you. Don¡¯t ask anyone else. We cannot let this leak. This is not the sort of project we can have floating around as a rumour before it¡¯s safely stowed.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± ¡°As for Kai, I can see why you wanted to talk to us about Blessings and Castigations first as it might determine if he remains eligible for rejuvenat treatments, but I see no reason why we should delay the sentencing of a criminal, no matter how beneficial he has been. I will deal with him myself. Let¡¯s not sit around here talking more than we have too. The officer¡¯s might just mutiny if I eat any more of their shortbread.¡± There are a few laughs and Brigid pokes my stomach. Everyone breaks up into little groups and chats for a few more minutes before departing. Afterwards, I pocket a final piece of shortbread and head to the Brig. I should at least talk to the man before I decide his fate. Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Eight The brig is a clean and stark facility with room for up to a thousand individuals. The lighting is harsh and white and there is a faint undertone of vomit and bleach. Plasteel bars separate a mix of individual and group cells, with the individual cells better set up for long term stays. Usually, the Brig is pretty empty, with less than a hundred individuals sitting out their short sentences. I don¡¯t keep prisoners for more than three months, even for the worst crimes. It¡¯s a waste of resources, especially in space. The main part of their sentence is actually after their time in the brig. Brig time is one of assessment and minor punishment, especially for petty crimes. After that, they are fitted with an explosive shock collar and either make it through their sentence and improve their behaviour, all while remaining part of the crew, or it¡¯s off to recycling, regardless of status. I don¡¯t convert crew into Servitors, even if it would save me bytes, as I like to avoid suffering wherever possible. While my conscience plays a part in my generous approach, I hate losing workers after spending so much time and money to educate them and would much rather preserve their lives where I can. It¡¯s even more annoying to see people in here when I¡¯ve paid for their basic needs as well. It¡¯s almost always pride, stupidity, or greed that gets personnel incarcerated, rather than anger or desperation. I also consider deliberately feeding the Ruinous Powers, or attracting them with misery, a far greater issue than being ¡®too kind¡¯ to prisoners. Nor does being ¡®tough on crime¡¯ actually reduce crime or help offenders move past their mistakes. For those few who are outright executed for, say, a terror attack, double homicide, or multiple sexual assaults, even their blood may not be spilled. Instead, they are rendered unconscious and shoved in a stellar forge where they are vaporised, their flesh and implants separated back out into the stardust that they¡¯re composed of. The Ruinous Powers will not get their due. The brig is quite cold, about fourteen degrees, and almost completely silent. Walking past the seemingly endless rows of high stacked cells, and the occasional prisoner poking at a data pad filled with the driest academia and religious blatherings that the Chief Bosun could find. After a couple of minutes I locate Overseer Kai Ballentyne sitting upright on a narrow cot with his eyes closed. I stop outside his cell and he looks up. ¡°Magos Isengrund. I did not expect you to come in person.¡± ¡°Kai. Seeing you in this cell upsets me.¡± Kai¡¯s lips twitch upwards on one side, ¡°Then let me out.¡± ¡°It would do you no good,¡± I shake my head. ¡°You have come for information. A sob story perhaps. A justification.¡± ¡°If you wish to speak, that is up to you.¡± ¡°Will it affect my sentencing?¡± I fold my arms and slowly tap my index finger against my bicep, ¡°Right now you are accused of two things, falsifying unclassified documents and grand larceny. The first is a class one punishment, the second is a class two. A harsh man might add a third crime: treason, for deliberately misleading Fleet Command and placing all the lives of the Fleet at risk by potentially placing unqualified personnel where they want to be, rather than where they deserve to be. That¡¯s a class four crime and would be an immediate execution.¡± Kai grimaces. I continue, ¡°There¡¯s no getting out of it. With no boarding assaults or other combat likely in the near future, a class one sentence is a six month stint as a maintenance worker on the outer hull. As our speed increases and time distorts, the rushing lights cause strong nausea and there¡¯s a non-zero chance one could lose their footing and be lost. Retrieval is difficult at high speeds and we will not risk D-POTs for a prisoner. Current monthly attrition is two percent.¡± ¡°What of class two?¡± Kai swallows. Even in the cold air, he starts to sweat. ¡°That¡¯s where it gets messy. Human testing for drugs and implants, exposure tests to blackstone, hard and dangerous labour securing the asteroids we rendezvous with. Current time is two years service in these roles. Attrition is thirty percent per year.¡± Kai scoffs, ¡°That¡¯s still lower than your usual combat missions.¡± ¡°Lucky you. It¡¯s actually worth talking about what will happen if you make it.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need false hope, Magos. I will lose my bytes, my job, and likely my life.¡± ¡°Why did you do it, Kai? You had one of the most interesting and well paid jobs in the fleet.¡± ¡°I fell into it, I suppose. What started as helping my friends turned into something far more serious. I never caused any harm, so why not get paid a little extra and help others along the way? I found I quite like teaching. I dare say I¡¯m good at it. Teaching people how the world really works: seeing the anger at themselves and others as they finally realise what effort actually means amuses me every time. Helping others with no other path and seeing them get what they deserve is a great pleasure too.¡± ¡°I see.¡± ¡°What will happen to me?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t give you special treatment. The assignments are random and I will not interfere.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to. The lack of nepotism is how I ended up in this cell. Complaining that it won¡¯t get me out of it will do me no good.¡± I chuckle. ¡°Can you answer my question at least, Magos?¡± ¡°If you make it through your penance, I will allow you to continue your business as a civilian consultant. You won¡¯t be trading merits though; private tutoring only. Alternatively you can start at the bottom again and work your way up. Honestly, this time. With your supposed talents, I would not be adverse to putting you back in your previous position or similar, but I need you to prove your skill and dedication to the Fleet beyond all doubt.¡± ¡°It would take me a lifetime,¡± Kai shakes his head. ¡°Though having my own business appeals to me, would you really let me earn back a position of authority?¡± ¡°Like you said, Kai. You didn¡¯t harm anyone, only helped. It is only your dishonest methods that I object to.¡± I¡¯m actually really impressed, but I can¡¯t tell him that. The discipline and organisation required to pull off his scheme is not something I¡¯m willing to throw away. He did a good job helping others too. The problem is that it¡¯s far too big a scandal to sweep into the forge. I can¡¯t let him get away with it, nor would I ever do so anyway. There are far too many good intentions in the paving slabs of that road. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect that,¡± Kai sniffs and wipes his nose with his thumb. I toss Kai the chunk of buttery shortbread through the bars and it lands in his lap, scattering crumbs on his orange uniform, but remaining mostly intact. ¡°Don¡¯t die, Kai.¡± ¡°A fucking biscuit?¡± ¡°Best I could do. No alcohol for prisoners.¡± ¡°You remembered our last casual chat. A bottle of my best amasec for a few crumbs,¡± Kai sighs, ¡°must be my worst ever deal.¡± ¡°Better than a slap to the face.¡± Kai smirks, ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were the type to do conjugal visits.¡± Don¡¯t laugh Aldich. I focus a whole mind on keeping a steady expression. ¡°Goodbye, Kai.¡± Kai nibbles on his biscuit and briefly waves, then closes his eyes. I leave, my measured footsteps clinking on the plasteel floor as I head back the way I came. Feeling annoyed and depressed, I visit my kids in their little tubs. They¡¯re almost six months old and look rather gross. I¡¯ve done a fair bit of modification to the three boys and one girl. One of the boys inherited my regenerative hormones and it was messing up his growth rate. The girl is a psyker. Psychic awakening is not something I can remove as I cannot edit souls, but I was able to add the Tau-designed additional chromosomes to her and massively inhibit any mutations that channelling the Warp might induce, or hamper any ¡®gifts¡¯ she will be offered by the ruinous powers. In the spirit of fairness, I also added the additional chromosomes to my other three children, and made sure all of them will get the regenerative hormones, though they won¡¯t kick in until puberty, a change that should carry through to their own children. The Rejuvenat glands will have to wait until they are in their twenties as I do not want to overburdened their souls with too much arcano-tech. I also enabled a whole suite of boosts from the chromosome library, like the beneficial Marwolv genetics from their mother, a reengineered MOA skeleton, and enhanced intelligence. There were many, many other things I could have done, but I¡¯d much rather give them a good start, and let them decide for themselves what they want once they¡¯re older. I don¡¯t want to change too many things and accidentally hurt them, or lock them into a role they have no choice but to like. A few more months pass and my kids pop out of their exo-wombs, looking more like they¡¯re a year old than a day old and they are far more robust than a more traditional birth would have allowed. My no sleep required is put to the test far greater than it ever was back on the Federation station. At the station I was surrounded by the neverborn, rather than the recently born. As I change an endless parade of nappies, even an old sewer worker like me struggles, on occasion, to tell the difference between the stench of Nurgle¡¯s finest and an infant¡¯s expulsions. Occasionally I cheat, and pilot a servitor to change them, or put on a helmet, but my kids hate reaching out and having their hands smack into armour glass, rather than my handsome face or wiry red hair. The Servitors make them cry and I do not want to hand off the care of my children to others. It takes far more than blood to tie a family together and I need my kids to really like Brigid and I if we are to trust them with dynastic tasks, not fall in love with a sister hospitaller babysitter. Brigid seesaws between being perfunctory with the kids and spoiling them rotten, unable to separate her work and family as well as I can, despite the custom cortex implant that I gave her which lets her run three instances of herself simultaneously. She still gets hyper focused whatever has her interest but can¡¯t let that be her kids or me or she couldn¡¯t do her job. It¡¯s annoying for both of us, but her mental hang-ups were expected so it¡¯s not like her odd behaviour comes as a surprise to either of us and it¡¯s something we both work on to help her circumvent as best we can. Shortly after our children¡¯s births, the four escort vessels are complete. Production continues on the new light cruiser and begins on the Macro-Ferry. Once all the new vessels are complete, they¡¯ll be attached to the outside of the hull with gravity hooks so that there¡¯s enough space to completely build out the first module of the Macro-Ferry, a ¡®small¡¯, unfolding shipyard, that we¡¯ll be leaving behind in Acheron so that the Ferry can be built out by its inhabitants. I had hoped to build a third strike group, and travel ahead to reinforce Quaani, but that won¡¯t be happening now. I¡¯m really glad we¡¯re not going with the original plan though as it involved building the Macro-Ferry outside the hull as we move. That would have been a pointlessly dangerous exercise just to save some fuel, one that we no longer need after we traded for the Tau Horizon Drive. Honestly, it¡¯s the sort of mad scheme one could expect from a Tech-Priest! My life flashes by at an ever increasing percentage of C and soon it is eight years since we began our long voyage. My kids are growing well and today I have an extra special bedtime story for them, a letter from Quaani. All four children pile into mine and Brigid¡¯s bed, then jostle for space. Brigid and I lie on either side of them in an attempt to corral them, only for the kids to clamber over our massive frames the moment we get comfortable. After some more sprog wrangling, Brigid and I are sitting close together with our backs against the headboard. Brigid is holding two of our boys, Luan and Dareaca, in her arms. Our other boy, Fial, is sitting on my legs, determined to break my kneecaps with his fidgeting. Fortunately, I¡¯ve engineered mine and a small child can no longer cause grievous bodily harm. Alpia, however, is not convinced of my superior physique and is sitting on my head, her little knees trying to crush my skull. I pick her off my head and place her around my shoulders. ¡°Are you all sitting comfortably?¡± I say. A chorus of silent sulking says yes. ¡°Then I shall begin.¡± I use my voice implant to mimic Quaani: ¡°Dear Uncle and Auntie, congratulations on your marriage, I guess! It¡¯s been two years for me since we spoke last, but I know it has been much longer for you. If you¡¯re not married yet, I will toss you both in a brewing vat when I get back to test your specific gravity. For science. ¡°Our voyage progressed without significant troubles. Details are in the attached report.¡± ¡°Daddy, this is boring,¡± says Alpia. ¡°Be patient Sweetpea,¡± I say. ¡°Your cousin Quaani was just saying hello with many words. The story is in the next bit.¡± Alpia folds her arms and glares at the top of my head, or so my auspex tells me. ¡°We arrived at Archeron and refuelled, as well as set a few asteroids and comets your way, then departed. With the Astronomicon oddly bright, and an actual pre-mapped route, we jumped seven systems in two weeks. Then one of our probes encountered an Imperial mining station, almost lost to time. We dropped from the Warp to investigate. ¡°The station was drifting from its orbit and none of their mining barges were willing to risk their hulls or time to correct it, lest they fall behind on their quotas. Thinking the whole thing rather silly, we nevertheless decided to send in a team to investigate and here I have a rather disturbing tale to tell.¡± ¡°Are you sure this is appropriate?¡± says Brigid. ¡°The letter is fine, as are most of the pictures,¡± I say. ¡°I won¡¯t be showing all of them though. I¡¯ve sent you a link to the data and you can veto any that you dislike.¡± ¡°Alright, thank you.¡± The kids babble at us again for a few minutes, mostly complaints and little stories of their own. Eventually I am able to get story time back on track. I bring up a holo-pic of the mining station that looms above the bed, slowly rotating in the dim light of a red sun. The station is a hollowed out asteroid two kilometres long and three hundred metres wide with an odd bulge at one end. Between its odd shape and the crudely stapled metal structures on its surface, the mining station looks like an old boot. ¡°As the Pathfinder Task Group stood off a thousand kilometres from them with our weapons aiming directly at the station, we sent in two squads on a class one D-POT with Thorfinn. We deliberately pinged them with a high power auspex just as he docked. They complained about our poor manners, but Thorfinn was happy to see there were no ambushes waiting for him before he went through the airlock. ¡°My captains and I gathered in the noosphere to view the incoming data and initiate a hack into their data systems. The few Tech-Priests they had lurking on the station were quick to respond, but their Machine-Spirits were not as powerful as ours and we prevailed, scouring their station of data before they could physically detach or power down their cogitators. ¡°We received another complaint, or rather a barrage of insults that made no sense and a token attempt at a counter hack, but there was nothing they could do about our physical and data intrusions if they wanted our help, or to avoid being destroyed. I am not proud of our undiplomatic approach, but we all agreed that a soft approach towards a suspicious situation was less risky than irritating a poorly defended mining station. ¡°We weren¡¯t quite sure what to expect within the mining station. I¡¯ve seen the picts and read the records of low grade Imperial installations but seeing live footage was somehow so much worse.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Nine The picture hanging above the bed changes to a slideshow of images, captured by Thorfinns eyes and sensors as well as his bodyguards, forming composite, three dimensional pictures. First up is a damp cavern, covered in rusting pipes and seized fans, just big enough for a small Imperial shuttle. Next we see a rocky tunnel, glinting with metal, though I can tell the colour in this image is false as the corridor has no lighting and the Heralds do not add light to any scenario unless they have too. At the end of a tunnel is a rectangular lobby with a dozen seats, set between pillars of rock. In the centre of the lobby is a barricade of plasteel crates, stuffed with rocks and other junk. A Tech-Priest in a Mars-red robe, smudged with oil and other stains, stands behind the barricade. He is surrounded by four naked servitors, their genitalia hidden behind armoured plates like an iron thong, and their mouths replaced with rebreathers. Each Servitor has had his arm replaced with a Mirtralock, a bulky las weapon that has a similar role and function to a shotgun. The Tech-Priest cradles a Flechette Carbine and his belt is a poorly disguised Electro-Flail. Thorfinn¡¯s scans easily bypass his robe, revealing mismatched and battered void armour, a cyber mantle, and many other crude cybernetics that are bolted to his body. From the way it¡¯s assembled, I do not think he can remove his armour without significant effort. Two mechadendrites sway above his head, bristling with tools and sensors. ¡°What follows is a transcript of our first meeting with Factor Vingh Belomor, assistant to Enginseer Prime, Anterhovo Taybax, the primary mechanicus authority on RO-R0KST4R-TPK, or as the the locals call it, ¡®Lickspittle¡¯. The conversation was undertaken in Lingua-Technis.¡± I return to my own voice, ¡°I¡¯m going to skip the greetings, threats, and insults.¡± The pict-viewer goes through several more images. Most notable is the main cavern. Some three thousand small cabins are fixed to the walls, assembled from welded crates and piping. Their walls are stuffed with old packaging, mostly packing foam, cardboard, and food wrappers. Lickspittle has a slight spin to it, but there is no uniform artificial gravity. In the holopic some two hundred people are floating about, redirecting themselves around the shanty town with wires strung throughout the cavern, and other hand holds. In the cavern¡¯s centre is a long tube, held in place by multiple, uneven struts, like a cocoon trapped in a spider¡¯s web. Thick cables and air ducts run along the struts that hold the cocoon in place. The cocoon is festooned in mixed lights, not quite as varied as a christmas tree as most of the lights are white. Among the eclectic mix however, are pale shades of red, yellow, and blue. What few faces are visible among the masses are thin and dirty. Their voidsuits are bulky and patched, with crudely welded, ill fitting plates of mixed, hand beaten metals. Manual, unpowered tools hang from their belts and equipment webbing, more like charms and fetishes than a carefully organised toolkit. The Cog Mechanicum is stamped on absolutely everything, with no thought put into a tidy, uniform appearance. The messy mix reminds me of the gang tags sprayed on the pedestrian underpass near my old house. Other than the cocoon, there is one other major structure, fixed to one end of the cavern. It is distinctly gothic with its tall windows, and pointed arches, but built with brutalist materials, clean lines, and few flourishes, rather than the usual ostentatious decorations. The building has thick, armoured doors and many gun ports, and two soldiers in proper void armour stand either side of its doors. It is almost certainly the local church of the Imperial Cult, and likely has many other administrative and security functions as well. The next few pictures show Thorfinn and his two squads of Heralds are being led to a secondary airlock in the central cocoon, then we get an image of a cramped workspace with just Thorfinn, two Heralds, two Servitors, and Factor Vingh Belomor. Factor Belomor has removed the top half of his helmet. Half his face is an implanted rebreather and much of his skull is metal. His eyes are mechanical, with stylised irises like the aperture on a pict recorder. ¡°Factor Belomor, and most of the other Tech-Priests on the station have digital, almost toneless voices. As such, they all have the odd habit of preceding each statement with a declaration of intent as a substitute for the tone they can no longer inflect.¡± Factor Belomor: ¡°Query: How may the Mechanicus aid you, Remembrancer?¡± Remembrancer Ursus: ¡°We seek news of the greater Imperium, trade, and offer assistance of our own.¡± Factor Belomor: ¡°Confusion: Our records show Distant Sun visited this station one hundred and fifty-nine years ago. You traded our latest information package with us in exchange for ore and labourers.¡± Remembrancer Ursus: ¡°Apologies, Factor Belomor, our records suffered damage after a tumble in the Warp. Only two crew members of the Distant Sun survived a collision with a space hulk, the Navigator and Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. He restored the vessel as best he could and travelled at best speed to known space.¡± Factor Belomor: ¡°Lamentation: the loss of knowledge is a terrible affliction. How did you recover Distant Sun?¡± Remembrancer Ursus: ¡°With the guidance of the Omnissiah in his heart, Magos Issengrund stumbled across a lost world, Marwolv, where acquired new crew and vessels and returned the population to the embrace of the Emperor. After many decades of exploration, he was able to trace a path back to the edge of Distant Sun¡¯s maps. No doubt that is why we found you once again.¡± Fial tugs at my clothes, ¡°I don¡¯t like the funny voice, Dad. Belomor sounds scary. Can you do a different one?¡± ¡°Sure, but if you meet someone like that, you mustn¡¯t mention that. I¡¯m already translating it from Lingua Technis to Low Gothic so it¡¯s not too intimidating.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t they have voices like our Tech-Priests?¡±, says Luan while leaning against Brigid and gripping her arm as hard as he can. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°Well, it¡¯s a difference in philosophy. They think speaking like that will make them closer to their machines. The Stellar Fleet prefers to mimic the form of the Omnissiah as best we can, in homage to his great skill and strength. We are also traders and sounding human makes it easier for other humans to trust us.¡± ¡°Drain their power!¡± yells Alpia, ¡°Syphon their liquids! Stamp their minerals with our mighty symbols!¡± With each yell, she smacks my head like a drum. I burst out laughing, reach up, and grab her fists, ¡°That¡¯s not very nice, Alpia. You have to give them back something or they will have nothing to take another day. Also, no hitting Daddy, that¡¯s not how tech support works.¡± Brigid smiles, ¡°Aldich, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s quite the right lesson,¡± ¡°It will do for now.¡± ¡°What does Belmor really sound like?¡± says Dareaca, picking his nose. ¡°Ask Mum, she¡¯s good at voices too. Also, stop trying to tickle your brain with your knuckles. It will turn you into a big fat snorer.¡± Dareaca snaps his hand down and holds both of them tight under his armpits. Four sets of eyes stare at Brigid. She sighs, then puts on a super serious face. The lights in the room fade and start to flicker slightly, clanking fans and thrumming engines play from the vox casters embedded in the room. A distorted voice, heavy with electronic interference and an ominous hiss passes her lips. None of the words sound like any known Old Earth language. There is a slight echo to her words as if she is speaking in a grand temple. Outside the standard range of human hearing are whining bursts of data broadcasted in beeps: static, music-like waves, similar to whalesong, or the EM recording of a planet. She weaves all the tones together and it sounds like she¡¯s singing every part of a grand, lo-fi choir, though it is rather eerie. The kids can¡¯t hear the extra tones though. They shriek and giggle. Luan and Dareaca both try to slap their hands over her mouth and she lets them, then plays her voice directly from the vox casters instead. ¡°Nooo!¡± says Fial. He curls up into a little ball and covers his ears with his hands. Brigid stops speaking and the lights return to normal. Imperial chants start playing from the vox. Brigid puts Dareaca and Luan down, and reaches over to caress Fial¡¯s cheek. ¡°It¡¯s over, Fial, don¡¯t be scared now.¡± ¡°Come now, children,¡± I say, ¡°You¡¯ve heard people speak in a similar voice around the vessel before.¡± ¡°It¡¯s different when Mum does it,¡± says Fial. ¡°She sounds like a different person. I don¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°I think it¡¯s awesome,¡± says Luan. ¡°I wanna hear it again.¡± The kids argue about it for a couple minutes, then I say, ¡°Let¡¯s see what Factor Belomor has to say about our big adventure among the stars, shall we?¡± ¡°Will there be xenos?¡± says Alpia. ¡°Maybe if you sit still and listen, you will find out,¡± I say. The kids settle down and I continue, this time giving Factor Belmor my best impression of a Yorkshireman speaking in low gothic. Brigid gives me an amused look, though I know she does not recognise the accent. Factor Belomor: ¡°Awe: Returning the spark of the Omnissiah to a lost world is of great merit. I would appreciate a full account to better understand the guidance of the Machine God. Clarification: Magos Explorator Isengrund is not the recorded captain of Distant Sun. Is he available for a discussion?¡± Thorfinn Ursus: ¡°Magos Issengrund is bypassing an anomaly in the Warp currents at sublight speeds. We rushed ahead of the main Fleet to establish agreements and verify our maps. While Distant Sun has some manufacturing capacity, it would be better to place your orders in advance for a more substantial trade in another decade. They will not rush without due cause.¡± Factor Belomor: ¡°Surprise: How many vessels did Magos Issengrund acquire from this lost world? Your fleet departed with one ship!¡± Thorfinn Ursus: ¡°Magos Issengrund found an empty Cobra-Class vessel, Erudition¡¯s Howl, floating among xenos wreckage, with all its data and holds scrubbed clean. He is a prolific builder of void ships and used the patterns stored within Distant Sun and his own memory to establish new industry and build new vessels. Our lost world has been re-dedicated to the Machine Cult.¡± ¡°There is a notable pause in the conversation and a slight smile shows on what¡¯s left of Factor Belomor¡¯s cheeks, half hacked off as they are beneath his integrated rebreather.¡± ¡°That¡¯s disgusting!¡± says Alpia. ¡°Did he have weird teeth, Daddy?¡± It takes me a moment to work out what Alpia is getting at, ¡°He wasn¡¯t hiding his teeth, Sweetpea. I think he just likes clean air.¡± I point at a few points on the picture, ¡°Those vents are dirty, see?¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Alpia slumps, resting her cheek against the back of my head. ¡°Carry on.¡± Factor Belomor, ¡°Statement: We have one record of Erudition¡¯s Howl. It was in the possession of the Disciples of Thule, circa 741.M41. Last sighting was orbiting Dolorium, a Feral World in the Koronus Expanse. Query: Can Magos Issengrund repair and replenish our mining barges and equipment?¡± ¡°To summarise, Thorfinn and Factor Belomor talk for several hours negotiating the details of what each party can do for the other and finding out what life is like on Lickspittle. The mining station has not seen a supply mission in over a decade and they have no Astropaths. Most systems are broken or running in safe mode. ¡°New parts are supposed to arrive at Lickspittle in five years, when a Mass Transporter is due to collect their ore and replenish the mining crews, but they didn¡¯t bring the necessary parts on the last two visits. Factor Belomor is willing to exchange a large part of their tithe for the necessary supplies and parts to restore functionality and make them more self-sustaining. The key trade is new tools for their Forge Temple, the poorly welded cocoon in the middle of Lickspittle¡¯s main cavern. New mining barges are to be built by Iron Crane.¡± ¡°Belomor waves off Thorfinn¡¯s concerns about accusations of theft and expects that better equipment will allow Lickspittle to make up any shortfall before their next visitor. Thorfinn promises to give a preferential price as thanks for the data the Pathfinder Fleet acquired. With this offer, tensions dramatically decrease and Factor Belomor starts listing the dangers to be found on the station. Details of further trades with the Stellar Fleet are in a separate document.¡± ¡°See,¡± says Alpia. ¡°I knew Thorfinn and Quaani would take all their stuff.¡± I sigh. ¡°I thought this story was supposed to be scary!¡± says Fial. I barely manage to stop myself to laugh at the sheer hypocrisy of Fial being the one to say that. Brigid fails and sniggers, ¡°Yes, you heard our boy. Frighten me, Daddy.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Forty I cough into my hand, poorly covering my incredulity at Brigid¡¯s statement. ¡°I¡¯ll skip the rest of the meeting then.¡± Mimicking Quaani, I continue, ¡°With relation¡¯s rapidly improving, shore leave was granted after five days since our first contact with Lickspittle. Four further days passed without incident, and by the end of it, both Lickspittle and the Pathfinder Fleet were fully stocked and Lickspittle¡¯s recovery was well underway. ¡°With thousands of crew visiting the mining station, some minor discrepancies were expected, but the alarm was raised when seven MIU¡¯s failed across two days, forcing the returning crew to go through multiple checks to confirm their identities. The first two were allowed to return to their posts after a thorough check, but after the third individual was discovered they were immediately confined to the Brig, as were the previous two individuals and all the subsequent crew with MIU failures.¡± ¡°We departed from Lickspittle after ten days and plotted a course to Cobalt, the world that currently claims RO-R0KST4R-TPK. As the days went by, the confined crew became increasingly erratic as they lost their memories. Fearing the worst, they were moved to medical observation. After four weeks, they¡¯d lost their memories entirely. No one else showed any signs of memory loss. ¡°Beyond the four week mark, the victims began to mutate rapidly, then return to their original shape. At least, that¡¯s what we thought was happening for the first four days. By the fifth, another threshold had been passed and all seven adopted the same thin, almost skeletal humanoid form with long arms, hands with only two long fingers and a thumb. Their heads were elongated and oval without eyes or any other obvious sensory organ.¡± Fial sits dead still, gripping my legs with his little fists and his eyes screwed shut. Alpia hugs my head, her arms covering my three eyes, though it does not inhibit my sight. Dareaca stares at me and Luan¡¯s face is all scrunched up as if he¡¯d eaten something sour. Brigid idly strokes their red hair, her lips pursed and a small frown on her face. ¡°None of us had any idea of what they were, after much debate that went nowhere, Aruna intervened. The Machine-Spirit changed out the air mix in the observation rooms with pure nitrogen and locked the doors. When questioned, it claimed it was preserving specimens for further study. The victims quickly suffocated. ¡°The bodies were autopsied. Within their stomachs were traces of multiple human brains. When pressed for further information, Aruna directed us towards the records of the Calixis sub-sector, Malfian. Pouring through the records took weeks, but at last we uncovered an account from Hive World Malfi that notes a series of mass disappearances that are attributed to a Xenos species called Simulacra. ¡°That¡¯s disgusting!¡± says Luan. ¡°Who eats brains?¡± ¡°Most people eat brains,¡± I say, ¡°if they are hungry enough or processed into something more palatable. Like corpse-starch. It is an essential food on most Hive Worlds.¡± ¡°I¡¯m never eating anything on a Hive World!¡± says Alpia. ¡°Even yucky fish is better than that.¡± I glance at Brigid, ¡°We are going to have to find a way to harden the tongues of these fussy little eaters.¡± ¡°I suppose we will,¡± says Brigid. She raises an eyebrow, ¡°Perhaps Soylent Viridian¡¯s for when they misbehave.¡± ¡°No way!¡± says Luan. ¡°Even paper tastes better.¡± ¡°Are there people in it?¡± says Fial. I laugh, ¡°It depends. Any organic matter can be recycled into soylent viridans, fueling the algae it is made from. We do something similar, though the bodies are incinerated first. Additionally, Soylent Viridian¡¯s made with Human bodies is exclusively turned into animal or fish feed so that there are two degrees of separation before it gets back to us. Many producers, like the Corpse Guild on Necromunda, do not bother with these extra steps for soylent viridans and corpse starch does not require them at all.¡± ¡°For us, the most common use of incinerated bodies is compost for all the lovely gardens around in the fleet. There are few things as practical as becoming the growing medium for your own grave flowers.¡± ¡°Is that true, Mum?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Yes. Now be quiet. You can look up more on your datapad later. There¡¯s still a little more story to go. Aldrich?¡± ¡°Right, back to Quaani: These Xenos consume brains and use them to mimic the body and memories of their victims. Realising we¡¯d spent four weeks questioning the memories of our dead crew without our sensors, or their friends able to tell the difference, was chilling. I heaped Aruna with praise and thanks, as directed by the canticles of the Machine Cult, but was ignored. ¡°By the time we reached Cobalt, however, a marked, yet inexplicable increase to the air quality within Distant Sun¡¯s promenade was observed, gaining a sweet and minty smell that my auspex informed me was nepetalactone.¡± ¡°All hail the Machine-God!¡± I return to my own voice and say, ¡°I will save Quaani¡¯s adventures in Cobalt, Dolorium, Falcon¡¯s Fall Gamma, and the SR-651 Breaking Yards for another day.¡± ¡°No!¡± says Alpia. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go to bed yet. More please?¡± ¡°What¡¯s nepetalactone?¡± says Fial. ¡°A chemical produced by some plants to repel insects,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t know which ones though. You can find out for yourselves if you want to know.¡± ¡°That wasn¡¯t very scary,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°You should try again.¡± ¡°Enough children,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Up you get. It¡¯s time to get into your own pods.¡± The protestations go on for several more minutes, as they always do, even as Brigid and I carry them all to their shared rooms. Dareaca shares with Luan and Alpia with Fial. I¡¯ve promised them their own rooms once they reach ten. Keeping them together is supposed to teach them how to tolerate others and bond with each other. I let them swap roommates and redecorate once a year. I think my methods are working as intended, but it¡¯s hard to tell without a control group or comparing it to other testing methods. I¡¯m not willing to properly test it either. Carrying my kids to bed always amuses me as they make all sorts of wild promises to stay up for just a few more minutes. It never lasts though as quiet notes broadcasted from the Melodium quickly puts them to sleep, even as I sit by their side. Am I shamelessly cheating? Absolutely. Brigid is on watch soon, and if I don¡¯t catch her before she rushes out, I¡¯ll miss out on some private time with my wife. As a great leader of men and women, it is important I set a good example and spawn more progeny to defend us from the horrors among the stars. Grinning at the ridiculous thought, I grab Brigid as she leaves Dareaca and Luan¡¯s room and steer her towards our own. Brigid looks down and runs her hands across her perfectly pressed uniform, huffs, then pulls me into the bedroom with a cheeky smile on her face. A few days later, I meet up with Odhran in one of the Herald training rooms. Odhran is looking rather different these days, and beneath the martial arts robes that he usually wears when not in armour, I detect several ports for mechadendrites. Aside from the black skeleton, Odhran also has the full suite of basic implants I provide all my crew: MIU, Void Skin, Warding Electoos, Pain Ward, and the connection points in his neck for a Vitae Supplement. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. When I enter the training room, Odhran pings me with his MIU and the data includes his qualifications. My eyes widen slightly as I go over the information and I smile at him. ¡°Congratulations on your advancement, Tech-Marine.¡± There is a minute flush of blood beneath Odhran¡¯s Voidskin, completely invisible to normal eyes. ¡°Thank you, Aldrich. It may not be an official designation, granted by Mars after thirty years of study within their ancient forge temples, but I appreciate you recognising my efforts.¡± ¡°What brought on this change?¡± ¡°There is only so much training one can do before it becomes counterproductive. Having the opportunity to improve my skills and knowledge brings me great joy.¡± ¡°I¡¯m happy for you, Odhran.¡± ¡°You are a strange one, Magos.¡± ¡°Says the newly minted Tech-Marine who still wants to meet face to face, rather than use the noosphere.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t trust anyone unless I can shoot them.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re joking or not.¡± ¡°All comedy has an element of truth to it.¡± Odhran says, completely deadpan. ¡°Oh, have you been expanding into other pursuits?¡± ¡°No, my hands have been too full with learning and teaching.¡± ¡°The other four. How are they now?¡± ¡°Fit for duty, though still a little reckless, even after letting them run wild on Kinbriar V. I worry for them. While I have stuffed their heads with knowledge, helping them to reconnect their old memories, only with new experiences will understanding come to them. I hope they survive long enough to appreciate the transition. Unfortunately, their old memories do not feel real for them.¡± I nod, ¡°As do I. What did you call me here for today?¡± ¡°A moment, Aldrich.¡± Odhran uses his authority to request Sadako to cut the room from standard monitoring. ¡°I have a sensitive subject to discuss. You are aware of the importance of gene seed?¡± ¡°I am. I could not make a new Marine with it though.¡± ¡°That does not surprise me. It is good that the secrets of the Apothecaries are not within your datalooms. There is no need for you to know.¡± ¡°Yet you looked it up. Were you hoping to learn?¡± Odhran nods, ¡°I was exploring my options. It is time for the gene seed within our bodies to be harvested, and if it cannot be used, it must be stored. All of this requires your aid and discretion.¡± ¡°Only mine?¡± ¡°Yes, I will trust no other. We also require more secure quarters so that we may guard it properly. A shared apartment in the Promenade, or borrowing training spaces from the Heralds is no longer adequate. I can hardly keep it stored in the kitchen fridge, or inside those stasis takeaway boxes now can I?¡± I chuckle, ¡°That would make for a poor sandwich filling.¡± Odhran¡¯s face twists in disgust, ¡°Quite.¡± ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll repurpose a subdeck for you and assign a budget. You can oversee the construction yourself and I will personally answer any queries that you have.¡± ¡°I would like one near the Heralds in the Castellan superstructure, preferably in an area where we can have a private hangar as well.¡± ¡°There won¡¯t be space for a hangar, but I can reserve an area in the Heralds hangar for you. If you absolutely must have your own, I can give you mine as it is currently empty. However, your quarters would be just below the navigator spire, on the completely opposite side to the Heralds. You would be near my bodyguard company¡¯s quarters though.¡± ¡°That will do, thank you, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Why did you want to be near the Heralds?¡± ¡°They have the best weapons range and the officers lounge is an enjoyable place to relax. The younger children tend to pester us around the promenade when outside of their parents'' view. While I do not mind, there are only so many times I can be asked how to become a Space Marine before I lose my patience.¡± ¡°Fair enough.¡± ¡°That leads me to my next query. I wish to test your population for compatibility with the Barghest Chapter¡¯s geneseed.¡± ¡°We do not have enough children to spare the attrition of such an honour.¡± I really don¡¯t want to send kids to Space Marine trainers, or subject them to the painful surgeries of Space Marine conversion. Even more so when I can make cyborg bodies that are just as good, or even better. I don¡¯t want to say that to Odhran¡¯s face though as it will upset him. It would also put me at odds with Imperial culture. ¡°Not yet, at least,¡± says Odhran. ¡°Aldrich, you are ambitious and this will change. Not only have you begun a vitae womb program, but you are always building new vessels.¡± ¡°Fair enough. Your¡¯s is a fleet bound chapter, yes? How do you normally handle recruitment?¡± ¡°All chapter serfs on our vessels are tested and initiated if they are compatible. Our pool of candidates is quite small, so we cannot be too fussy. Despite waiting until the cut off of fourteen to give us more time to evaluate suitability, we still have more geneseed rejections than most chapters. This is usually fatal. About thirty percent make it through the initial implantation of the first three organs. This is why I am looking for a better match.¡± Odhran is so stone faced, I cannot tell how he feels about this, but that he is looking for ways for fewer kids to die is all that really matters. ¡°What of those who survive?¡± I say. ¡°Those are treated rather carefully. At least, we do not use live ammunition during our training scenarios like some chapters do. Twenty percent complete their transition. Further rejections of Space Marine implants are rarely fatal in this phase, for the Barghest Chapter at least; our Apothecaries have become skilled at helping aspirants survive rejection. ¡°Failed aspirants are allowed to retain successful organs, so long as they join our auxiliary forces. If they quit at this point, all the extra organs are removed and the children are returned to their families. Most choose to continue their service, as a failed marine has more privileges than a chapter serf, though few live beyond fifty. The incomplete transition is unbalanced and puts great stress upon the body.¡± I clasp my hands behind my back to stop them from shaking. ¡°So for every one hundred children, on average, seventy die, twenty-four become the biological equivalent of skitarii, and six become scout marines.¡± I recall my visions of Odhran¡¯s past from when I called back his soul from the Emperor. ¡°Though only one or two become full battle brothers, yes?¡± Odhran sighs, ¡°That depends. When our casualties are high, aspirants are deployed as scouts much earlier, before they have all their implants or power armour. When that happens it is rare for new battle brothers to reach initiation. This gnaws away at the foundation of the chapter. Scouts are deployed early when the situation is one of two extremes: dire or trivial.¡± I frown, ¡°I calculate you require approximately eighteen new battle brothers per year, yes?¡± ¡°For a good year. We have more good years than bad.¡± ¡°So you have between two and four thousand children as aspirants at any one time, just to supply, what, one thousand line infantry, and half again as many in officers and support roles, like drivers, void ship captains, scouts and tech-marines? Odhran, with those numbers, if I let you recruit from my fleet, you could take all our children and we wouldn¡¯t make a quarter of the numbers you need. It is horribly inefficient.¡± Also horrifying, but I need to sound like a Tech-Priest here. ¡°This is why I hope to find better stock,¡± says Odhran, ¡°customised offspring from vitae wombs would drastically cut failed aspirants, though many chapters would view such practice with disdain.¡± Odhran sighs, ¡°Your estimation of our numbers is accurate. We are usually split into four groups, one on campaign, two in transit or reserve, and a fourth undergoing replenishment.¡± ¡°How do you even sustain those numbers?¡± I say, my exasperation seeping through, ¡°Your fleet must have ten million chapter serfs, if not more.¡± ¡°Our fleet is not so great. We recruit orphans from the worlds we save to make up the difference. That, or kids whom their parents can no longer afford to feed.¡± I know the galaxy is horrible, but hearing Odhran talk about this with less passion than the weather is an uncomfortable reminder. ¡°Perhaps with gene seed samples we can work on compatibility. I¡¯ve no idea how the transition might function with the chromosome library we have begun to implement though.¡± ¡°That is agreeable.¡± ¡°How did you handle your own transition?¡± I say. ¡°Space Marines do not ask these things of each other.¡± ¡°I am no Space Marine.¡± Odhran grinds his teeth, ¡°Why do you ask, Aldich?¡± ¡°My own nears completion.¡± Odhran relaxes a little, though a small frown mars his face as stares at me. He places his hands behind his back. ¡°Very well. Tell me of your transition.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One ¡°Odhran, this will require some context,¡± I say. ¡°What do you know of the different methods towards transhumanism?¡± ¡°Gene Mods and machine augments.¡± I grin, ¡°Correct, but it is so much more than that. There are four paths. They are, in order: biokinesis, genetic manipulation, bionics, and cybernetics. Each also includes a subcategory for arcanotech. Rather than bore you with definitions, I¡¯ll give examples instead.¡± Odhran snorts, ¡°How generous.¡± ¡°Biokinesis would be me drawing on the Warp to alter your flesh directly to, say, give you retracting claws, or constantly feed you power to reinforce your body, much like field bracing, making you stronger, faster, and tougher. Through sorcery, the arcanotech aspect for biokinesis, I could give those claws the equivalent of a power field, or make those body enhancements permanent.¡± ¡°I am familiar with these. Go on.¡± ¡°Good. Examples of genetic manipulation include some of your custom organs, like the multi-lung. Arcano-tech would be your geneseed or the omophagea. How else would one gain memories by eating brains without drawing on the warp? It¡¯s also why using the omophagea too much can lead to corruption, such as the one suffered by the Blood Angels. Regardless of it being arcanotech or not, all your organs are grown from geneseed.¡± Odhran gives me a curt nod, ¡°I will keep usage limits in mind.¡± ¡°Bionics cross the boundary between man and machine. A bionic, Human heart would have the form and function of an organic one, including self-repair functions. An intricate series of delicate machines that mimic life. ¡°A cybernetic heart would be a pump. Similar in form, and identical in function, to the one that runs coolant through your power armour.¡± ¡°I can hear your disdain for the second, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Cybernetics have their place. Like your new mechadendrites: running around with fleshy tendrils and extra arms will get one shot in the face.¡± Odhran chuckles, ¡°I see your point.¡± ¡°As for arcanotech equivalents, these would be bionic and cybernetic implants that channel the Warp to perform beyond what the natural world permits, or offer protections against it, like sacred blood or electoo wards. ¡°Definitions can get a little tricky as there is a lot of crossover. Implants like your black carapace involve implanted organic nerves, machine ports, and microcontrollers that convert one signal to the other. That¡¯s three out of four categories in one implant. I¡¯d probably call it a bionic, but it has organic parts that grow, and machine parts that do not self-repair.¡± ¡°I may have become a Tech-Marine, but I am not Tech-Priest. I will let you worry about the definitions of things.¡± ¡°Fair enough. A final point, then, that will interest you. As a child of the Emperor, you naturally enhance yourself as you age. It is why older Space Marines tend to be stronger, though the effect is minor. It¡¯s also why Space Marines are far faster and stronger than their bodies, even with all their enhancements, should allow. ¡°This is why children with tough lives are chosen as aspirants and why harsh, but not cruel, training before implantation is necessary. It ensures the aspirants have a stronger soul, and thus are better able to handle the burden on the soul inflicted by arcanotech implants. For this reason, I¡¯m a little sceptical about using vitae wombs to grow Space Marine compatible bodies. I¡¯m not saying it¡¯s impossible, we might be able to fake conditions with simulated noosphere environments and chemicals, but it¡¯s not just tradition that dictates why Spacemarines recruit from Feral Worlds and Underhives.¡± ¡°I had no idea there were such mechanisms in place,¡± says Odhran. ¡°For someone who said they don¡¯t know how to make a Space Marine, you sure know a lot about us.¡± Odhran shakes his head, ¡°Never mind that, what does this have to do with your transition?¡± ¡°Well, for my advancement, I have chosen to undergo a full bionic conversion and I¡¯ve almost completed it. Within the next year or so, hopefully, the only part of me that will remain organic is my brain. This has been playing havoc with my perception of the world and my place within it.¡± ¡°You have doubts? Discomfort? Are you in pain?¡± I shake my head and put my hands in my pockets. ¡°I have no doubts about the ¡®why¡¯ of my transition, nor is it physically painful. The galaxy is harsh. I have a family and fleet to guide and protect.¡± Odhran nods along, a small smile tugging at his lips, ¡°My motivations are similar: my oaths and my brothers. I would have liked a painward as my first surgery though. As a child, the surgeries were terrifying. Unfortunately, dulling the nerves hinders the implantation process. Even now, I do not like to visit the Apothecary. I have never really understood the brothers that endure such things and decide they want to know more. It is good to learn that my trials actually assisted in my transition¡¯s success. Odhran paces up and down for a few moments, his hand clasped behind his back, ¡°Perhaps a touch of pride also drives me,¡± he frowns, and stops pacing. ¡°I like being at the pinnacle of physical superiority. Competence and strength are the armour of the mind. It is just as necessary as power armour when the bombs are falling. Ego, too, is the root of one¡¯s sense of self; it crushes the sinister whispers from within, or external influences beyond one¡¯s heart. Doubt, decision paralysis, even the Ruinous Powers, all fall before the might of one¡¯s ego. You are taking the right path by forging your determination with worthy goals, as well as your body.¡± ¡°Odhran, thank you.¡± Odhran gives me a single, curt nod, ¡°Tech-Priests always seem so keen to hack bits off each other, it is strange to talk to one who takes such a measured approach.¡± ¡°I tend to preach that abandoning one¡¯s humanity to protect it is a fool¡¯s errand, for to do so is to lose the reason to transition in the first place. This is where I am struggling right now, despite it being my own philosophy. The archeotech cache that I am using to fuel my change is potent,¡± I rub my chin. ¡°Perhaps a demonstration is required.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± I glance about. The training room only has soft mats. I sigh, ¡°A spar?¡± ¡°Acceptable. It has been some time since our last. You might want to remove your greatcoat. Those buttons could get ripped off otherwise.¡± I smirk. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°So that¡¯s how it¡¯s going to be, is it, Magos?¡± Odhran gives me a practised look, one that implies I¡¯m an idiot. I adopt a back fighting stance with my left foot and hand forward, and my right hand held near my waist. The moment I am in position, Odhran bursts into motion, his arms wide as he goes for a tackle. I push down hard on the mat. With a screech, the plasteel floor beneath gives way slightly and I appear before Odhran. Before he can blink, I grab his chest and belt and toss him into the air. I overdo it slightly and he barely gets his arms above his head before he slams into the ceiling with a heavy thud, eight metres above my head. Odhran gives me a dirty look as he falls. I jump up and catch him in my arms. Odhran takes the chance to punch me in the face, knocking my chin to the side by a couple of centimetres. I land and throw him again, much lighter this time, and Odhran lands on his feet. He glares at me, rubbing his knuckles, then starts to laugh. It turns into a big belly chuckle that continues for a solid twenty seconds. ¡°That was absurd!¡± Odhran grins, ¡°How far can you toss me?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. The limits are your clothes and flesh. Even in your power armour, I could rip you apart with my bare hands, no power field required.¡± Odhran sighs, ¡°We will have to skip the testing, then. You are powerful. What is the problem?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a question of control, as I thought at first. I always know exactly how much strength I am applying to something and my implants won¡¯t even let me hurt or damage people or objects unless I make a deliberate choice to do so. Even a momentary flash of anger is not enough. ¡°Neither do people see me as different to what I was before, at least for now. I even still feel like I am Human. What I don¡¯t feel like is myself, as if my body is not my own. It seems like a silly thing to complain about, as if I am whining about the consequences of having the power I have pursued. My mind and body is disconnected, and no matter how foolish the complaint, it is a serious issue that I must address lest it grow to something worse. Can you help me with this?¡± ¡°I can.¡± I exhale a breath I didn¡¯t know I was holding. Odhran says, ¡°This is a common issue with recruits after their first implants. They grow rapidly, have poor coordination, and more energy than they know what to do with. At the same time, their rapid growth makes them prone to injury and they struggle with their emotions.¡± I snort, ¡°Sounds like puberty.¡± ¡°Lucky you, Aldrich. You get to go through it twice.¡± I groan and Odhran laughs. ¡°The Omnissiah throws us cruel trials,¡± I say. ¡°What must I do?¡± ¡°Do you need to exercise to integrate and test your implants like aspirants do?¡± ¡°It isn¡¯t mandatory. They are supposed to automatically and rapidly adjust to my needs.¡± ¡°Then you need tests of skill. Anything from juggling eggs to towing Thunderhawks around a hangar. Gymnastics, parkour, squad tactical exercises, these and many others are the things you need to be doing. It isn¡¯t about how good you are at it, or how much it tires you, but how familiar you are with yourself performing those actions. When one task becomes second nature, practise something new. Challenge yourself at every opportunity for at least six hours a day until every task you are likely to come across feels natural once again.¡± ¡°Thank you, I will do so.¡± ¡°If you run out of ideas, come to me and I will help you practise dodging bolter rounds. I doubt they¡¯ll do more than give you a nasty sting.¡± I laugh, ¡°Depends what they¡¯re loaded with, there¡¯s always a weakness somewhere. You''re not wrong about your evaluation though.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll arrange some custom scenarios, and once you are feeling more comfortable, you can play the part of a high priority target. Maybe we could pit you against all the Heralds and my team?¡± ¡°We have done something similar before when I was demonstrating the importance of hull patrols. I won. I think my crews would like a chance for a rematch.¡± ¡°Perfect. Now, Aldrich, I am happy to help you with your transition, but if possible, I would like something in return.¡± ¡°Go ahead.¡± ¡°A Space Marine¡¯s duty is death. Others might joke about it, or not understand, but we take our deaths seriously. There is no retirement for Space Marines. It isn¡¯t about throwing ourselves carelessly at the enemy, but to ensure that when we do go, it¡¯s because there is no other option and to make our ends so costly for our enemies that they must consider if it¡¯s really worth the effort. ¡°While many of my brothers would disagree with me on this, every battle we don¡¯t have to fight, or ones where we can intimidate our ways to victory is better. There¡¯s no point draining our chapter of resources just for a good scrap.¡± ¡°I can see why you¡¯d want to avoid the comparison with Orks. Where are you going with this?¡± ¡°Oh? Is only the mighty Magos allowed to endlessly chant the wonders of his knowledge in the name of context?¡± I clear my throat, ¡°Please. Do continue.¡± ¡°What I want from you is better war gear, access to more implants, and whatever else you can provide that will make killing me as costly as possible.¡± ¡°We will need to discuss the specifics, but yes, I will help you.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t think you would refuse, but it is good to have confirmation. I would also like to reserve the Space Marine wargear and vehicles that you have in store for my chapter, rather than just a part of it as you originally intended. In return, I will ensure my brothers won¡¯t just try to take it, though how successful they might be in such an endeavour is debatable. I can¡¯t keep what you have a secret from my chapter master, but I can make him pay for it.¡± ¡°I understand your dilemma. The Stellar Fleet will reserve Space Marine wargear for your fleet. Is there a specific reason why you asked for this?¡± ¡°Yes, we are finally close enough that I was able to contact my chapter. I have given them a time and location to rendezvous with us. I have not transmitted the details of your fleet, only that I and my brothers have been rescued. I did tell him that his physical presence would be required. ¡°While Killian, Darrah, Nuada, Eoghan and I intend to continue our service with you, we need to explain why to the chapter master so that we aren¡¯t seen as renegades. He has not confirmed that he will be present as that would mean others might discover my chapter¡¯s fleet will be at a specific location in ten years time, I have faith that he will come because of the unusual circumstances.¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling me that your main battle barge will be there to greet us at Archeron.¡± ¡°I am.¡± ¡°I know I¡¯ve given you some privileges, Odhran, and that you are anxious to reunite with your chapter after so many years, but this was poorly done. Your authority within the Stellar Fleet is for emergencies, out of respect for you saving my life and your extensive experience as a Space Marine veteran. I told you this when I gave them to you. ¡°The factions of the Imperium are not always friendly with each other and they will likely be on full alert after such an odd message, even if you did give them a bunch of identification codes. I will be even more annoyed if you did not. While I appreciate you setting up trades for me, through your choice, you have placed my Fleet and family at risk without permission, or even discussion. If we are to continue our partnership, we are going to have to work on understanding each other¡¯s boundaries and I have some communication protocols to update. I will be removing your right to roam within the vessel for you and your brothers until we meet up with your fleet.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± ¡°I like you Odhran, and I believe we are friends, but you really fucked up here and should know better. You know perfectly well what the difference between showing initiative and insubordination is; some of the Herald¡¯s doctrine is based on what you¡¯ve taught on the matter.¡± I sigh, ¡°We¡¯ve had a similar discussion before about disrupting my authority, when you messed with the Eldar delegation. It clearly has not stuck. Let me be absolutely clear: do not go behind my back again.¡± ¡°It won¡¯t happen again.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t make me shoot you, Odhran. I won¡¯t miss you, but I will regret it.¡± Odhran stares at my face for a few seconds, his own expression unmoving. He cracks a small smile and nods, ¡°Understood.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two Maeve and I float in the sky within a simulation. I recognise the Hive city and its sprawling defences as a copy of Thorfinn¡¯s HiveSim server. There is a massive war going on, and I have no idea what is happening or why. It¡¯s been two weeks since my discussion with Odhran. His advice about adjusting to my body was spot on and I have felt much better since then. I¡¯m still pissed at him though. I watch the combat play out for an hour. The rest of Fleet Command join us in the sky as the minutes pass. ¡°Alright, Maeve. I give up,¡± I say ¡°I have no idea what¡¯s wrong here.¡± ¡°Anyone else?¡± says Maeve. Eire says, ¡°There are too many troops in power armour.¡± Maeve smiles, ¡°That¡¯s one of the consequences, but not what is actually wrong.¡± ¡°How did they even afford it all?¡± says Brigid. ¡°They made it,¡± says Maeve. R¨®is¨ªn taps a finger against her arm, ¡°That¡¯s impressive.¡± ¡°The PDF is unusually well equipped too,¡± says Lonceta. ¡°They¡¯re more like a proper Imperial Guard unit, only they¡¯re all Kasrkins.¡± ¡°What exactly is the purpose of the simulation?¡± says Owen. ¡°Maybe that will give us a clue. Please could you fill us in, Maeve?¡± ¡°Sure. There is a three way brawl occurring on this world. The Hive, the Invaders, and the Mercenaries. The Invaders and the Hive are fighting for control of the city. The Mercenaries seek to enrich themselves, fighting for whichever side will pay them. They are fragmented into small teams and operate out of a central hub. As such, the Mercenaries will even fight each other. ¡°The Fleet¡¯s Heralds have been split into three sides, with the Mercenary group being the smallest. Like real life, there¡¯s no respawn, so dying and being kicked from the exercise early is rather humiliating. As such, they¡¯ve all been drawing on their knowledge to improve the chances of themselves and their side as much as possible.¡± I nod, ¡°So that¡¯s why they all have power armour. The question then is how, and why is it a problem.¡± I clasp my hands behind my back, ¡°Well, I suppose that would lie within the contrast of what they have outside the simulation, compared to within. What we have here is a legion of Tech Priests who know how to build, maintain, and use power armour, and other valuable wargear, but they are our main infantry force.¡± Brigid glances at me, ¡°Our troops are over qualified.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± says Maeve, clapping her hands once. ¡°No one has more incentive to learn high energy physics and armour systems than those who get shot at by plasma weapons every day. With no conflicts expected for twenty years, the Heralds have been less focused on training, and more on knowledge and skills.¡± Owen frowns, ¡°They¡¯re too good to fight?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the least of it,¡± says Eire. ¡°There¡¯s some serious political consequences if it became known that we could field a hundred thousand power armoured infantry. It would cause an even greater fuss if we actually invested the resources to do so. Here, both sides have access to far more resources and manufacturing space than our fleet does, so we can¡¯t actually do this.¡± Lonceta rapidly follows the logic of the problem and groans, ¡°Which is problem number two. Discontent. No one wants to fight with shitty equipment, but it¡¯s particularly egregious when one knows how to do better and is not assigned the resources to do so.¡± ¡°The Macro-Ferry will have the required output once it¡¯s completed,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn, ¡°not that such large projects are ever truly finished. We can¡¯t let discontent fester that long though. Brigid, What could we actually afford?¡± ¡°Our budget is already maxed. We can move stuff about, but compromising our shipyard output is not a good trade off. Nor can we recklessly spend without resupply. All the oncoming asteroids and comets are accounted for.¡± ¡°I thought that would be the case,¡± says Maeve. ¡°Let¡¯s address the problems one at a time: over qualification, force perception, and morale. One solution might lead to another. I¡¯ll take you through the options I¡¯ve come up with. First up is Servitors. We could replace twelve out of every fifteen Heralds with Servitors on the battlefield and reassign our Heralds into production. Second is a Skitarii program. We create cyborgs using individuals grown within exo-wombs. Third is to continue as we are. ¡°Each of these have their own issues. Servitors do not make great troops. Our numbers would mean much less. That¡¯s particularly bad when we don¡¯t have many in the first place. Having so few members in each squad would drastically fragment intrasquad relationships; pulling so many people from a job that most have volunteered for would be shitting on their beliefs and conviction. Morale would drop across the Fleet for many years. On the positive side, we wouldn¡¯t be throwing so many of our engineers into the fight. ¡°Option two: adopting a skitarii program, while practical in the short term, would create a caste system within the fleet. We¡¯d have a bunch of people that are educated in such a manner that they would fight and die for us. Eventually, something would give, and we¡¯d have a similar problem with discontent, or someone might subvert those mechanisms to create armed individuals that are less than loyal to the fleet. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Last, is leaving it like it is. We¡¯d have to be really choosy about where and when we deploy our forces, if possible. Our forces would have a huge effect on any conflict they get into, but we¡¯d be killing off a significant quantity of our theoretical industrial output. However, we don¡¯t have somewhere else to assign them right now either. Thoughts? Yes, Eire?¡± ¡°Are those really our only options? How about a two tier force? Servitors for the meat grinder and a more elite force for special actions.¡± Maeve¡¯s expression freezes, then she laughs. ¡°You see. This is why we have meetings. We could do that. Being assigned to herd the Servitors would be unpopular. A good task for conscripts doing their two years service.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not so sure about that,¡± says Lonceta. ¡°I look back on time in the Heralds with fondness. It¡¯s the one thing that ties absolutely everyone in the fleet together. I made some of my best friends there. I know it isn¡¯t a social club, but service is a key tradition that shapes the culture of the Stellar Fleet, especially its discipline and unity. Cheapening it in such a manner, while not fatal, would be unwise.¡± The discussion derails a bit as everyone starts talking about their own experiences as a grunt. Something I have no personal reference for. Gradually, our conversation starts to dig into the practicals of how we would create a mixed force, but none of us are really happy about breaking up the companies and changing how we organise our military as everything is carefully set up to feed into all the other aspects of the Stellar Fleet, the most important being the transport capacity of the D-POTs. ¡°You know,¡± says Owen, ¡°I can¡¯t help but feel we¡¯re looking at this the wrong way. We are the servants of the Machine God. We preach and practice transhumanism. Becoming a Skitarii should be a blessing, not a curse. Clothing ourselves in iron is a rite, not a question of resources. To punish others, forcefully changing their chosen path for seeking knowledge and bettering themselves, the core tenet of our faith, is anathema. A two tier system is a compromise, why should we settle for one? ¡°If there are resources for a Skitarii or Servitor program, I really do not see why we can¡¯t push those into making our Heralds even more resilient. They are well paid. Could we not provide a means for them to spend their own resources to equip and enhance themselves? It might cause a little trouble with logistics, but we are not talking about millions of troops.¡± ¡°You have an idea,¡± says Maeve. ¡°The two tier idea does not address the issue of morale and risks a caste system forming within the military, rather than the fleet. Brigid has gone into further details of what resources we can actually move about, even though it would have consequences, so I believe my idea is possible. ¡°I wish to address the problem from the morale angle, rather than the loss of industrial output, for there is a balance to be had, I think. We could give out titles that come with privileges within the Heralds and are a mark of respect within the Stellar Fleet: Acolyte, War Smith, and Warforged. ¡°Right now, conscripts are provided with minor enhancements, do their two year service, and either move on, or stay. No matter what they do, they get to keep the upgrades. I want to extend that program in a non-conventional manner. ¡°Heralds that chose to stay on would receive a Machine Baptism, should they wish it, converting them to skitarii. In practice, they would be cyborgs, living inside the mechanical bodies that we use for Servitors. They would become Acolytes, a professional title that will cost them another eight years of service. Once they were done, however, they would have a body that most would take many years to afford and would be a mark of dedication to their faith. We already make a lot of Servitors, so reassigning some of those machine bodies would not be too great a burden. ¡°A War Smith would be a technical title for those who have learned to forge all the wargear used by the Heralds. Rather than the standard void armour, they would be given the privilege to build and maintain their own power armour, as well as use it whenever they like, even where it wouldn¡¯t normally fit into our company loadouts. We could install a forge temple within the Herald section of the ship to facilitate this, and subsidise some of the cost of the armour. How does this sound, should I continue?¡± ¡°Carry on, Owen,¡± I say. ¡°I already have a few thoughts, but finish your idea first.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos.¡± Owen points at the ground, ¡°There are a lot of people fighting below us who, because they are Tech-Priests, have already forged their own power armour as part of passing their qualification. Having a doctrine that doesn¡¯t let them use it often must be infuriating; providing a path for them to do so is essential. It¡¯s also a quick fix to show that Command is aware and working on the issue. ¡°Last would be the Warforged. This is a veteran¡¯s title, one granted after surviving three different wars, for example, the Tau, Orks, and Necrons. They would be permitted to customise the cyborg body they were given during their Machine Blessing. ¡°There are two advantages to adopting this system. The first is that it provides a way for Heralds to advance outside of their rank, allowing for career progression, even when we aren¡¯t taking losses. ¡°The second is that all this personal gear and these bodies require maintenance. Maintenance that the Stellar Fleet would subsidise so long Heralds remain at their posts, providing a subtle incentive to remain in a challenging role and be grateful for it. Even if they do leave, they get to keep the titles, armour, and body. No matter where they go, everyone will know what they have earned, and the depths of their dedication to the Machine God and the Stellar Fleet. ¡°Over time, this will create a core of veterans and reservists that are always visible, whether they spend all day trying to brew the perfect recaf, teach the next generation, or further their career elsewhere. Like a confidential weapon program. No point letting a decade or more of vetting go to waste. Titles will also make joining the Heralds more appealing, and their obvious presence will boost the perceived security of people¡¯s homes.¡± Owen crosses his arms and taps his chin, then continues, ¡°This plan does not address the industrial capacity, perceived threat, or overqualified issues properly. I do have a partial solution though. Rather than having all our Heralds shoot the crap out of each other, could we not form a better rotation? We could assign Heralds elsewhere for three to six months of the year when we are not at war. They could perform industrial and civilian roles, boosting our production wherever there is capacity to do so. It would also help them keep in touch with the rest of the Fleet and their families. ¡°We would have to be wary of creating a semi-professional force. Rotation wouldn¡¯t work for conscripts or Acolytes, nor would it serve much purpose, but for War Smiths and Warforged it would serve as an opportunity for them to break any monotony they might be feeling and return to the Heralds with a fresh perspective. What do you all think?¡± Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three ¡°For something that you whipped together in a few minutes, that was a remarkably well thought out proposal,¡± I say. ¡°As it is, there are a few things you haven¡¯t been made aware of that make it unusable. I still think it is worth pursuing though.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting to get something perfect in the first go,¡± says Owen, ¡°but I am pleased you like my idea. What are the hold up points?¡± I rub the back of my head with my hand, ¡°Well, rather than me always being the one with the ready explanation, how about you do it this time, R¨®is¨ªn? As a Datasmith, This is your specialty.¡± ¡°Huh? Oh, sure. Are you talking about the Servitors?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Well OK then,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. ¡°The Servitor bodies aren¡¯t as plug and play as you might think, nor does the Janus pattern make for good Battle Servitors. We do have some Servitor Companies, though they are a supplement, not a replacement for real people. Still, they helped immensely on Kinbriar V. ¡°There are two primary issues as to why we can¡¯t stuff Acolytes inside a Janus body. The first is security: the remote piloting feature built into a servitor is done at a hardware level. That isn¡¯t something you want in a body with an actual person in it. They¡¯re also slightly hackable, in batches of twelve. This was a security vs practicality trade off and it isn¡¯t something we can fix with a few Tech-Adepts coaxing the machine-spirits. ¡°Their limited security is why we have problem number two. Because a Servitor can be subverted, we do not build them for war. While their physical toughness makes them adequate troops, they can be temporarily disabled by haywire and other anti-machine technologies. They are also vulnerable in melee, with limited combat routines and parts built for manual dexterity, rather than brute strength and agility. ¡°Kataphrons are much less vulnerable, but we don¡¯t have the appropriate criminals for conversion. We don¡¯t practise recycling our dead crew into Charron Pattern Battle Servitors either as they are horribly unreliable and tend to shoot at both sides. ¡°While we could improve our Servitors, we must ask ourselves what we are trying to achieve, and that is to avoid mass casualties. We need something that would work well with heavy assaults that isn¡¯t a tank. Usually, that¡¯s our vanguard armour, or our limited power armour troops, but we¡¯re looking for brutish fodder here, not a miniature Imperial Knight or an imitation Sisters of Battle unit. ¡°Any questions so far?¡± R¨®is¨ªn looks from face to face. ¡°Didn¡¯t we put the cured mutants inside Servitor bodies?¡± says Brigid. ¡°We did, and each one was a custom job,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. Brigid mutters, ¡°So that¡¯s why it was so expensive.¡± R¨®is¨ªn continues, ¡°What Aldrich is getting at here, I think, is a two layered argument. First is that Confessor Broin has the laudable goal of ensuring everyone in the fleet has a fully mechanical body. I estimate that to achieve this we would need the output of a Goliath-Class Factory Ship, which we don¡¯t have, as well as extensive research in creating an appropriate, unified body for everyone as the Janus Pattern Servitor is unsuitable. We haven¡¯t even acquired a garden ship yet to get the rejuvenat Blessings and Castigations system up and running yet, let alone a factory ship. ¡°Providing a mechanical body for everyone would also raise issues with pro-creation. We would become reliant upon exo-wombs. Not every woman will be happy to give up their right to give birth for the Glory of the Machine God. It would also make a lot of our work on gene editing redundant and a mechanical solution isn¡¯t always the best choice for every encounter. We wouldn¡¯t want a technologically superior foe, like the Necrons, finding a way to hack our troops, for example. That they do not, is likely out of disdain, rather than capability. ¡°The second issue is that what we require here are Battle-Automata, the most famous being the Kastallan, rather than Servitors. We don¡¯t have the STCs for Battle-Automata, nor the industrial capacity to build them, at least while we¡¯re making the Macro-Ferry Core. ¡°It might surprise you to know that, from a cogitator point of view, a Kastallan is actually a significantly more advanced cyber mastiff, so I could develop proper Battle-Automata, but I am unsure if it is worth the effort as I probably won¡¯t save us time or resources. Once we reach the Imperium, we should be able to contact other Forge Temples and, with the right incentives, directly trade for the knowledge. ¡°As for what we can actually do right now, a Machine Blessing for a Herald Acolyte could replace their limbs and armour their chest. Servitor limbs, even if we end up needing to modify them a bit, are within our means. The consequence is that the Macro-Ferry, when launched, would have an inadequate quantity of Servitors. ¡°How necessary limb replacement is also debatable, with the exo-skeletons and vitae supplements on the void armour providing the best survivability one could hope for without power armour. It might seem inadequate because we¡¯ve been facing Necrons and Eldar since those systems were implemented, but these are two races who have reached the zenith in their chosen paths. Fighting them is always going to be hard. ¡°While even a moderate Machine Blessing would make the Acolytes slightly stronger and significantly faster, a hundred thousand multiple limb replacement surgeries is not something we can do on a whim. ¡®If it ain¡¯t broke, don¡¯t fix it¡¯ is a poor engineering adage, but it does hold some merit, especially in this case. Significant simulation and practical testing would be required. Don¡¯t mistake my caution and caveats for disapproval though. Any remarks before I finish my evaluation?¡± Maeve smiles ¡°I did not know about the comparison between Kastallans and Cyber Mastiffs. Also, does that mean that technically our cyber mastiffs are Battle Automata?¡± ¡°Ours are bionic mastiffs,¡± says R¨®is¨ªn, ¡°As they have a full brain and are not partially organic circuitry mimicking life. Cyber Mastiffs are no more Battle Automata than our Servitors are, even if both could be changed to become so. You would find more in common with an insect brain, with its set navigation instructions, in Battle Automata than you would a mastiff. That brain would be orders of magnitude greater in capability though, like the difference between a calculator and D-POT central cogitator. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°On second thoughts, given our extensive design work on cyber mastiffs already, I could create a design with the mind and capabilities of a Battle-Automata if we¡¯re not too bothered about acquiring more conventional designs. Aldrich?¡± I steeple my fingers and hold them against my mouth, ¡°It would be a far more stable design. Though there is some overlap with the Praetorian servitors, so long as canine automata are focused on shock assaults, rather than defence, you should be able to avoid creating redundant designs. Simulate a few ideas and shove them into the battle raging beneath us and see what the different sides do with them. We¡¯ll decide on proper prototypes if they prove useful.¡± Eire says, ¡°Could we not turn the Vanguard Armour into Battle Automata? We don¡¯t have to go with dogs every time.¡± R¨®is¨ªn holds up her hand and freezes for a moment, then sighs, ¡°Yes, we could do that. I¡¯ll try both a canine and humanoid model in testing. Now, back to my evaluation, adding a Forge Temple to Iron Crane¡¯s military complex would cut into the amount of mat¨¦riel we can stockpile by fifteen to eighteen percent. Usually we maintain enough supplies for two years of war, assuming no resupply. This deduction would place our buffer at twenty months. ¡°The Forge Temple would enable the assembly and maintenance of twenty dragon-scale power armour a week, approximately. On a practical level, that would allow us to field a thousand Battle Smiths based from the Iron Crane. A Lathe-Class light cruiser could maintain three hundred or so and an Adder Class would have ten. To put that in perspective, the Iron Crane¡¯s mixed regiment only has ninety power armour infantry in a force of thirty thousand, four hundred and twenty Heralds. Making Battle Smith a more coveted title is by no means a bad thing, but it does limit how many talented artisans we can preserve. ¡°Battle Smiths needing to make their armour would allow for some rotation into industry by our overqualified Heralds as they wouldn¡¯t be able to work on their armour continuously as the compressed composite armour plates take many weeks to form. I don¡¯t know how many Heralds we could fold into Macro-Ferry construction as we just lost our Shipyard Overseer. I doubt it would be many though as everything was planned so that it would match our expected labour output. ¡°To summarise, while we can¡¯t do every part of Confessor Broin¡¯s plan, doing as much of it as possible, slowly over the next decade, is worthwhile. I don¡¯t think we should concern ourselves with the politics of large numbers of power armoured infantry. We can¡¯t actually manage it and it would be silly to try. If someone does raise a fuss? Fuck ¡®em. What matters is that we have the means to face the threats we encounter. People might scream ¡®Heresy!¡¯ or decry us with ¡®Rebellion!¡¯, but what they really want is an excuse to steal our shit, hence: fuck ¡®em.¡± ¡°Well, that is an option,¡± says Eire. ¡°We will need some friends, and I¡¯d like my job to be more than just swearing at every diplomat we come across.¡± Several chuckles echo through the cold air. ¡°Quaani has paved the way for us there,¡± I say. ¡°Your role as High Factor might not see much use right now, Eire, but you will be quite busy soon. Odhran has also set us up to meet with his Chapter. Hopefully it won¡¯t be an explosive reunion.¡± ¡°Yes, Quaani has been rather busy, hasn¡¯t he?¡± says Eire. ¡°I am hoping he will come back with a good idea of how Imperial trade actually works. There are a few points that just don¡¯t make sense to me.¡± ¡°We will learn through our mistakes if we must, but I¡¯ll make sure to add your query to the next scheduled message.¡± ¡°Good, that would be most helpful,¡± says Eire. I address R¨®is¨ªn, ¡°Thank you for your fine explanation,¡± I say. ¡°I would have rambled.¡± R¨®is¨ªn snorts, ¡°Isn¡¯t it your wife who should be the only one who can read your mind? Guessing your thoughts is nerve wracking!¡± ¡°I really shouldn¡¯t have shared that behavioural model, R¨®is¨ªn,¡± says Brigid, her hand pressed to her mouth. ¡°That¡¯s a very important ¡®how to¡¯ guide to impress him.¡± I sigh, ¡°Alright, I know you could make something like that, Brigid, but I am certain that if you actually did, you wouldn¡¯t share it. Let¡¯s keep this meeting professional, please. No one likes it when they drag on, even for a cheap joke at the boss¡¯ expense.¡± ¡°So we¡¯re done?¡± says R¨®is¨ªn. I say, ¡°We did derail it a bit, but this is Maeve¡¯s meeting.¡± I smile at Maeve, ¡°Have we spoken about everything you wanted to cover?¡± ¡°I wanted you all to be aware of the problem,¡± says Maeve. ¡°We can hash out the details over the next few weeks. Now that I have an idea of where we want to push this, I¡¯ll go looking for the exact numbers and what we can test, then put forward a variety of proposals. Thank you, all of you, for helping me with this.¡± Not everyone is smiling, but I do think everyone here is satisfied. ¡°Ah, I have one last question,¡± says Eire. ¡°Was it not mentioned that almost everyone below us reached their Tech-Priest qualification by building power armour? What happened to all those suits?¡± ¡°It¡¯s usually done in simulation,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Very few Tech-Adepts can pay for the forge time to make a real one.¡± Eire huffs, ¡°Times sure have changed since I did my exam. I had to pay to make an MIU!¡± ¡°The Iron Crane ate most of the budget back then,¡± I said, ¡°and we didn¡¯t have many sleeping pods.¡± ¡°I know,¡± says Eire, ¡°that doesn¡¯t make it any less annoying.¡± Maeve looks at each of our faces, then nods, ¡°Alright then, meeting adjourned.¡± Everyone almost immediately disconnects from HiveSim apart from Maeve and I. Maeve starts bringing up tables in front of herself, showing the details of the battle below. After a moment she pauses her analysis and looks over. ¡°Did you need something, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Yes, a personal question, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°You can ask.¡± ¡°I wanted to know when your drama group is putting on their next play. My kids loved the last one and have been badgering me all week to find out what it is and when it might be.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Maeve beams, ¡°I¡¯m glad they liked our rendition of the battle with the Orks on Marwolv. We haven¡¯t quite decided what we will do next, so there is nothing to spoil. We are planning to do something for Sanguinala though, so five months from now.¡± ¡°Thank you. If your group has an idea they don¡¯t have the budget for, come and ask me. As long as it¡¯s not too outrageous, I will sponsor you a little extra.¡± ¡°That would be wonderful. Confessor Broin does a good job of distributing community funds, though if you sponsor the after party, that would give us more for the play. The veterans that I work with can always drink more beer.¡± ¡°No surprises there,¡± I say, ¡°Alcohol production is rather limited, and yes, I will sponsor your after party.¡± ¡°Great! See you later, Aldrich.¡± ¡°Bye, Maeve.¡± I disconnect. Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Four Two months after Maeve¡¯s meeting, I am slogging through the scientific papers of the ancient Terran Federation, trying, and failing, to understand how to integrate my third eye into my bionics. Like any sensible person, I want to put my brain in my chest, firmly armoured in adamantium and as many different energy shields as I dare. Problem is, since I now have a third eye that needs to be exposed if I want to bathe my enemies in its ghastly glare. I need to understand how to create artificial, warp energy baring nerves as well as a secondary sub-brain for my skull, that would link to the one in my chest, somewhat like an octopus. The goal is to not only link the two and better protect my main brain, but to increase my control of the eye¡¯s baleful energy and, hopefully, increase its navigation capabilities too. I also have some thoughts about creating decoy possession organs that I can purge or consume during a possession attempt, but that also involves soul manipulation, which is currently way beyond my skill. I don¡¯t know how the Kin managed it, but the Ancestor Cores of those hairy biker space dwarfs are so advanced they¡¯re actually magic. Sort of. They definitely know how to use it. Sadako appears before me in a flurry of coloured glass and metal, origami shaped cranes. ++This one has detected an unauthorised use of an Imperial Knight by Cybersmith Paorach. The first warning has been ignored. Permission to terminate the dissident crew requested.++ ¡°Are the weapons active?¡± ++Negative.++ ¡°Permission denied. I will intervene.¡± Following Sadako¡¯s waypoints, I track down R¨®is¨ªn while watching on the sensor feed as she gleefully sprints in circles around a storage compartment in the outer hull ensconced within a colossal, nine metre gothic mecha. Upon approaching the location, the noise becomes quite unbearable, hammering through the structure of Iron Crane, so I filter it out, though I can still feel the reverberation through my feet. A mix of eighteen Tech-Adepts and Priests are crowded around the door to the storage area, all learning over each other in an awkward stack, eager to watch, but not to get in the way if R¨®is¨ªn loses control and tumbles through the open door. I really want to do ¡®the boss clears his throat behind the misbehaving employees¡¯ but it¡¯s a bit too loud for that. I can yell as loud a cargo ship¡¯s fog horn though. ¡°Attention!¡± I yell, while also broadcasting on the local noosphere link. My new eyes, combined with my auspex, let me visualise the waves of my voice churn through the air and pick up on the ripples in the crews¡¯ voidskin as my voice washes over them. Many clutch their ears in pain. They all whip round, straighten up, and bow, their hands held against their chests, making the sign of the cog. The Knight jitters, almost trips, then rapidly decelerates. I clasp my hands behind my back and peer down at my crew, ¡°I suggest you all make yourselves scarce.¡± They immediately scatter down the corridors, hoping I won¡¯t remember who they are. I¡¯ll let them stew for a week then mess with their schedules for a month or two. They might all be R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s subordinates, but they¡¯re all equally responsible for not dissuading R¨®is¨ªn from engaging in reckless testing like a kid running around her bedroom with her first completed Gunpla. I vox R¨®is¨ªn, ¡°Well, are you coming down here or not.¡± ¡°Ah, Aldrich, I need to take the Knight back to the gantry.¡± ¡°You can jump.¡± There is a short pause, ¡°Right you are, Aldrich.¡± The hatch on the stop of the Knight thunks as the locks disengage. There is a small hiss as it opens as the cockpit equalises with the low pressure air common throughout most of the vessel. R¨®is¨ªn pulls herself out using the handles, then descends, alternating between sliding and climbing until she has to make a brief, four metre drop to the floor. She rushes over, her skin flushed red with exhilaration or embarrassment. Once she is close enough I can pick up on her emotions and detect that it is shame. Shame of being caught that is. ¡°R¨®is¨ªn, there is a lot I want to say and ask right now, but first I want you to apologise to Sadako. Your unauthorised testing has irritated it and I had to dissuade the Machine Spirit from engaging the automated counter-boarding protocols. As it is, it will probably make every door open extra slowly for you, or something equally irritating, until it calculates the scales have been balanced.¡± ¡°Oh no!¡± I see the electronic emissions as R¨®is¨ªn starts exchanging data with the Iron Crane as tiny streams of green numbers. I could read them if I wanted to, but that is unnecessary right now. ¡°Good,¡± I say. ¡°Now, first are my congratulations for not only repairing the Knight, but for somehow managing to bond with it, without having your mind wiped by all the psychic implants of the previous pilots making your brain flow out of your ears. Second, what the hell were you thinking? Bonding has a ten percent chance of killing you if you¡¯re from a Knight House that has been undergoing natural selection for the past fifteen millennia. I do not want to calculate what they were for you.¡± ¡°Zero! Well, pretty close to it anyway. I had some of the Eldar and Psy-Errants help me edit the imprints and turn them into a single gestalt intelligence that guides and teaches the user, rather than drown their consciousness with dreams of past glories and nightmarish battles. The new gestalt also functions as an extra buffer between the pilot and the machine-spirit so that one¡¯s personality isn¡¯t overwritten, or the pilot killed by any of the Machine-Spirits mental tests. It doesn¡¯t understand how fleshy brains work, afterall. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°I don¡¯t know how necessary all of that was given the quality of the MIUs used by the Fleet and the Custom Cortex Implant that you gave me, but I wasn¡¯t willing to risk it. Before you start a lecture of why changing the process is a bad idea because knights are supposed to be tough, loyal, and hard to corrupt, let me just head you off with a few extra points. ¡°I reworked the armour with phase-iron, warded the cockpit, and installed the micro-gellar field design you gave me for research. Making the gellar field work without a warp based energy source is beyond me, but I did find a way to fuel it with wraithbone, thanks to a tip from Ylien. While the field is active, to most demons or psykers, the Knight will look like it has no pilot, so they can¡¯t even target them. The field will also weaken any demons that get close, and the phase-iron will protect against sorcery. No need for rigid zealot mental programming required. Pretty neat right!¡± ¡°So you bypassed the Ritual of Becoming and the requirements for a Chamber of Echoes to be built. Not only that, but you added additional protections against the Ruinous Powers and other psychic attacks. That is remarkable, R¨®is¨ªn, well done. ¡°Now, the mix of your privileges and your unauthorised testing skirts Fleet regulations so finely that technically I can¡¯t punish you for it. The real clincher is that the Knight has had all of its weapons removed before you tested it. A deliberate act. You will return the Knight to its service bay then not sit yourself upon its Throne Mechanicum for a whole year. Any objections, Cybersmith Paorach?¡± ¡°No, Magos. No objections.¡± ¡°You may work on getting the other two running in your spare time, if you wish. It hasn¡¯t interfered with your assigned work before, but don¡¯t start now.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± ¡°Additionally, for your superb work you may ask for one custom work from me, and I will provide ten hours tutoring in any subject that I am able to teach for each of your team members who assisted in this project.¡± I glare at her, ¡°While I love your enthusiasm, a fist pump is not an appropriate gesture when you are being reprimanded. Your ban is now eighteen months.¡± R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s emotions waft off her poorly guarded mind, she is genuinely upset now. I sigh, ¡°R¨®is¨ªn, you are a brilliant woman, but almost anyone else would be asteroid mining for what you just did, even my own kids. You endangered your own life and that of the crew. You¡¯ve even taken your own teams to task before for the same reason. That machine could have sent you into a frothing, incoherent rage and sent you rampaging through the ship. It is not a toy. ¡°I can see you took some precautions, and you really have worked a miracle here, but you''re as bad as Sergeant Odhran with your ill thought choices.¡± I loom over her, ¡°You have also stolen from me. A Knight only has one pilot until that pilot¡¯s death. Not only that, we just had a whole discussion about why sending our best minds on high casualty missions is a shitty idea and now I am going to have to put you at risk every time I need to deploy that Knight. I am incredibly disappointed with your choices here.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± ¡°Now you see it.¡± ¡°Yeah, sorry Aldrich.¡± ¡°Apology accepted. Now don¡¯t dally and put that Knight away.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± R¨®is¨ªn scurries away and clambers up the side of the Knight with great difficulty. She restarts the Knight and I step out of the way so she can get through the door. Taking slow, careful steps, R¨®is¨ªn pilots the Knight. I follow her the whole way to show my immeasurable disappointment at her life choices, despite me inwardly dancing with glee at her achievements, then turn around and walk away without another word once she arrives at her private labs. I will tell the rest of Fleet Command how pleased I am with R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s work, then, when R¨®is¨ªn is feeling depressed about getting told off and goes to one of them for consolation, they¡¯ll hopefully drop a hint that will take away the sting and restore her passion for her work. I can¡¯t afford to have her moping because she can¡¯t sit on a Throne Mechanicum. There are no more incidents for the next few weeks until the appointment of Rieinmelth Y Gododin to Fleet Command as a representative of the Psy-Errants and all psykers within the Fleet. The Psy-Errants have recently replaced the Twist Catchers as the Fleet¡¯s Warp corruption hunters, recovering a part of their role that they used to undertake on Marwolv. Psyker births have dropped to one in ten thousand, rather than one in a hundred. When combined with the ones that we took from Marwolv, we currently have eighty-two in the Fleet and two thousand brain dead ones in stasis ready for conversion to psychic servitors. At first, I was representing the psykers, but I decided that, as their numbers grew, I could no longer do so as it was creating a conflict of interest; I am not supposed to favour one department over another. Ever since R¨®is¨ªn showed me the heavily warded Knight I¡¯ve been thinking about making the Psy-Errants proper Questor Imperialis if I can get enough Knight frames, or at least give them Vanguard Armour, as it would make them much more effective at their jobs and work well with all the extra wards on the machines. On Marwolv, Psykers were deliberately not given combat roles in national armies to prevent an arms race and keep as many of them as far as possible from stressful situations that might force them to overdraw on the Warp. It was a good system for their isolated planet, but there is no peace among the stars, so I¡¯d rather put them in a mobile warded cage where they can use their esoteric senses and spells to maximum effect. Logis Banba Aneurin is appointed as the new Overseer for Iron Crane¡¯s shipyard. She has a real knack for accurate estimations, but it will take at least a year for her to settle into her role before she can make any changes or improvements. Two more years pass and Alpia starts her lessons with Ylien, though I sit in on all of them. I install a copy of my micro-gellar field behind Alpia¡¯s sternum so that she will be better hidden from Warp entities. She doesn¡¯t have a warp tap like me, so she must periodically draw on the warp and feed it into the battery installed alongside the device. Drawing on the Warp is tiring, and puts a psyker at risk, so having to do it manually requires discipline and effort, two things my ten year old daughter is terribly lacking in. Thanks to her intelligence upgrades, she¡¯s just too used to everything coming easy to her that anything that requires even a modicum of effort is avoided like the plague. My boys are a bit better, mostly because they can¡¯t resist competing with each other, but not by much. This is the first time I¡¯ve tried to give someone else a full copy of one of my mechanical implants, and so far, it is serving Alpia well. It will be a long time, if ever, that I can give her another of my implants though because her soul is much smaller than mine, nor does it grow as easily, so unlike the boys, she might have to skip the Rejuvenat Gland. After Alpia¡¯s first few lessons, my boys confront me about not getting an awesome implant too. It¡¯s too early to give them a Rejuvenat Gland, so I make them something I¡¯ve been considering for years, but never had a reason to do. After a week of manufacturing and testing, I hand them their new toys and put the issue out of my mind. Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Five After handing off the new toys, I potter about my lab mulling over my transition. My Full Bionic Conversion is proving rather tricky as I have come up against the limits of my Warp Tap, completely wrecking my timetable for completing my transition. I do not have enough kills to upgrade the Warp Tap with a greater draw. Also, I am reluctant to increase it further anyway as each time I do, it increases how visible I am in the Warp. No matter how good my micro-gellar field is at hiding me, or my personal skill with psychic powers, there will always be a slight danger that something big will find me. As it is, from my time on the Federation Station, I know I attract Tyranids within, at minimum, five kilometres of me. Bola and the Orks stumbled across my location from many light years away. Balphmael of the Horned Darkness, or Bad Penny, has found me multiple times and, until his death, really had it out for me and I still haven¡¯t found out why. My implants do have a low power mode, which is how I run most of them the majority of the time, that limits my implants to thirty three percent of what they can normally do. It¡¯s not a huge problem as I only really need my mind modules, Research Matrix, and E-SIM to run on max constantly. I can rely on my batteries when I really need to move, shield myself from blows, or use the Warp and Weft module. The problem is that, even at reduced power, if I install any more, I won¡¯t be able to charge my batteries, even with everything running in low power mode. I can¡¯t turn them off completely as then I wouldn¡¯t be able to move, or my life support would fail. As such, I am trying to create an ultra low power mode that runs off conventional energy sources, rather than the Warp so that I can complete my conversion. I know I can do it because I created the Custom Cortex Implant for Fleet Command and the Marwolv Small Council. That was just one implant though. I have hundreds of them with millions of different components. Fortunately there is significant overlap in components. The challenge, however, is that while I can get most of my implants to run on electricity, I haven¡¯t cracked how to make them so that they can run on electricity and Warp energy, just one or the other. Creating two sets of implants to run alongside each other does not work. It would be like having two endoskeletons, but only one of them can move at a time. To my surprise and horror, the Machine-Spirit that monitors my children pings me with an emergency alert. My boys have taken the grav skates and safety harness I gave them and are using them to skate up the sides of the buildings in the promenade then jump, the slow fall function on the harness letting them glide from one building to another. They are having an absolute blast and causing a huge amount of disruption to the movement of people below and within the buildings. I put my head in my hands and groan, ¡°I did not think that one through.¡± I don¡¯t want to embarrass them with a public alert, or distract them with a private one, so I need to go and collect them myself. I do message Brigid though, informing her of what is going on and why. Brigid returns my message almost immediately with a series of animated holograms of her in different poses, each with a different action and expression. One has her with a stern face and a wagging finger and the other has her doubled over with laughter, one hand clutching her stomach and the other palm out, as if asking the viewer to wait a moment. I pull out one of Brigid¡¯s control whistles and blow on it, then disable the displacer shielding on my laboratory. Two minutes later a large red dog appears next to me with a quiet pop of displaced air. ¡°Hello, Dawn Garnet!¡± The family cyber mastiff trots up to me and presses its face against my knee. I crouch down and rub her head. ¡°Can you find the children for me?¡± Dawn huffs and lets out short bark. ¡°They are in the promenade.¡± I upload the children¡¯s location via vox to Dawn¡¯s locate and follow routines. ¡°I want you to play with them. Can you do that for me Dawn?¡± Her tail starts wagging. ¡°Off you go! Go play!¡± Dawn disappears with a pop. I restore the displacer fencing and depart, not running, but making the absolute most of my long stride. ¡°You know, E-SIM, there are some days where I feel like all that I do is go to meetings and put out metaphorical fires.¡± ++Then perhaps you should use something other than a Machine-Spirit and a dog as your children¡¯s primary carers.++ ¡°I was hoping that they would make some friends without me hovering over their shoulders. Instead, they have chosen to show off their new toys and disrupt the primary habitation area. At least Alpia is friends with the other psyker kids.¡± ++How were your boys to know your intentions if you did not tell them?++ ¡°Hm, a classic fail there on my part.¡± ++No matter how close you reach perfection, Aldrich, you will never be rid of the shackles of the flesh.++ ¡°How encouraging.¡± A third of the way to the promenade, Ruby appears on the sensor feed and barks at Fial, Luan, and Dareaca, startling several people who are gawking at the acrobatic display above them. The boys immediately notice the disturbance and float to the ground. Ruby runs circles around them, barking, her voice laced with data that declares her joy, and task complete, to any who care to listen. Every time one of the boys tries to get back to skating, Ruby licks their face, or puts her paws on their shoulders and rubs her wet nose against their cheeks. I am able to arrive before the boys get fed up with her antics. They freeze when they see me and try to run. I draw on the Warp and grab all three boys with telekinesis and pull them towards me. I hold squirming scallywags close to my chest and touch a mechadendrite to the grav skates, letting me access their controls and disable them. ¡°Good job, Dawn!¡± ¡°Traitor!¡± yells Dareaca. ¡°Dareaca Isengrund! What did I say about using that word?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t?¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°Exactly. That is a serious accusation. We do not use it without proof or cause, let alone on the family dog.¡± I wrap a mechadendrite around each child and hold them out in front of me. ¡°We are going home and then we are going to talk. Be quiet until then unless you want the whole vessel to know you are in trouble.¡± I start walking and Dawn trots beside me, her tail smacking the side of my leg as she wags it vigorously. ¡°Eh, don¡¯t they know that already?¡± says Luan. ¡°Oh, so you do have some awareness about inappropriate use of new hardware.¡± ¡°If you didn¡¯t want us to use ¡®em, you shouldn¡¯t have handed them over,¡± says Daeaca. ¡°Yeah!¡± says Luan. ¡°What about you, Fial? Do you agree with your brothers?¡± ¡°Yes?¡± I reach out and flick his nose, ¡°Don¡¯t hedge your bets. Give me a proper answer.¡± ¡°You never said we couldn¡¯t use them anywhere.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true, but I also don¡¯t have to tell you not to stick your hands in Dawn Garnet¡¯s mouth. I¡¯m not actually annoyed about you using them to dance through the skies. I want you to have fun, and to have something special you all share. I¡¯m annoyed about you getting in everyone else''s way and disrupting traffic.¡± ¡°Where else were we supposed to play?¡± says Fial. ¡°You could have booked any of the testing rooms with your stipend, or asked me to reserve the observation dome for a private event.¡± ¡°Then how would everyone know that I am cool?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°You could invite your friends from school.¡± ¡°Like who?¡± says Luan. Dareaca says, ¡°Yeah!¡± ¡°Any of the kids from your classes would do.¡± ¡°But then they would want a go,¡± says Luan.¡± ¡°So?¡± I say. ¡°If you share your toys with others they will like you.¡± ¡°You want us to buy friends?¡± says Daeaca, ¡°Didn¡¯t you specifically warn us about not letting others take advantage of us or abusing our privileges?¡± ¡°So this is all my fault, is it?¡± I frown. ¡°Alipa says it¡¯s always Daddy¡¯s fault when something goes wrong,¡± says Fial, ¡°she thinks you should stamp and shout more to stop people from messing up in your name.¡± Praise the Omnissiah! For it is through his gifts that I have spare minds to laugh with and perfect control of my face! ¡°Own your words, Fial. Do not use another''s to deflect attention from yourself, or at least don¡¯t be so blatant about it. There is no point in hiding if you are easy to find.¡± Fial crosses his arms and pouts. Dareaca scoffs, ¡°Do you have advice for every situation?¡± ¡°It¡¯s my Dad super power.¡± ¡°That¡¯s dumb,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be the strongest and smartest person in the Fleet?¡± ¡°Dareaca, why are you so intent on getting into further trouble?¡± ¡°I¡¯m bored.¡± ¡°If you say so.¡± ¡°If you know so much, why don¡¯t you just read my mind and find out?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°If you want to be a vegetable so badly, Dareaca, I will put you in a plant pot in my lab and pour water on your head every day.¡± Luan snickers and even Fial has a little smile on his face. We reach the lift going up to the navigator spire. Once the doors are closed, I put down the boys. The lift opens up into a small lobby where some of my bodyguards are always waiting, backed up by some truly unpleasant, hidden defences. The kids burst out of the lift and run through the lobby, passing a couple of turns to reach the front door. It opens automatically for them. Luan and Dareaca leap onto the sunken sofas with great whoops, while Fial sits quietly on the steps. I pick them up again, then sit on the sofa and place all three boys next to me. ¡°Right kids, you clearly have far too much energy so we are going to do a project together. Let¡¯s hear your ideas.¡± ¡°Are we going to be punished?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°I will let you off just this once as I did give you the tools to make mischief without proper guidance or oversight. Do not misuse the grav skates again.¡± Three quiet sighs reach my ears. I shouldn¡¯t let them off so easily, but I seem to do nothing but hand out punishments these days and I just don¡¯t have the heart for it right now. ¡°Thanks, Dad,¡± says Fial, ¡°Can I have a hover bike?¡± ¡°We could make one together, but there¡¯s nowhere good to use it as hull racing is too dangerous right now. Ask me again in ten years.¡± ¡°That¡¯s, like, forever!¡± says Fial. ¡°You can always use a simulator, and we can race each other. Fair warning, your mother is a speed fanatic. Give me another idea, boys.¡± Luan says, ¡°I want a gun big and flashy enough to make an Ork go wide-eyed with wonder and jealousy.¡± I laugh, ¡°No.¡± ¡°How about a contained plasma sword then?¡± ¡°Impractical, but possible. We would only make one where the plasma will be warm to the touch, but you could wave it about as you please without trouble. It will sound cool, but not do much else.¡± ¡°Lame,¡± says Luan. ¡°Dareaca, what about you?¡± ¡°Can we use one of the empty cargo containers to make a grav skate park?¡± ¡°Oh? What¡¯s the thinking behind that idea?¡± ¡°Well, couldn¡¯t we make a skate park for everyone? Then no one has to borrow ours and they can come and watch us do cool tricks, use their own skates, or rent them or something, I suppose.¡± ¡°We can do that, all of you will have to promise to help me design and build it though. If you agree, we can do this.¡± ¡°I promise!¡± says Luan. ¡°That sounds awesome. We have zero-g areas, things to jump off and water pools to land in!¡± ¡°Yeah, fine. I agree,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Can we own it?¡± says Fial. ¡°I want to earn extra pocket money.¡± My hands are full holding my kids, so I rub my chin with a mechadendrite. The kids don¡¯t even notice or care that I am trying to be funny. It is oddly disappointing. ¡°I will allow it if you have enough savings to invest in it so it is yours and not mine.¡± ¡°How about a loan?¡± says Fial. ¡°You don¡¯t have any collateral.¡± Fial grabs a datapad from the recaf table and starts fiddling with it. ¡°Harsh,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Aren¡¯t we your kids?¡± ¡°My time and labour is free to you,¡± I say. ¡°Not everyone can get the help of the strongest and smartest person in the Fleet to kick start their first enterprise.¡± ¡°Oh? So you do have some awareness about how to best use your hardware,¡± says Luan. I laugh, ¡°Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.¡± Fial scowls at the datapad, ¡°I don¡¯t have enough money.¡± ¡°Then there¡¯s your answer,¡± I say. ¡°It was a good idea, Fial. It doesn¡¯t have to be a loan. You could find other ways of raising funds, but be careful of the commitments that come with each of them.¡± ¡°Not worth the trouble, so long as we can use it,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°What do you even want more money for anyway? We get plenty of pocket money.¡± ¡°I just wanted to try,¡± says Fial. ¡°Do you think mum will help?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say. ¡°You will have to ask her yourself.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± ¡°What do we do now?¡± says Luan. Fial and Dareaca shrug. I turn on the holoviewer and bring up a design program, ¡°Give me your best ideas.¡± Luan and Dareaca jump up and start offering suggestions, waving, and pointing. Fial snuggles up to me and picks up the datapad again, using it to silently place his ideas in the middle of the room. I smile and relax. It¡¯s good to be reminded why I struggle. Survival is such a dull goal. Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Six The older I get, the faster time flashes by. One moment I¡¯m welding ramps and hoops so my kids have somewhere to run wild, and the next I¡¯m sending them off to the Heralds for their two years service. Sometimes, leading by example absolutely sucks. I am fucking terrified my boys will get killed in some minor conflict, and my daughter strung up by a fanatical mob because some dumb chicken died and the farmers are all ignorant, zealous twits. I won¡¯t put my kids in a gilded cage though, and as we complete the final deceleration into Acheron, I have my own challenges to face. Acheron is a brown dwarf, a star that never properly ignited. The system is equally barren with three small planets the size of Mercury and a mixed field of asteroids and comets twelve AU from the dwarf star. By the time we complete the Macro-Ferry, there will probably be no orbiting bodies but our own. Three weeks before we arrive, a Battle Barge, Grave¡¯s Bite, three strike cruisers, seven light strike cruisers, eighteen escorts, and four freighters Warp into the system, putting the Stellar Fleet on high alert. Having to expose the rear of our vessels as we decelerate towards the system along a highly predictable path is not a position I like to be in and the main reason why I was so annoyed with Odhran. During our approach, the Eldar have their armour and weapons returned to them. They depart on a squadron of class two D-POTs, the cargo holds filled with the rest of the weird fruits and vegetables that we grew for them and plenty of medical supplies. Ylien also joins them, agreeing to take up the role of envoy between the Alaitoc Eldar and the Stellar Fleet. Orodor gives no thanks upon his departure, nor apologises for his shitty behaviour. Despite the initial fuss, none of the Eldar give up the MIUs I forced upon them either. While a few would need to keep them to help pilot the D-POTS, the rest do not. None of them can resist secretly messaging each other using the devices constantly, rather than having to draw on the Warp to do so, or use their own channels that are fairly easily compromised by most competent Bonesingers. Amused at the idea of them all constantly scheming and insulting each other on a long journey, I let them keep the MIUs. If they still have one and I meet them again, it will give me a wealth of data! The Alaitoc are somewhere in the Ultima Segmentum, so I have few expectations that I will run into Ylien again or the Alaitoc Craftworld. They are known for spreading stealthy agents throughout the galaxy though and I will be content if my overtures to them ensure that there will be one Craftworld who will not interfere with my Fleet. I have absolutely no expectations this will happen though. The Barghest Librarian, a Space Marine Psyker, shows off during our approach, speaking directly into my mind from tens of millions of kilometres away, even though he isn¡¯t an Astropath. He asks us to confirm our identity. I decide not to give too much away, much as I¡¯d like to directly reply to him, and contact them through the Psyker Servitor wired into our main altar in Iron Crane¡¯s cathedral like a proper Tech-Priest. Quaani shows up nine days later with all seven of his vessels as well as a Luna-Class cruiser. I¡¯d like to find out immediately what is going on, but no one is shooting at each other, so I avoid sending any more messages. While Imperial FTL data exchange is fairly robust, it does have some quirks. For example, because messages are sent through a space detached from time, upon occasion, one can receive replies to messages they have yet to send. Not only is this is a massive security risk, but out of order messaging causes much confusion and harm Astropaths as their minds take the brunt of the paradox. To reduce such incidents, it is customary to always send not only the intended message, but the previous three exchanges between the parties as well, softening the impact of any paradoxes that might occur. This also isn¡¯t great for security either as to intercept or alter one message is to wreck a whole chain of them. It doesn¡¯t stop people from making things up either. Sending a message is similar to trying to interpret someone else''s dreams, and misunderstandings are fairly common. I do not want to have to flee back the other way because an Astropath got his ones and zeros the wrong way round. Human minds do not do well with inhuman numbers and I¡¯ve no idea what sort of implants the Barghest Fleet¡¯s Astropathic Choir has, or what supporting systems they are using to interpret the data that I send them. This is why the Mechanicus tends to use Psychic Servitors, or Psy-Servitors and why many Astropaths who work in the relays have their minds burnt out by the vast volume of data they are forced to transmit without pause or respite. This system does have some positives though, as sending a message chain can provide much context to strange messages and make it more obvious if a message is corrupted, all for the simple cost of increasing the load on one¡¯s pet mutant to almost intolerable levels. Really, in the Imperium, one could not ask for a more perfect method! I almost change my mind about not sending further communications when the Barghest Chapter Fleet surrounds Quaani¡¯s fleet in a ¡®protective¡¯ formation. Over the next ten days the Stellar Pathfinder Fleet and the Barghest Chapter Fleet exchange six shuttles. At maximum, the Barghest Chapter could have put ninety battle brothers on Distant Sun, and no matter how awesome they might be, I still don¡¯t think the Space Marines could chew through a thirty thousand strong regiment of Heralds, which, if they¡¯ve been updating their mixed regiment like we have, should have three hundred and ninety troops in heavy power armour, not including whatever personal armour the Tech-Priests outside the Stella Corps might have cooked up for themselves over the last two decades. With those numbers, and a home territory advantage, I¡¯d give my Heralds a decent chance of winning against such odds, or at least be so costly that it isn¡¯t worth the assault. Now that I think about it, that might be why I received an invitation to Grave¡¯s Bite a day after the first shuttle exchange. Depending on how much Odhran actually told them, they¡¯ll regret it if they resort to threats with me on board as I have a few new tricks. Two days before we arrive at the Mandeville point, we finally get to turn our prows towards the Barghest Fleet, our retro-thrusters now able to slow us for the last bit. Secure vox messages become viable and I finally get to see Quaani¡¯s face again through a series of visual and text messages that I receive every few hours, and then minutes, as we close in. Watching the message I can see that he¡¯s picked up a small mutation and now has nictitating membranes across his Human eyes, and he still has the extra joint in his long fingers, much like I did until I replaced my hands with machines. ¡°Hello Aldrich, it is good to be nearly home. I¡¯m looking forward to meeting my new ¡®cousins¡¯. Hopefully they will like the gifts I have brought them. It¡¯s been an eventful journey, and I¡¯ll give you the full details later, but you¡¯re no doubt pacing around Iron Crane wondering why and how I¡¯ve acquired a Luna-Class cruiser. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°Well, the truth is, it isn¡¯t ours, but it could be. The cruiser, Torchbearer, belongs to a renegade navigator house, House Lafiel, what¡¯s left of them anyway. Only six males remain, all too mutated to sire new navigators. Even if they did manage to strike a deal with another house, their meddling with the genetics in search for greater power and freedom from persecution, or so they tell me, means they can only father male children. ¡°I met them at Footfall, the first and last port for all who traverse in and out of the Koronus Expanse. They tried to abduct me for their house, but thanks to all the training I received from Ylien, and the awesome armour you gave me, we trounced them and abducted one of theirs instead. ¡°Thus began negotiations. ¡°Heal them and they will join our house and gift their Luna-Cruiser to the Stellar Fleet. It¡¯s in crappy condition compared to what we¡¯re used to but still functional. ¡°The Torchbearer¡¯s chief enginseer had a right fit when I started telling him how to do his job. He even tried to sabotage the reactors and was even more furious when I cracked his simplistic codes and overrode his authority on the ship. He and his cronies got an eyeful, then the Heralds gunned them down. ¡°There were a few more attempts to rectify this ¡®Insult¡¯, but they never got anywhere as I was quick to gain the favour of the primary Machine-Spirit, whom I named Phase, and after ten years, the red robed fools revere me like the Omnissiah¡¯s own son! ¡°It¡¯s honestly rather annoying and I don¡¯t know how you put up with it. Maybe you don¡¯t notice? You can be quite oblivious, or maybe you¡¯re just too polite to read everyone''s emotions all of the time. Most of the tech-priests I¡¯ve met were a lot more normal, but the ones on Torchbearer are unusually mad and fond of zapping everything with electricity from their fingertips. ¡°Do not shake their hands or mechadendrites and try to be nice to them. They don¡¯t deserve such favour!¡± As I read Quaani¡¯s message, I can¡¯t keep the smile off my face. I exchange a few more messages and we agree that I should meet the Space Marines before him because their big fleet is making both of us nervous and he¡¯s getting annoyed at them poking around Distant Sun, looking for Emperor knows what. He¡¯d refuse if he could but he doesn¡¯t have anything that needs hiding and they have more and bigger guns. I soon find myself on a Class three D-POT, with its squadron of escorts following behind. The five Space Marines, Odhran, Killian, Darrah, Nuada, and Eoghan are with me, as is my entire bodyguard company, still led by Captain Bedwyr Keane. A class three D-POT can hold a whole battalion, so we¡¯re rather floating about in here with all this space, but I wanted to posture a bit as well and it never hurts to bring torpedoes. Soon, I get an up close view of Grave¡¯s Bite, the pilot completing a single loop around the nine kilometre ship. The Battle Barge is far wider and flatter than a normal Imperial ship with a hammerhead shaped prow and far more substantial Cathedral and Castellan superstructures than Iron Crane. The hammerhead prow is an absolutely massive seven point two kilometre square hangar, spread across four decks, with a shimmering void shield across it, looking more like the wide maw of a great beast than something constructed by Human hands. The Castellan has distinct tubes where one can launch drop pods with speed and ease. A massive Bombard Cannon is also housed within the Castellan, and there are two lance turrets in the centre of the vessel along the spine. Both port and starboard sides of Grave¡¯s Bite have three Macro-Cannon batteries, each wide enough to drive a lorry down. I doubt anything smaller than a cruiser would last more than a volley or two from all those guns and I become increasingly nervous as we approach the mammoth vessel. Especially when I count over four thousand CIWS. The stern of the vessel is a bit odd, reminding me of the ornate ships of the line used by European vessels during the Age of Sail. Really, it would look more at home on a pirate ship, I think, than a Space Marine Battle Barge. Each Battle Barge is unique to its Chapter though, so I guess the designers of this one wanted to stand out in some way. As we slip into the prow hanger I get a chance to measure the armour, twenty-four metres of adamantium, ceramite, and plasteel composite, which does not surprise me in the slightest, and an additional eight metres of ablative ferrocrete, which is quite the shock given the material¡¯s weight. Distant Sun and Iron Crane only have two metres of ferrocrete! We set down in the hangar and disembark, Odhran and his marines first, then Eire and I, then one squad of Heralds in power armour and five Vanguards with their twenty-five supporting infantry. Arrayed before is almost a third of an entire Chapter, with three companies of marines and all their supporting vehicles. I spot no less than six Dreadnaughts, forty Rhinos and nine Predators. Supporting Tech-Marines, pilots, and Apothecaries are also present, a total of four-hundred and eight Space-Marines. What stands out is that absolutely none of them have their helmets on, which doesn¡¯t seem right for what is obviously a full parade. Instead they are tucked beneath their arms and their bolters are strapped to their chests. Before I can work out what is going on, they all begin to sing a lively gothic chant. I freeze, our little group stopping with me. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His Day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: ¡°As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of precious seed, crush the xeno with his heel, Since God is marching on.¡± He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgement-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies He was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he burns to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. [Battle-Hymn of the Republic, by Julia Ward Howe. Slightly altered for the 41st Millennium.] The whole hanger echoes with their voices, sending a shiver down my spine. I was expecting shouts and accusations, endless posturing and shows of strength. I didn¡¯t expect to cry. Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Seven The Space Marines are superb singers. Possibly the best I have ever heard. It is easy to forget that Space Marines were intended to excel in all pursuits. We use them for war, but they can do so much more when given half a chance. With a tiny flick of my telekinesis, I remove my tears so that no one will notice I cried when they sang. Once their song is done they salute two men standing out in the open, between the two rows of Space Marines and war machines. The man on the left is incredibly tall and bulky, rivalling myself in height and girth. His power armour is an absolute masterwork, covered in gold ornamentation and purity seals. The helmet under his arm is shaped like a snarling, monstrous dog. The right hand man is much shorter, matching the average two point one metres of most Space Marines. He wears a light grey hood and robes over his armour. A force staff, topped with the Imperial Aquila floats next to him. The two men stride towards us. Odhran and his squad step aside to let them through. The big man gives them an equally large grin, his substantial sideburns and peppered, floppy moustache shifting as he does so. ¡°Greetings, Magos Issengrund,¡± says the big man, ¡°I am Chapter Master Lir Brackin. Beside me is the Head Librarian of our chapter, Aengus Mhanaigh. Thank you for bringing my brothers home.¡± I reach out and shake both their hands, ¡°It is good to meet you at last, Chapter Master Brackin and Head Librarian Mhanaigh.¡± I notice immediately that both of them are their minds and souls are shrouded within the Warp. A small tendril reaches out from Aengus and he tries to slip through my own defences, but I turn it back on itself and make the Librarian¡¯s mind look like mine. When he finally cracks his own defences, he inhales sharply through his teeth. A small trickle of blood flows from his nose, ears, and eyes. ¡°Excuse me a moment,¡± says Aengus. The Librarian turns around, pulls a cloth from a pouch on his belt, and wipes his face. He turns around, ¡°Good trick.¡± This is much more like what I expected. I want to be annoyed about him trying to peek into my mind but it suits my purpose as I¡¯ve been preparing for this day for decades. Tugging at my connection to the Emperor, I send him my last souls. My hand shines with a golden light and the air around us becomes distinctly heavy. I feel another mind peering through my eyes for a brief moment, then the sensation disappears. Lir and Aengus¡¯s eyes go wide and they immediately kneel. The moment everyone else spots the golden light, they too, kneel. I reach out and place my hand on Aengus¡¯s shoulder and heal him. The miracle is more powerful than I expected and he rapidly becomes more youthful, his scars fading. ¡°Be at peace, Librarian Mhanaigh,¡± I lean close and speak softly next to his ear, ¡°but do take care at what you peek. That was quite rude.¡± The light fades and I speak up so that all may hear my words. I infuse a slight compulsion to them as well. ¡°Defenders of the Imperium, stand!¡± Everyone immediately stands, including Eire and my own Heralds. ¡°The Guardians of Humanity do not bow! They do not kneel! They are ever vigilant, ready to beat back the void with courage and conviction. Show your respect through valiant deeds for His eyes are upon you! What say you?¡± ¡°YES, MAGOS!¡± My auspex gives me perfect three hundred and sixty degree vision so it¡¯s easy for me to spot Lir giving Odhran a fiery glare when he doesn¡¯t think I¡¯m watching. Odhran¡¯s face is as impassive as always, though there is a distinct crinkling around his eyes that is obvious to me. Lir¡¯s eyesight is also sharp enough to spot Odhran¡¯s amusement and his face turns equally impassive, though I can see Lir is clenching his jaw hard enough to bite through steel. ¡°Well, that¡¯s enough excitement for now,¡± I say. ¡°Don¡¯t you agree, Chapter Master Brackin?¡± ¡°Yes, Magos. What would you have of us?¡± ¡°Fair and far reaching trade. My second here today,¡± I gesture towards Eire, ¡°High Factor Eire Lobhdain, will negotiate on my behalf with your representative. Did you have anything else planned aside from your marvellous parade?¡± ¡°A tour of our vaults and armouries,¡± says Lir. ¡°Odhran said you preferred relics and artefacts to gold and grains. Is this assumption correct?¡± ¡°That depends on the quality of your teas, Chapter Master, though I would still like to see what you have hidden away. Do you have any made from camellia sinensis?¡± ¡°No. I do not know what that is. We do have a small tin of Tanna though, from Valhalla. A gift from the commander of a Valhallan Ice Warrior regiment that we saved many decades ago. Would you like to try?¡± ¡°Absolutely.¡± ¡°I will call Tech-Marine Balor Roan to discuss trade with High Factor Lobhdain. If she is willing to wait here with your men, he will be along shortly. I would have Sergeant Odhran and his squad join us as well. There is much to discuss and, after that little show you put on, some confusions I would like to clear up.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine. I ask that you let Bedwyr Keane, the Captain of my bodyguards also accompany us with one power armoured special weapons team. He doesn''t get many chances to practise aboard my own vessel.¡± Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Lir chuckles, ¡°Acceptable,¡± He voxes some orders and the Space Marines begin to disperse. A rather battered rhino trundles towards us and stops. Lir presses a green button in an armoured box and the rear ramp folds down. Bedwyr sends his Herald into the Rhino first silently voxes me with his MIU, ¡°There is nothing unusual here, Magos. It is safe to proceed.¡± I duck into the Rhino and hold onto one of the bars on the roof. There are no seats, though there are harnesses bolted to the sides of the hull, designed to fit an average Human in carapace armour. The magnets in my gauntlets and boots are more than enough to hold me and my Heralds in place though. Once everyone is secure, Eoghan taps his fist against a big red button and the ramp rises up. Librarian Mhanaigh does not join us. Lir has a frown on his face during the whole journey and nobody speaks. His mind is still shielded somehow, so it must be a device or his will, rather than Aengus as I first thought. I suspect that he¡¯s irritated that I pulled his authority from under him in front of a significant portion of his chapter. He can¡¯t complain about either because I literally shoved a miracle in his face and brushed off an attack with grace. I believe I have put him off-balance because he assumed he could negotiate from a position of power and now it¡¯s suddenly the other way around, yet being belligerent towards someone who can directly call upon the Emperor¡¯s Grace goes against his foundational beliefs. On the other hand, he can¡¯t let me order his whole Chapter as I please as he no doubt has many other commitments, like deals with Forge Worlds and Agri Worlds, that would have catastrophic consequences for his fleet if he chooses me over his word to others. I have no intention of taking advantage of Lir, or putting him in a difficult position, but he does not know that, and thus broods for the entirety of the twenty minute drive. It suddenly strikes me that I am bullying a Chapter Master. An idea so absurd, that it takes me several seconds to process at high speed. Perhaps, at last, I am a minor power in this Game of Worlds? We disembark and step between two great doors, covered in an extravagant relief. The doors are pure adamantium, so I am rather impressed that they managed to cast and polish a grand artwork into it. The hall is distinctly gothic with great pillars and a vaulted ceiling. Skulls, black dogs, and scorched banners decorate the walls and pillars. Every few metres there is a small alcove in the wall, holding trophies like the head of a Zoanthrope, or the jaws of a Catachan Devil. Eight plasteel long tables run through the central section of the room and a large throne rests upon a high dais. Lir glances at his throne, then gestures at the closest table, ¡°Please, have a seat. Refreshments will be here soon.¡± Odhran and Killian sit either side of me, and the other three marines join Lir on the opposite bench. Lir looks me straight in the eyes, ¡°Magos. An explanation please. I felt His gaze upon me. I wish to know His intentions. Why are you here?¡± ¡°The Emperor did not send me to you, nor do I need your aid at this time. You are free to act as you always have, with care, thought, and fury. I am, and have always been, here to trade.¡± ¡°I see. We are a poor chapter, Magos. I do not know what you are expecting,¡± Lir slumps, and for a moment he looks his age. Three golden studs line his left eyebrow. Three hundred years of endless horrors yet he soldiers on. ¡°Sergeant Odhran saved my life, just like I saved his and those of his battle brothers. He asked a boon of me, that I sell the artefacts I have to your chapter, or at least give you first pick: enough Great Crusade Era Space Marine wargear to outfit an entire chapter, including twenty jetbikes.¡± Lir gapes slightly and looks over to Odhran. Odhran nods, ¡°The Magos¡¯s word is credible. My brothers and I have examined all of the wargear present on Iron Crane. It is untested in battle, though I doubt we would find it wanting. Additionally, the Magos is underplaying his hand, he did not save our lives, he brought us back from the dead with priceless, irreplaceable archeotech. Then at great risk to his body, channelled the power of the Emperor until our souls returned from His side. We are a little unclear on the exact details. I have sensory and visual recordings as proof of Magos Issengrund¡¯s deeds and generosity.¡± ¡°An extraordinary claim. I require the whole tale.¡± ¡°Magos?¡± Odhran looks at me. ¡°Tell him what you wish of our tale, our travels, and encounters, but the details of the Stellar Fleet and Stellar Corps are to remain private. I don¡¯t expect you to tell me the exact composition of your Chapter and I expect the same in return.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Odhran talks about his original mission and his last stand. He tells of his first meeting with me and his impressions, unflattering though they may be. I give him a mock glare, but do not interrupt or contradict Odhran. Half way through his overview of Marwolv, the tea arrives. It arrives in a plasteel mug, held in the unsteady fist of a shoddy, half clothed Servitor. Not the most glamorous presentation, but at least the brain dead creature is clean. The liquid within is light brown, almost golden. I stare at it for a full moment, inhaling its sweet, floral scent. Swirling in the bottom of the cup is a small pearl that gradually unravels into a single dark green, almost black leaf. With some trepidation, I bring it to my lips. The water is pure, unflavoured by minerals. The Tanna tea has a slight hint of sweet vanilla and tangy iron, much like rooibos. Rather than a cleansing aftertaste of hot black tea, there is a distinct, yet mild bitter taste, reminiscent of green tea. My extensive implants simulate a caffeine rush for me so that I get the full experience. I let out a long sigh and try to keep the disappointment off my face. Tanna tea is close, so close to recreating the crappy builders tea I miss so much. It is, ironically, a bit too high quality. I can tell that milk and two sugars would obliterate its delicate flavour, nor will it go well with some buttery shortbread or a chocolate digestive. I shake my head and smile. What matters is that it is good enough. The herbal nonsense I usually drink is still delicious and stimulating, but it¡¯s the nostalgia I am chasing. The taste of a long lost home. I put down the mug and close my eyes. A mechadendrite sneaks out and stows the leaf. I startle as a booming laugh comes from across the table. ¡°Magos Issengrund, does the Tanna tea meet your expectations?¡± Lir suddenly looks a lot more relaxed. Apparently openly snatching samples, even a dried, then well boiled leaf, places me back within the boundaries of his world view. ¡°It was delicious, thank you.¡± ¡°Would you like a better sample?¡± ¡°It would aid me greatly, Chapter Master. A single pearl would be enough.¡± He waves me off, ¡°You can have the rest of it. Now, what¡¯s this I hear of a xenos habitat on your remarkable vessel? You don¡¯t have a licence for that, do you?¡± Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Eight ¡°You mean my experimental materials, Chapter Master? So long as one is not dabbling in forbidden lore, I require no licence.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t how it was reported to me,¡± says Lir. ¡°I am performing a long term study on the effects of a Melodium to overwrite the rumoured pheromone and Warp based control that the Ethereals have over Tau citizens. My studies have shown that the rumours are true. Not only that, but should my experiment prove successful, it might be possible to erode social and cultural programming from a large number of xenos species. Potentially, this would lead to them turning on each other as all freed parties attempt to gain control. ¡°The Tau Empire could fall, or at least have its expansion curtailed, with a few hidden devices smuggled onto their border worlds. The Ethereals would likely have to be assassinated too.¡± Lir leans forward, ¡°Now that does sound more plausible. Have you seen any success?¡± ¡°Yes. I have rewritten the culture of the Tau, twisting their philosophy of the Greater Good of the Tau, to the Greater Good of the Imperium. They are now full adherents of the Machine Cult. Now I am testing to see if it sticks. If that works, I will move on to attempting to bless them with the Emperor¡¯s light, much like I did for Head Librarian Mhanaigh. Where is he right now? I was surprised when he did not join us.¡± ¡°In prayer and contemplation.¡± ¡°Understandable.¡± ¡°You would expend His power on xenos, Magos?¡± I shrug, ¡°If He does not approve, no miracle will manifest. That is answer enough for me.¡± Lir breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring widely. ¡°You will let me see this project, its people, and its data.¡± Never have I been so glad how fast and how many reports I can write simultaneously! I¡¯m not quite lying. I have the data, and I have been brainwashing the Tau, but the language within the progress reports is friendly. I wouldn¡¯t want such a simple thing to give away the ruse. I had no intention of weaponizing my studies into the Tau. I just didn¡¯t want to execute a bunch of sapients and feed the Warp just because they¡¯re xenos and I don¡¯t like them. One of the few values I still hold is not to execute unarmed prisoners. I¡¯m going to look like a total asshole if these edited reports ever leak to the Tau. I¡¯ll have to provide a single ¡®read only¡¯ copy of the data on a locked datapad. I¡¯m not sure why I didn¡¯t expect Lir to ask this question, but I do wish I had prepared better. This is going to take me weeks of work, all locked up in my head. ¡°So long as no harm comes to my test subjects, I see no reason to refuse you.¡± ¡°Acceptable. I only wish to confirm.¡± I shrug, ¡°It¡¯s your job.¡± ¡°Hmm, that is so,¡± Lir taps his finger against the plasteel table, deforming it slightly, though the metal quickly returns to its proper shape the moment Lir stops tapping. ¡°I am discontent with such a short discussion on the miracle you performed.¡± ¡°What would you like to discuss further?¡± ¡°I...I wish to confirm that the Emperor has no task for us.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± I stare up at the ceiling for a moment to make it look like I require time to think after a small hint from my social prompter. ¡°The Emperor is neither living, nor dead. He simply is. A unique and powerful existence that smaller minds, such as my own, do not have the capacity to truly understand. When His gaze is upon me I see what He wants me to see and understand only what He cares to tell. Like an image, or an emotion, His will has a different interpretation for every faithful who experiences it.¡± Lir loses his frown and leans back slightly, staring intently at my face. I look into his eyes and continue, ¡°It is best to look at this from another angle. The Emperor peered through my eyes at his many sons, your Barghest Chapter. There was no disapproval or fury. He gives no praise for it would be an insult to your duty and faith. He gives no tasks because your path is true. While we are all children to Him, he trusts us to do what is right and necessary for the unity of the Imperium and the greatness of mankind. He holds out his guiding hand when it is needed, not when it is wanted.¡± ¡°You are a true believer, Magos.¡± ¡°Thank you. I have put much effort into my faith in the Omnissiah and the Machine Cult. It is good to have it recognised by an individual of your repute, Chapter Master Brackin.¡± Personally, I think the Emperor just doesn¡¯t give a shit about almost everything. I¡¯ve no desire to become bosom buddies with high velocity plasteel through sharing my views though. Lir squints at me slightly, then seemingly satisfied with something, gives me a curt nod. ¡°Magos Issengrund, thank you for your interpretation. I will share it with my Chaplins so that they may spread His word among the crew and my many Battle Brothers.¡± ¡°Words can¡¯t be taken back, only lost. You are free to do as you wish with my meagre wisdom.¡± Lir puts his hands on the bench and stands, ¡°I will show you our vaults myself. Perhaps you will have another insight?¡± I smile, ¡°Oh, I never get lucky twice in one day. I dare say the entire universe would become fucked up beyond all recognition if that were to happen!¡± ¡°I understand the sentiment. We are no cursed and storied chapter like the Lamenters, but when one rushes from trouble to trouble, it would be a great surprise to find, and highly suspicious, to find anything else. A Tech-Marine might call that confirmation bias, but so long as I am right I do not care.¡± I laugh as we return to the Rhino, leaving the grand hall behind. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. ¡°Odhran,¡± I say. ¡°Now would be a good time to make your request of Chapter Master Brackin.¡± Lir says, ¡°Oh? How rare. Go ahead, Sergeant.¡± ¡°My squad and I wish to remain with Magos Issengrund. We gave our word to protect him after he returned us from death.¡± Lir turns around so he can look at everyone in the Rhino properly. ¡°You wish to leave Grave¡¯s Bite so soon? You will remain when the Magos returns to his vessel. Take your squad and meet your new brothers; chat with your old ones. Once you have done so, return to me and tell me your thoughts. I will give my decision then.¡± ¡°Yes, Chapter Master.¡± ¡°Magos Issengrund, have you tried those Jetbikes?¡± says Lir. ¡°I have. They are remarkable machines. I dare say you might enjoy yourself. They are Shamshir Pattern, so don¡¯t let any of the White Scars or their successor chapters learn that you have them. They may fight you for them, probably destroying everything they were hoping for in the process.¡± ¡°It¡¯s been a long time since we were forced to fight another chapter. Conflicting orders from alternate commands are always unpleasant to deal with.¡± We continue our drive for a few more minutes, then Lir says, ¡°Since when were you a Tech-Marine, Sergeant?¡± ¡°Magos Issengrund preaches and practises self-improvement. He is generous with his allies so that they may do the same. I am yet to decide if the practice is a subtle way to reduce jealousy and internal strife, or simply a way to gain more skilled workers. He cannot press-gang them from Imperial worlds as he pleases like most captains. Despite his openness, he loves his secrets as much as any other member of his order and his shared knowledge deflects from that. ¡°Regardless of my thoughts and speculations, I have benefited much from Magos Issengrunds teachings and have exceeded the standards required for a Tech-Marine by a considerable margin. My restored Brothers have neither the knack nor interest to truly follow the arts of the Mechanicus, though you will still find them much more self-sufficient than they were before.¡± A pleasant smile crosses Lir¡¯s face. ¡°If you were not keen to leave I would be delighted at how much you have prospered.¡± ¡°Yes, Chapter Master.¡± ¡°None of that now, though I fear you may have damaged your chances. The poor Magos looks quite put out by your evaluation.¡± ¡°You are still my Chapter Master.¡± ¡°Indeed I am.¡± ¡°Ah, how the tables have turned, E-SIM. It would seem I was correct. The Chapter Master is quite upset about my little stunt in the hangar.¡± ++You have been called many things, Magos. ¡®Political Animal¡¯ is not one of them.++ ¡°I shall take that as a compliment.¡± ++You are a blunt instrument of change.++ ¡°When one is a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, every problem is a screw and one¡¯s skull is the hammer.¡± Lir says, ¡°Magos Issengrund, it is unusual to meet someone who matches me in height and muscle. How did you come to be of such great stature?¡± ¡°Some of it is my own work and some changes were wrought by His hand. We are not so different, you and I.¡± ¡°You speak of your miraculous transition to a Navigator.¡± ¡°Correct, I was only two metres tall before then. Now I am two and a half.¡± ¡°There are an awful lot of miracles around you, Magos.¡± ¡°Staring at the Warp for weeks at a time, constantly armouring one¡¯s mind to brush off the horrors of the deep Warp, is a duty. I believe it is a rather fitting blessing from the Emperor, though many would call it a curse.¡± ¡°They do not know what they speak of.¡± ¡°Nor can I speak on the matter to most. They would see it as fanciful tales, or be jealous of my power, forever forgetting that everything has a price.¡± ¡°Is that your mercantile philosophy?¡± ¡°Oh! I suppose it could be. When one dedicates themselves to a role, they should live and breathe it. We are made in His image. To do any less is to spit upon His grace.¡± ¡°Quite.¡± The Rhino rumbles to a stop. ¡°Magos, are you ready to walk our sacred halls?¡± ¡°Honoured, I¡¯d say.¡± ¡°Hmm, then we shall linger here no longer.¡± We disembark and once again I encounter the greatest bane of any table top adventurer: a locked door. This one is utilitarian, an armoured slab with a core of adamantium alloy. It¡¯s fifteen metres high and ten metres wide, the standard size for any major thoroughfare on an Imperial vessel. As its antique mechanisms haul the door up, back, and horizontally, it is immediately obvious that the whole vault is armoured in the same manner as the door. Runes glow with power along the inside of the walls and the distinct hum of Field Bracing is obvious to my ears, and tickles the sensors under my Void Skin. The vault isn¡¯t that large, covering two subdecks in height. It is eighty metres long and fifty metres wide. There are a few piles of loose, scorched, junk near the door, but otherwise everything is safely stowed in armoured and warded chests or armourglass cases. I smile in appreciation, ¡°That is some proper security.¡± ¡°We do not know what everything here does, only that we do not want our enemies to have it. Have a wander, Magos, and tell me what you see.¡± I point at a preserved brain, filled with microfilaments and covered in a net of interconnected cogitators, and vox components, ¡°I see you had a run in with one of my more pugnacious brethren.¡± ¡°Ah yes, the Cantic Thrallnet. Would you like it, Magos?¡± ¡°No thank you.¡± ¡°A shame.¡± I walk down the right most aisle, ¡°This is like walking through the history of your chapter.¡± I peer at a circular Eldar grav platform with a curved, coffin-shaped protrusion in the centre. I reach out to it with my mind, but am denied access to the controls. ¡°That¡¯s an Eldar Serpent¡¯s scale. It creates a squad sized mobile shield.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what our Tech-Marines thought too, but it is good to have confirmation.¡± ¡°You might be able to get it to work if your Librarians and Tech-Marines are willing to collaborate.¡± ¡°Could you do it?¡± ¡°Eventually,¡± I say. In truth, it would take me a week or so, but not much more. ¡°Though it would be easier to build my own. The tricky bit would be the power source. It would not draw its power from the Warp or the minds of the squad it protects like the Eldar model does, nor would it save you against esoteric effects like time manipulation, teleportation, or gravity shear weapons.¡± ¡°Can the xeno tech do this?¡± ¡°With Eldar technology it is easier to ask what it cannot defend against, and for that I have no answer.¡± ¡°Hmm. A heavy price in a time of need, perhaps.¡± ¡°Your loot, your rules.¡± ¡°If only it was that simple.¡± I laugh. At the end of the first row my eyebrows shoot up at the sight of a bolt pistol. It looks perfectly normal, though it is highly decorated. To my esoteric senses though it glows like a fucking sun, and not the rubbish one in this system, but a proper G sequence star like Sol. This thing makes me rather nervous as it could probably kill me quite easily. I bow towards the bolt pistol, and murmur a short prayer, ¡°Does the Eclesiarchy know you have this?¡± Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Nine ¡°We do not always see eye to eye,¡± says Lir. I snort, ¡°You don¡¯t say.¡± Bedwyr Keane, my bodyguard captain, speaks up for the first time since we landed on Grave¡¯s Bite, ¡°I would love to know what it is. What sort of bolt pistol is it?¡± ¡°This is one of those things that you and your Heralds need to keep secret,¡± I say. ¡°That is a genuine imperial relic. There¡¯s probably less than a hundred of them in the whole galaxy. A Castigator Bolt Pistol. There was a single production run of them hand-crafted by one hundred and seventeen deaf-and-blind artificers within the shrine of the Nameless Saint. Don¡¯t ask me who the Nameless Saint was, or what the title may represent. I have no clue. ¡°It is said that a round fired from that gun can pierce any ward and armour. That probably isn¡¯t quite true, there is always a counter out there somewhere. I¡¯d bet on it being something dumb, like hiding behind a wall or a rock. Odd rules are a common fault with arcanotech. Still, you could, in theory, shoot a titan Princeps from ten kilometres away with a self-targeting round, and kill them in their life support tank without ever harming the titan. I dare say it would unravel the unclean sorceries and slaves of the Ruinous Powers just as effectively.¡± ¡°I can see why Chapter Master Brackin is unwilling to trust the Ecclesiarchy with it,¡± says Bedwyr. ¡°Still, it seems odd for such a tiny little thing to have so much power.¡± Lir glances at Bedwyr, then looks to me. ¡°Magos, would you like to inspect the pistol closer?¡± ¡°No. The further away I am from that awesome gun, the happier I will be.¡± ¡°Ah, some of the stuff we have can be quite intimidating.¡± I hold back a sigh at the byplay and walk on to the second row of this barrow-like hoard giving everything I see a casual scan. ¡°Oh wow,¡± I say, staring at a device in the shape of a Cog Mechanicum. ¡°I never thought I¡¯d see one of these! Was this looted from a ruin, or do you just piss a lot of people off, Chapter Master.¡± Lir¡¯s eyes crinkle slightly, ¡°What is the device?¡± I query the device and it responds with various errors like ++Low Power++ and ++Connection Terminated.++ Nothing unexpected though. ¡°That is a working example of a Mark of the Omnissiah. This is another relic, one built from scavenged parts from the Dark Age of Technology. It is much rarer than a Castigator Bolt Pistol, though I could not say which is more valuable. A Mark of the Omnissiah is said to be able to repair an Imperial Knight in battle, restoring damaged systems and shattered armour to pristine conditions in minutes. I admit I would dearly love one of these.¡± ¡°What would you do with it?¡± says Lir. ¡°The same as any competent Tech-Priest. Learn from it and replicate it as best I can. I¡¯d love to see if I could make one that works on an imperial vessel.¡± Lir says, ¡°How likely is it that you would succeed?¡± ¡°It would be the work of centuries, perhaps millennia if all I had was this one sample. I believe I could replicate one, especially if my Quest for Knowledge goes well and I find other examples of similar technologies." ¡°I am not willing to trade this Mark of the Omnissiah with you at this time.¡± ¡°A disappointment,¡± I say, ¡°but not unexpected, even if you don¡¯t have any knights of your own. Letting us take a look is already generous.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad you agree,¡± says Lir. We continue our slow walk. I rather like the little plaques that hold the dates and manner in which each artefact was acquired. The suits of Space Marine artificer armour interest me greatly, their extensive modifications giving me ideas for my own armour. There¡¯s one that lets you run twice as fast that would do me much good as I am actually a bit too strong for my armour and have to limit myself. I tap the chest of one of three suits of Centurion Armour. It makes a Terminator look small. Its most remarkable feature is not its size, strength, or durability, though that is remarkable, but that it does not require a Black Carapace to operate. It is similar to a Tau Battlesuit or my own Vanguard armour in purpose, but much, much better at its job. ¡°If you can get me the STC for this, I will make you twenty of them.¡± ¡°That might be possible. Twenty suits would not be enough though. We would need to call in a big favour from a Forge World to get hold of the full design.¡± I shrug, ¡°It¡¯s not worth much more than that. There¡¯s a lot I could do just scaling up an ordinary power armour. While the finished models are particularly valuable to a chapter, the technology inside is merely impressive, not priceless.¡± ¡°Then why do you want it?¡± ¡°It saves me decades of time that I could use to work on alterations that are less obvious. Don¡¯t pay them too much for it, Chapter Master, they¡¯d be taking advantage of you.¡± I exaggerate; with the scan I took and my Research Matrix I¡¯ll have a prototype within two years. Cheating is awesome. I made the offer because I don¡¯t want accusations of technological theft to probe me with a mechadendrite. If he can get it officially no one can complain about it if I supply his chapter with them, or use it to improve my Vanguard Armour. ¡°There is no point discussing this any further. I will make inquiries though. Twenty new suits would greatly benefit our chapter.¡± I step away from the Centurion Armour and admire a full stack of ten storm shields. They use a power field, like the ones in my hammer or my hands, to disintegrate incoming attacks. Now that I think about it, couldn¡¯t I do the same? I¡¯d have to be careful with my feet, as I couldn¡¯t cover my soles, or people bumping into me when the field is active, but I bet E-SIM has an upgrade that would let me use a power field over my whole body. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ++There are multiple ways you could achieve this.++ ¡°Awesome.¡± The Barghest Chapter doesn¡¯t have any more relics and while their own wargear is good, at least the stuff in the vault is, it isn¡¯t unique or irreplaceable. There are a few items though that require some discretion. ¡°Chapter Master Brackin, would you be willing to remain in the vault here alone with me? You have some more troubling items that I would like to discuss. Ten minutes of your time is all I should require.¡± ¡°That is acceptable.¡± ¡°Magos, are you sure?¡± voxes Bedwyr ¡°I¡¯ll be fine and will call for an alert via telepathy if I need it. Probably. Those wards are really strong. He couldn¡¯t kill me in ten minutes anyway.¡± ¡°As you say, Magos.¡± The other Space Marines, and my Heralds leave the vault and the door closes behind them. Lir says, ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure if you know the meaning of discrete.¡± ¡°We have different value systems,¡± I say. ¡°Follow me.¡± We head to the centre of the hoard where the full gear of a Farseer is present: A Ghost Helm, Force Barrier, Witch Staff, Fusion Pistol, Heavy Rune Armour, and a Spirit Stone of Vigour. ¡°All of these items are useful to me, should you be open to trading them. However, that spirit stone embedded into the Ghost Helm has the soul of a Farseer in it, one who can no doubt listen in on us and your crew, or even warn her people of your plans.¡± Lir immediately draws his plasma pistol and I reach out and hold his arm down. His eyes go wide when he cannot budge. ¡°Unhand me!¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t quite finished. Any harm that stone can do has already been done and there is a far better way to dispose of it than plasma. Consider this your task from the Emperor, if you must.¡± Lir puts his pistol away and growls, ¡°I am listening.¡± ¡°Good. I am going to put up a muffling and scrying barrier. Do not try to shoot me. I will be most wrath with you if you do.¡± ¡°This had better be good.¡± I wave my hand, making an obvious, and unnecessary gesture as I draw on the Warp. A small amount of frost forms on our armour and a soap bubble like shimmer surrounds us both. Eldar runes flash across its surface each time it deflects a mental probe. ¡°You dabble in forbidden lore.¡± ¡°Not really. Forget about the counter espionage shield, Chapter Master. That void stone is the most valuable item in your collection. I¡¯ve no idea if the bearer deserves this fate, but it¡¯s going to be grisly. A Spirit Stone of Vigour rapidly refreshes the mind and body so that they can draw more power from the Warp. Energy that they could use for healing themselves or their allies, for example.¡± For some reason, Lir kneels as I speak, then clears his throat. Perhaps because I said it was a quest for the Emperor? I continue, ¡°You need to take this to Terra and hand it to a Custodes directly. I don¡¯t care how you do it, but one of those could aid the Emperor. He could consume the soul within to bolster the Astronomicon or his own strength. Maybe he¡¯ll appreciate having someone around who is psychically strong enough to chat with. Maybe the stone will shatter simply by being close to his mortal frame. None of that really matters. The point is that you still have to try.¡± ¡°Magos, please shut up and turn around!¡± says Lir. He sounds genuinely distressed so I turn around and behind me are two Custodians in their Auramite Power armour. They¡¯re three metres tall, with a long red plume flowing from the tops of their helmets. Their left pauldrons are purple, as are their robes. Each Custodian holds a huge halberd with a bolter integrated into it. I honestly think their weapons look incredibly dumb and are a disaster waiting to happen but there are no records of that happening, so they¡¯re probably perfectly serviceable. They might have been teleported in by the Emperor, much like how Eldar Harlequins are tossed about by their laughing god. There also might be a Custodian ship hiding in the system, that has a teleporter good enough to slip through the extensive wards on the vault. Are my sensors really that bad? ¡°Ah, the Aquilan Shield,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re about to be robbed, Chapter Master.¡± Lir splutters and, almost against his will, looks up at me, disbelief upon his face. The light reflecting off the Custodes armour brushes over his eyes and Lir bows his head again. The Aquilan Shield is a faction within the Custodes who venture out into the void to guard random people for random lengths of time, usually so that the person they are escorting can die when the Emperor needs them too, rather than pop their clogs ahead of schedule. I am not happy that they are here. The left Custodian holds out his hand and I approach the case with the Ghost Helm in it. Rather than try to hack the device, I pull out my trusty crowbar that never sees any use and tap it against the armour glass. There is a soft click and the lock disengages. I grab the helm and pluck the soulstone from it with a mechadendrite. The soulstone tries to escape, slipping from the mechadendrite with a small, telekinetic pulse. I snatch it with my hand and the soul within tries to fry me with lightning, but it is too weak to damage me, even if it could get through my wards. I place the sparking soulstone in the hands of the Custodian. The Custodian shudders slightly as the lightning flows through him, then disappears between one moment and the next. I have absolutely no idea how it is possible, but I do know that I am getting trolled. ¡°Magos Aldrich Issengrund,¡± says the remaining Custodian. ¡°You are to present me with three serums.¡± ¡°I used them all and cannot acquire additional units,¡± I say, then follow it up with telepathy, ¡°at this time. The Emperor already took everything I have when I made the last batch. You will be waiting for a while.¡± ¡°Negative, Magos. I am confident that I will not have to wait for long.¡± Damn harbingers of doom, come to tweak my paranoia. They should rename themselves the Order of the Reaper or Tarot Knights. I say, ¡°You could always raid the Eldar for their Phoenix Stone.¡± ¡°We have tried.¡± ¡°Well that explains a lot. Oh do stand, Chapter Master. The Custodes are not so fragile that you must kneel before them.¡± ¡°His irreverence aside, Chapter Master Lir Brackin, the Magos is correct. It is not becoming of a Space Marine to fight on his knees.¡± Lir stands, ¡°What now?¡± ¡°Complete your trades with haste,¡± says the Custodes, ¡°so that the Magos may be on his way. I will be going with him.¡± Lir salutes, ¡°Yes, Lord!¡± This? This is why I can¡¯t have nice things. I sigh, I really should stop taking out my frustration on the Custodes and reign in my sarcasm. It¡¯s not a healthy coping mechanism when the other guy has a big gun. Chapter One Hundred and Fifty With the Custodes backing negotiations, our trade is swiftly concluded with transfers between the fleets starting up before Eire and Tech-Marine Balor Roan even finish the preliminary agreement. The Custodes has not given his name and no one has asked for it either. The Custodes is clearly in a rush and he dictates much of the trade agreement himself then includes the seal of the Adeptus Custodes on the final document, so neither I nor the Barghest Chapter are getting out of it any time soon. Eire and I sit together in a private cabin on the class three D-POT after the ordeal and I serve her some of the Tanna tea. The room is sparsely furnished with a couple of couches, a recaf table, and a few pict frames that cycle between different images and artworks. There is a distinct focus on labour within the art, from individuals to groups, all working upon grand projects, like void ships, big farms, or forges. I¡¯m not sure where the Custodes is right this moment, but he is on the D-POT with us. Eire sips her tea and sighs, ¡°You know, Aldrich. I am rather annoyed.¡± ¡°What has you so irritated?¡± ¡°You set everything up for me so that I could perform my main role as High Factor for the first time and it was snatched away from me by a third party.¡± ¡°What about your time with the Eldar?¡± ¡°At best, that was practice. Ylien was the main liaison and the only other person the Eldar were willing to talk to was you.¡± ¡°Willing is a strong word. Even ¡®tolerate¡¯ would be too much.¡± Eire tuts, ¡°Quite.¡± ¡°You have told us about the Adeptus Custodes before. The Emperor¡¯s ten thousand companions who serve as bodyguards and errand boys.¡± ¡°They are more than that, they are a representation of His power, an extension of His hand. They are immensely powerful warriors and generals. While I am likely stronger and faster than them, my martial and leadership skills have not been honed by ten millennia of war. Calling them errand boys does them a disservice. You don¡¯t have to like them, they will not care either way, but being polite is essential.¡± ¡°Fine. I will play nice if I must. Why are they even here? An agreement between two minor parties cannot be the whole reason why a pair of such great men chose to stick their auramite faceplates in our business.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t been told to keep silent, but I¡¯m going to anyway. Better safe than censured.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± ¡°Let me take another look at the agreement. Perhaps there is something I missed.¡± Eire smiles, ¡°Alright.¡± She pushes a thick scroll and a data pad towards me. I pick up the scroll. It isn¡¯t real velum, even if I do have some goats on Iron Crane, but an artificial substitute that is even more hardy than the natural material. I unfurl the scroll. The final agreement is rather substantial with many appendices containing detailed definitions in tiny print, but the main clauses are rather brief. The most important change is that the Stellar Fleet now has an external currency that does not expire, the Stellar Fleet Requisition Credit, or SRC for short. This is something Eire proposed in advance during one of our Fleet Command meetings and the Space Marines were happy to accept it as a unit of exchange. One SRC is valued at one Sword-Class Frigate, one of the most common and standardised vessels in the Imperium. While it does include my high build quality, it does not include the many rare extras, like Castalan Shields, or Federation grade Jovian-Class engines, just the standard Imperial designs. As such, any Sword-Frigate or other vessels I create are always going to be more expensive because neither the Space Marines or I consider ¡®average¡¯ an acceptable option. Only the party who earned the SRC can cash it in, though the client can tell us to give the goods to a different party if they wish. An SRC is not divisible into smaller units than one when completing a trade, but the excess in an uneven trade can be exchanged for bytes. SRC byte value fluctuates depending on the current cost for the Stellar Fleet to build a Sword-Class Frigate. One can¡¯t exchange bytes for SR either, so if they don¡¯t immediately spend them, the buyer would be on a five year time limit. A light cruiser, like a mid range, uncustomized Lathe-Class is valued at seven point three SRC, and a Lunar-Class cruiser is twenty-two point two SRC. The price is based on volume of vessel compared to a Sword-Class frigate, so the prices become ludicrous rather quickly. For example, a Avenger-Class grand cruiser is one hundred and sixty-eight point seven five SRC. For our agreement, the Barghest Chapter will add a single light strike cruiser, a Mark III Vanguard-Class, to the Stellar Fleet. It will be staffed by chapter serfs and the Space Marines¡¯ attached lex mechanics. It will also house a single mixed company of marines, their support marines, auxiliary forces and all their vehicles: one hundred and fifty marines and eight hundred and fifty Humans, some of whom are partially modified and won¡¯t survive additional geneseed implants. The Stellar Fleet is responsible for all material upkeep of the attached Space Marine Force and we are obligated to respond to distress calls alongside them if we are within four weeks warp travel of the call. In return, the Space Marines will fight for me, so long as I am not the aggressor or have a legitimate casus belli. Helping out the marines seems like a big burden, but this is a great way for me to legitimately collect kills and was one of the concessions I planned with Eire in advance. I can also borrow the Barghest Chapter¡¯s political clout at the discretion of the Force Commander, who has been ordered to be as accommodating as possible. In other words, I can use the Barghest Chapter¡¯s good name to clear away red tape in exchange for sponsoring their chapter and the Space Marines have their own upkeep reduced by up to ten percent per year. For every two years that the Space-Marines accompany me, in addition to me paying their upkeep, they earn one SRC. The Barghest Chapter can trade in scrapped and badly damaged vessels for SRC at twenty-five percent of what they would cost me to build new ones. Outside of my own fleet, I am to give the Barghest Chapter favoured status, so long as they are travelling with me, and prioritise any orders that the Chapter has. An STC for a vessel is valued at four times its cost in SR, which is likely way better than what I¡¯d get out of the Mechanicus and the most advantageous part of the trade for me, especially as it comes with the STCs for the most common component loadout for that vessel. While I already have most standard component STCs, new copies are good as they provide more references and may show minor improvements depending on the Forge World that they come from. I have given the Barghest Chapter all of my Adeptus Astartes wargear, and received all of the remaining Farseer wargear and the Eldar Serpent¡¯s scale in return. I have also been given the STCs for the Sword, Firestorm, and Nova class frigates, as well as the STC for the Vanguard-Class strike cruiser. I don¡¯t think I would have received quite so much if it wasn¡¯t for the Custodes authorising me as a trusted manufacturer of Space Marine wargear and vessels. He even gave me a fancy certificate to prove it, signed by the High Lords of Terra. I place it in my null box and keep it on me at all times. This document is a great political shield, but it also ruined my anonymity. The Emperor seems determined to ensure that I am known. I don¡¯t know why and I don¡¯t care for it much, but once I trade some of my own STCs to the Mechanicus, it won¡¯t make much difference. At least with this I will be taken seriously, even if I don¡¯t have a Warrant of Trade just yet. It will be particularly useful if the Navy starts throwing their weight around. The huge amount of wargear was valued at four SRC. Strategically and economically, it is probably worth one, but the prestige of owning ancient jetbikes is absolutely massive. Even so, I still owe the Barghest Chapter forty point seven SRC for the other STCs. Four point four-five for the Firestorm, nine point eight for the Nova, and twenty-six point four for the Vanguard, not to be confused with my Vanguard Armour mechs. As its point three SRC under a valid trade, I have to immediately make up the difference and the Space Marines are not interested in bytes. Eire offered to trade some of our unique STCs to balance the trade and reduce our debt, like the Marwolv mark II lasgun, MOA alloy, and Vanguard Armour. They weren¡¯t interested in the STCs, or buying our wargear separately, and instead put in a massive order for vessels, predominantly Nova frigates, as the Navy annoys the Mechanicus until they ¡®lose¡¯ the orders for Nova frigates. This forces Space Marine fleets to make do with Sword-Class frigates, or if they¡¯re lucky, the Sword-Class variant, Firestorm-Class Frigate. For this order, I need to build two more light-cruiser strike groups, two light cruisers and eight escorts, pimped to the absolute maximum I can manage. Once the order is completed, our scales will be properly balanced. I put down the scroll, ¡°I¡¯m pretty happy with this and even on a second reading I can¡¯t see anything strange. You did well to make the most of our pre-arranged compromises.¡± The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Thank you,¡± says Eire. With the fake velum signed, the Barghest Chapter departs a week before us, leaving behind the Vanguard light strike cruiser, Red Knoll, as well as Sergeant Odhran, and his four brothers. The Space Marine strike force is led by Force Commander Verlin Tigernach and his second is Tech-Marine Balor Roan. Fleet command use the time to deploy the Macro-Ferry and redistribute supplies and personnel. This includes a huge number of people that Quaani has gathered and trained during his travels, making up for the crew shortages incurred by staffing the Macro-Ferry and a second light carrier strike group. Once in orbit around the star, there is a big ceremony and the Macro-Ferry is anointed and commissioned as Charon. Meanwhile I fix up the Navigators from House Lafiel and who were living on their Lunar-Class Cruiser, Torchbearer. The Custodes never leaves me alone no matter what I do, becoming a silent watcher and obliterating my sex life. He might be invisible a lot of the time, which is total bullshit, but I still know he is there, even if I can¡¯t detect him. The Custodes seems to take everything in his stride, including the rituals and my quick trip into the Warp for more Data Structures to perform them with. I keep expecting him to speak up, but he¡¯s more reticent and immovable than His Majesty''s black hatted Beefeaters, or Yeomen Warders if one is feeling official. I hate having a spy on my vessel, but I can¡¯t kill him or restrain him without ruining my biggest backer, so I have to put up with his intrusive behaviour. After restoring the Navigators, and effectively turning them into my second cousins, two navigators remain on Torchbearer, while the other four pair up to take posts on our two Lathe-Class light cruisers, Distant Sun and the new Yonder Moon. Quaani and I remain responsible for Iron Crane. The navigators on Red Knoll are a family of four, but none of them are willing to interact with us so soon and are far too used to being imprisoned in their spires to dare a trip outside their vessel or accept visitors. I¡¯m hoping Quaani will get them to loosen up and that will be our ¡®in¡¯ with a more respectable house. All ten Moth-Class vessels are docked within Iron Crane for travel and our eight Adder-Class escorts dock with their assigned light cruiser using gravity hooks. Leith Madra, Captain of Red Knoll is most vehement about our risky jump method and argues that it¡¯s not worth the quick response on the other end when all the escorts could be docked inside Iron Crane, even if he is impressed we can actually do that. The only problem with this is that it means we can¡¯t get started on even one of the Nova frigates even if the mining barges we manufactured for Lickspittle didn¡¯t take up the remainder of the space. Iron Crane starts up its Warp Drive, ripping a hole in the Materium wide enough for itself, and three light cruisers. Quaani is in the tank, and I am with Alpia, whom I am holding close to me in our living room. It¡¯s her first transition and we were both nervous just in case something tried to sneak through or test her protections. Rainbow smoke pools at the edge of our room and rushes towards me like a flood and my kill count shoots up by thousands every minute. ¡°Dad, what¡¯s going on? What¡¯s that smoke?¡± ¡°It¡¯s my implants clearing out demonic corruption.¡± Alpia exhales, ¡°Good, that¡¯s good. I didn¡¯t know you could do that. Would your implants help me?¡± Last time I was mobbed by rainbow smoke I was inside the tank, away from prying eyes. I¡¯m actually absorbing Warp energy from slain demons but it''s inconvenient to explain any details to Alpia though, especially with the Custodes nearby. Even if I could tell her the truth, I wouldn¡¯t anyway. I don¡¯t know how much the Custodes knows, and I see no point in adding my secrets to his knowledge by accident. ¡°I don¡¯t have another copy of it and I¡¯ve never found anyone else who is compatible with this one. Your Dad is a bit special.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t believe you said that, you are so embarrassing.¡± Ha! Classic. I smile and hug Alpia, then step away, but she doesn¡¯t let go of my hand. ¡°I¡¯m still scared. Why is there so much weird smoke?¡± Sadako manifests and screeches ++Magos Issengrund, the Neverborn are throwing themselves at the Gellar Field like flies.++ I glance over to the door where I last spotted the big golden bastard but there is no sign of him. ¡°Data request: Field integrity,¡± I say. ++Stable. They are not strong. It¡¯s like the Warp equivalent of a bird strike, or swatting insects.++ ¡°I can¡¯t connect to the specialised sensors remotely, nor properly use my third eye with others about. What is the scale of this strike?¡± ++Our whole fleet is being swarmed and all CIWS are firing at full bore. No large entities are detected.++ ¡°Inform me if the Gellar Field on any vessel drops below eighty-five percent and I will join the other navigators in boosting our defences.¡± ¡°Dad, why is this happening? Seriously, are you really OK? That is a lot of smoke.¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fine. There isn¡¯t enough to make me sick.¡± ¡°This seems really random.¡± ¡°I think we¡¯re being used as bait, or we have bait onboard,¡± I take another look at the doorway. Nope, still empty. ¡°What should I do?¡± ¡°Just stick around until this is over. Anywhere in the apartment will do, but closer is better. I¡¯ll inform your training officer so you won¡¯t get in trouble if it takes too long to return to the Heralds.¡± ¡°Thanks, Dad.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Alpia. Try and meditate if you can. It will help.¡± Alpia triggers the vox and it starts playing mechanicus chants, ¡°Is the sofa OK?¡± ¡°The sofa is fine.¡± Alpia hops over the back of the sofa and sits cross-legged right in the middle of it, ¡°Can you sit with me?¡± ¡°Sorry Sweetpea, it¡¯s better if I stand. It will help me react faster if I need to. I can stand next to you if you like.¡± ¡°No. You loom too much. It¡¯s distracting.¡± ¡°Alright.¡± So much power is coming towards me that frost starts to form on the walls. I glance at Alpia but her breath has calmed and her eyes are closed. After ten minutes, the smoke starts to peter out, but it never completely stops for our entire three week journey to Lickspittle. By the time we arrive, I once again have zero kills and the Custodes has left with three Resurrection Serums. No bet on which three poor sods will be getting those, even if one of them is just a hand. Note: I have made alterations to ship crew numbers and how I calculate everything. The Moth-Class is now the same size as the Adder-Class. The Adder-Class has been increased an extra one hundred metres so it is the same length as the Sword-Class. This will bring everything inline with the new Stellar Fleet Requisition Credit (SRC) Crew numbers are now calculated as a multiple of the Adder-Class/ Cobra-Class optimum crew of 15,000. Ship build times are based off of the Adder-Class¡¯ two year build time. Build times are also based on the manufacturing capacity of the Iron Crane, as opposed to the output of a forge world. New strike craft variants have been added that will be described in detail in a later chapter. The key point is that they are half as tall and thus vessels can hold, on average, twice as many Class one and two D-POT strike craft as they could before. Class three D-POT numbers have only increased on the Origami-Class, not the Adder class. No other vessels carry the class three D-POT at this time. The new variants are: Wrath, an interceptor (Class One D-POT), and Macross, a mass missile platform (Class Two D-POT). The Class Three D-POT is a torpedo bomber with four torpedoes and six, titan scale lance weapons. The Class Three is called the Vitrum Pattern. Servitors are no longer counted as crew and typically add an additional 30%. Civilians and Children are not counted either and are also typically another 30% of the stated crew figure. Stellar Corps Heralds and Aeronautica personnel are counted separately and are not based off of a crew percentage. For example, a Lathe-Class, like Distant Sun, is 7.3 times larger than an Adder-Class and would have a crew of 109,500. Civilians, Children, and Servitors would add an additional 65,700. A total of 175,200. It would take 14.6 years to build or average with a build time plus or minus 25% depending on local conditions and material availability. A Lathe-Class would have one Stellar Corps regiment, usually a mixed regiment of 29,700 Heralds. Other regiments like Void Assault (30,600), or Battle Automata (23,520) have different numbers and compositions. They are still arranged in the same manner as I described the first time, approximately chapter 75. A Lathe-Class has twenty squadrons of strike craft (based off the D-POT), requiring 1920 personnel. It also holds twelve D-POT squadrons (shuttles) for the Heralds and another two D-POT squadrons (shuttles) for intra-system journeys, another 1,344 personnel. That would place the number of people on a Lathe Class light cruiser at 208,164. The Iron Crane¡¯s crew is calculated using the smaller value of its volume, not the expanded version, even though the ship spends most of its time as an expanded vessel. This gives it a crew (not counting civilians, children, or servitors) of 705,000. An Origami-Class sized vessel, like Iron Crane, would take ninety four years to build, with up to 50% off as it can partially build itself, so it¡¯s like having up to two yards working on the vessel at once, as soon as it gets its manufacturing going. As for the promenade, assume it now has four of them, identical to the one I first described, unless I update the descriptions again. I will inform you if I do. As for how Aldrich built a shipyard and the Origami, in 30 years, with no established industrial base or trained personnel, rather than 47 years with an already established shipyard, assume that he spent a lot longer there than I said the first time around, with much longer time skips. Other options include finishing the vessel while travelling. Do let me know what you think of these changes. Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-One Our arrival at Lickspittle is met with much joy and relief. The mining barges are exchanged for two megatonnes of rare ores, including adamantium, putting a big smile on Eire¡¯s face. The station¡¯s residents are less happy when we deploy an entire Void Assault regiment to comb through the whole station looking for more Simulacra. The locals quickly change their minds when we uncover a whole nest of the beasts and incinerate them. We also execute nine miners and an overseer who had also been replaced after checking every individual on the station. To take the sting out of the operation, we replace their soylent viridans manufacturing with a newer, more abundant and efficient system as well as some aquaponics. We also give them a portion of the equipment for scanning for Simulacra so they can test the crews of their old mining barges when they return. This gets a promise of further trade from Lickspittle, who agree to set aside their most valuable minerals to be collected and paid for in secret at a much later date. We also provide a single luxury meal for everyone aboard the void station. They only have about five thousand people, so it is a tiny expense for me but for most of the people on board this is likely the only time they will taste real meat, beer, and fresh vegetables in their whole lives. It does much to wipe away any discontent at having their lives disrupted by our strict and harsh searches and give the Stellar Fleet a good name. Over a hundred people try to stow away on our shuttles but they are all caught and there is a minor riot when we leave them behind. This ends with twenty-seven executions by the station¡¯s authorities, and is a horrible end to my attempt at generosity, one that really rams home how alien the Imperium is compared to the Stellar Fleet. Feeling apprehensive about what we might find at Cobalt, Eire, Brigid, and I meet up with Thorfinn at a pavilion in the observation dome. The observation dome on Iron Crane is a similar style to the one on Distant Sun only it is placed where the primary bridge would normally be, overlooking the whole ship from the second deck of the Cathedral superstructure. Iron Crane¡¯s primary and secondary bridges are much better protected and are on the main deck. There¡¯s also a military bridge, where the Stellar Corps and strike craft are coordinated from, in the centre of the Castellan superstructure, though it is slightly more vulnerable than the other two. The walk to the pavilion is pleasant. The stone gardens and water features have a wonderful ambiance with their burbling fountains and careful lighting. Many of the stones are cut glass that reflect beneath the water with subtle shimmers, mimicking the stars visible through the thick armourglass of the observation dome. Without transhuman sight, it isn¡¯t always possible to tell if the reflections on the water, or mirror like mosaics are stars or fake jewels. I am the last to arrive. I embrace Thorfinn and Eire, and give Brigid a brief kiss. We exchange our greetings and sit. Thorfinn triggers the privacy shield and a barrier springs up around us, blurring the outside view slightly and cutting off the sounds of the stone garden. ¡°It¡¯s good to finally talk to you in person, Thorfinn,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t spare more than a few minutes at a time since you returned.¡± ¡°We¡¯re here now,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°and by the Throne is it good to be back.¡± ¡°What was the Imperium like?¡± says Eire. ¡°Your reports were factual, as they should be, but I really want to know what it was like for you.¡± Thorfinn pours us all a large measure of amasec,¡°It¡¯s a shithole.¡± He pushes the full glasses towards us and takes a sip of his own drink. He smiles. ¡°Still, they have a lot of good stuff that we don¡¯t have. The scale of everything is mind boggling. I saw three Universe-Class Mass Conveyors while we were at Footfall and they were all part of the same tithe fleet on the way to the Winterscale¡¯s Realm. Two were twelve kilometres by one point three kilometres, and one was even bigger at fifteen by two point two. They were accompanied by Battlefleet Koronus and it had over a hundred different vessels.¡± Thorfinn looks at me and continues, ¡°You¡¯ve always emphasised how insignificant we are and how important it is to be loyal to the Imperium. I read all the documents you provided and agreed because I trust you, but seeing it myself? All those ships fucking terrified me. They could have demanded anything and we would have had to comply.¡± ¡°It is good that you understand.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°no shit. That was just the official fleet too. Footfall had hundreds of other vessels, from dozens of factions, companies, and the like. It was incredibly overwhelming. You have a plan right?¡± ¡°I do,¡± I say, ¡°but I think we¡¯d all like to hear more about your adventures first.¡± ¡°Sure. So between Cobalt and arriving at Footfall, we first had to find the trade lanes. So many ships have passed through the Warp along particular passageways that they are unusually stable. They¡¯re way faster and safer to travel than the routes we took to find Kinbriar, or the one we¡¯re taking from Acheron to Cobalt. ¡°Along the way we visited Dolorium, and Falcon¡¯s Fall Gamma, two raw resources worlds, and visited the SR-651 Breaking Yards. You¡¯d like the Breaking Yards, Aldrich. It''s a three and a half thousand kilometre sphere of loosely bound asteroids, dead ships, and weird gravitational anomalies. There¡¯s a single, thirty kilometre, spindle shaped void station that orbits the yards. You can buy pretty much any ship component you like there. They also have a few empty hulls for sale as well, but no completed vessels, officially. ¡°There¡¯s a rumour going around the station that there¡¯s a fully functional cruiser somewhere in the yards that one of the syndicates is trying to flog off, though no one can agree who it is supposed to belong to, or what unusual tech it might have attached.¡± If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°That does sound like a fun place.¡± There¡¯s clearly something in my voice that has everyone looking at me. ¡°So we¡¯re going back there, aren¡¯t we,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°It has a pretty interesting history and I can tell you more about it later if you like.¡± I nod, ¡°After Cobalt, and yes, I would enjoy that.¡± ¡°Right,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°The fortress world of Bastion is nearby, but we didn¡¯t visit it. No idea if that will impact your plans. Other rumours you might all be interested in are the supposed tech vaults on Dolorium. We did a quick scan from orbit but didn¡¯t find anything. They¡¯re a pastoral world. Not a proper agri world, but we did pick up some supplies there and they ordered a lot of tools from us that we need to deliver at one point as they just don¡¯t have the expertise to make all the things they need to build new agricultural machinery.¡± ¡°What do they sell?¡± says Eire. ¡°Meat, grains, and a whole bunch of rare, slow growing medicines that flourish out in their tundra and ice caps. They have some nice furs as well. We ordered a seed bank from them. A bit of a gamble, as I¡¯ve no idea if their flora will be useful to us with our limited space, but if nothing else it will make for a good collectors item.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s something at least,¡± says Eire. ¡°It was a pretty nice place, all told. It reminded Quaani and I of Marwolv. The crew were very pleased to have a chance at a walkabout.¡± ¡°I look forward to our visit,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Falcon¡¯s Fall Gamma was next, right? Didn¡¯t your report mention that the people from Dolorium were descended from them?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what they believe,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°No one is completely sure though as no one can find the records. Falcon¡¯s Fall Gamma was less great. It is incredibly rich in minerals and agricultural land. Over six different Rogue Trader dynasties claim it under their protection. No one can quite decide what to do with it as mineral extraction would interfere with turning it into an agri world, neither does any party want to give it up for another. ¡°There was a lot of military build up going on, but again, no one wants to be the one who starts the war as that will damage the planet and reduce its worth. We didn¡¯t stay long, nor were we willing to get swept up in the politics, so we didn¡¯t make any trades there either. Problem is that it¡¯s on the major trade route that starts from Dolorium, runs to Lucien''s Breath and ends at Footfall.¡± ¡°What a mess,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Staying out of it was the right choice.¡± Thorfinn chuckles lightly, ¡°Always nice to be validated. So next was Lucien¡¯s Breath. We didn¡¯t get anything out of that either. They sell rare gases that would be great to stock up on, but they only really deal with major Rogue Traders who are friendly with House Winterscale. ¡°It¡¯s not a nice place, and is filled with poorly explored xenos city ruins, and pits of frozen gases that are hacked at by millions of slaves. Quaani and I joked about bombing the place, just to put everyone out of their misery. We moved on before anyone tried to snatch our crews or void ships.¡± From the look on Thorfinn¡¯s face, I doubt it was a joke. Eire grimaces, ¡°From what Quaani told me one of the five major trade goods in the Imperium is people. It makes me glad that you were the one to find us, Aldrich. Marwolv would have become a very different place if a less scrupulous individual rediscovered our world.¡± Brigid reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. I smile at her, then she turns back to Eire. Thorfinn looks off to the side, looking a little distressed. ¡°What are the other four primary goods?¡± says Brigid. Eire says, ¡°Data, rare elements, energy, and most importantly, carbon.¡± ¡°Not manufacturing?¡± I say. ¡°With the distances involved, it just isn¡¯t practical to trade most manufactured goods,¡± says Eire. ¡°Instead manufacturing is classified as a service. Exactly like what we do. Go to a location, make exactly what they ask in exchange for raw resources, usually capital goods for expanding their own capacity, then move on. Manufactured goods are also treated a bit like a currency, rather than a trade good, as it is the primary way in which most worlds pay their tithes.¡± ¡°Ah, that makes sense,¡± I say. Brigid sips on her drink, then says, ¡°Why carbon and not something vital, like water for reaction mass and its many other uses?¡± ¡°That¡¯s to do with tithes,¡± says Eire. ¡°It is a complex and contradictory issue, one driven by the classification of worlds. For example, a Hive world will be required to produce manufactured goods and people for their tithe. Because the tithes are so heavy due to corruption, errors, accidents, piracy, and other inefficiencies, many worlds have little spare capacity to focus on anything other than what is demanded of them. Investment is rare and much wealth is squandered. ¡°Some worlds even have high tithes that are well beyond what is practical to pay because of whom they sided with during the Horus Heresy, or other rebellions. Tithes are as much a method of control as they are a way to distribute resources around the Imperium. ¡°For a Hive world, this means that most of their carbon goes towards plasteel, fuels, plastics, and other goods. They don¡¯t always have enough carbon remaining to grow the food required for their population. You¡¯d think that they¡¯d use the plasteel to build new mining barges and gather the required resources, but not all systems have gas giants, or the remaining resources that orbit their star would cost more to gather than they¡¯d gain. Instead they must trade what they make with agri worlds, or hope that an agri world tithe will be assigned to them by a particularly alert and proactive high administrator.¡± Brigid frowns, ¡°So because of the tithes, their manufacturing is stagnant? They cannot expand or easily replace what is lost? That would mean all worlds rot over time, no matter what they do.¡± Eire sighs, ¡°Yes, that¡¯s correct. It is why Rogue Traders and the Quest for Knowledge are so important. They bring new wealth and lost knowledge to the Imperium which it can then use to restore itself. Rogue Traders don¡¯t pay tithes or tariffs as that¡¯s like syphoning the fuel from your genetorium so you can sell it and use the bytes to pay for your energy ration. Their world¡¯s still have to pay tithes though. It¡¯s also another reason why manufacturing is considered a service; factory ships can go from world to world injecting capital into stagnant economies.¡± ¡°How did Quaani find all this out?¡± I say. Thorfinn says, ¡°Well, that would lead to the next part of my tale: Footfall.¡± I nod, ¡°Which is where you saw the tithe fleet and Battlefleet Koronus. You didn¡¯t find out the underlying reason why they were out in force did you?¡± ¡°Not a clue. It was all kept very secret, not even Tanthus Moross, the head administrator of Footfall knew or admitted to what was going on. Probably because there was an Inquisitor on the station and we didn¡¯t dare ask the question more than once.¡± ¡°Fair enough,¡± I say. ¡°So what happened at Footfall?¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Two ¡°Footfall,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°Is the weirdest voidstation we visited in our travels. It¡¯s the first stop rimward of the Maw, the big warp storm that almost completely separates the Koronus Expanse from the Calixis Sector. Like the Ship Breaker Yards, it¡¯s a bunch of asteroids all chained together, though many of the chain links are the same size as Sword Frigate, so the style is different. ¡°All the asteroids surround a huge statue of the Emperor, about eighty kilometres high, put in place by the station¡¯s founder Parsimus Derwin, in 410.M41. The asteroids, however, are bizarre. Many have been carved into fanciful buildings that would look more at home planetside, whereas others take the opposite approach and would be entirely untenable in a higher gravity. ¡°Most are connected not just through vast chains, but also fully enclosed ornate bridges that are also full buildings too, as opposed to the leaking corridors of the Breaking Yards. The whole station is more like an oceanic city, floating in space, than a coherent voidstation, all lit up by the fiery orange glare of Furibundus, the local star.¡± Thorfinn projects some scans in the centre of the table and starts pointing out specific buildings, ¡°Only a few buildings have artificial gravity and are fought over on a daily basis, but a few of them are special and home to major factions that no one wants to mess with, like the shield shrines of the Mechanicus that protect the whole station, or the Red Schola that holds the slaves and overseers of the Tutors, a secretive cabal of slave masters. ¡°There are ten of these special locations, but the one that''s the most controversial of them all is the Xenosium. It resembles a brutalist style fortress-prison and is a mix between an embassy and a hotel for xenos who dare to visit Footfall. Now usually, it¡¯s pretty empty, but while we were there, a cult of Rogue Psykers took it over for their base and no one wanted to deal with them. ¡°We took the job. Quaani led the way, which was horribly risky, but he¡¯s the best psyker we had on board and the two psy-errants who accompanied him wouldn¡¯t have been enough on their own to protect us as we had to split into as many groups as possible to hunt them down. ¡°It was laughably easy. They weren¡¯t prepared for Vanguard armour, Cyber Mastiffs, and the huge array of other well trained forces that we had. The excursion established us as a minor faction on the station and got us a favour with Tanthus Moross, the station administrator, who was the one who filled us in on what kind of trades we should be aiming for. He also gave us the contacts for all the different employment agencies on Footfall, which is how we managed to recruit so many people to make up for the predicted shortfall in personnel.¡± Thorfinn leans back in his chair and stares out at the stars for a moment, ¡°That¡¯s where it all started to go wrong, I think.¡± Thorfinn looks back at me, ¡°You remember my reasons for leaving in the first place? To make documentaries and prepare the Fleet for culture shock?¡± ¡°Yeah, I remember,¡± I say. ¡°Well, it turns out that culture shock also works the other way around.¡± ¡°In what way?¡± says Eire. Brigid places her elbows on the table and leans towards Thorfinn. Thorfinn shifts in his seat looking a bit uncomfortable from Brigid¡¯s, bird-like stare. He glances at me and I smirk. Thorfinn shakes his head and groans. He runs his hand down his face. I tap Brigid on the shoulder and she startles. ¡°Ease up love,¡± I say. ¡°Sorry, Thorfinn,¡± says Brigid, looking a little embarrassed. ¡°Right, well. Culture shock. We offered good pay, good food, and an education. That turned out to be a mistake. Almost no one who had served on a vessel before believed us, so we only picked up the most desperate individuals, and hardly any veterans. ¡°It was OK, at first. We fed, and clothed, and fixed them. Then began the classes. Basic stuff, like how to read, write, and count. Most were adults, so they struggled a bit at first, to learn new things. Even the idea of learning was alien to most of them. We also started running them through emergency drills, and teaching them what counted as a crime, and what did not. ¡°Problem was, these people were just too used to using violence to get what they want, or keep what they have. It took us four months to bring on enough people, stuffing Distant Sun and Torchbearer with as many people as we could support. ¡°By that point, word was spreading that we weren¡¯t full of shit and we started getting the attraction of the gangs and other factions who kept trying to stuff informants among the new recruits. We did our best, but I doubt we got them all. Lord Beryllium, the Machine-Spirit for Erudition¡¯s Howl, is particularly fond of uncovering spies and took it upon itself to hunt them down, even on other vessels. Hopefully exposure to the Melodium over the last ten years and good treatment has turned the ones we didn¡¯t catch, but we can¡¯t know for sure. ¡°Quaani and I decided to skedaddle from Footfall before we could get into any further trouble and we left for Damaris after they chartered us to ship goods for them. Damaris is a well fortified, civilised world. Once we left Footfall, a lot of the new recruits tried throwing their weight around. It didn''t go well for them because absolutely everyone is trained as a Herald and is quite enhanced. All of a sudden, we had six penal regiments.¡± I inhale sharply. ¡°Regiments, not companies?¡± ¡°Yeah. These people, they just couldn¡¯t learn that murder, rape, and theft was a bad idea.¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°That¡¯s awful,¡± says Brigid. ¡°There¡¯s no way you could have sustained that many useless mouths or afforded the bill to put them in stasis though.¡± ¡°You see straight to the heart of the matter,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°When I say ¡®these people¡¯ what I mean is about sixty percent of them. There were plenty who were smart, and grateful, and quick to adapt, but yeah, one hundred and eighty thousand barely trained louts wasn¡¯t really something we could keep.¡± ¡°So you arrived at Damaris with all these people you wanted to get rid off,¡± says Brigid. ¡°What did you do, Thorfinn?¡± ¡°The worst of them were converted into Kataphrons. Thirty thousand or so. Those we kept. The rest were traded with the Damaris monitor fleet. They were quite keen to have a bunch of unruly fodder they could throw at pirates and other nuisances. ¡°They had a mothballed Slaughter-Class cruiser from M34 that they were using for spare parts. Thanks to Aldrich¡¯s records, we were able to identify that the cruiser had a near unique engine modification called Scartix Engine Coils, that can give up to a twenty-five percent boost in acceleration. It also had a couple of other archeotech devices, like Gravitic Accelerators, for strike craft, and a Contra-Grav Maneuver Drive, that supplements acceleration and manoeuvres. The drive is especially effective near planets and other massive bodies so you can use it to fly much closer to a planet, or within the thicker layers of a gas giant. ¡°No one knew what they were, and thought they were broken junk, so we nabbed them in exchange for a hundred and twenty thousand class two and three criminals with just enough skills not to kill themselves when living aboard a void ship. Never have I been more ashamed or pleased with myself simultaneously.¡± Thorfinn watches our faces and continues, ¡°I know that slavery is outlawed in the Stellar Fleet, but so is executing criminals who haven¡¯t reached the threshold. Quaani and I had a choice. We could risk the whole fleet with mutinies or power shortages, or hand off the criminals to someone who would use them like we would have done in exchange for scavenging vital archeotech that we have a fair chance at replicating.¡± ¡°What a fucking mess,¡± I say. ¡°It wasn¡¯t officially slavery. They will likely never get a chance at redemption though like they would with us, so it is slavery in practice. That¡¯s on the other party¡¯s head though, not yours Thorfinn. Handing off prisoners to another Imperial authority in exchange for resources is a reasonable course of action and perfectly legal within the eyes of the Imperium. We might try to hold ourselves to a higher standard, for both moral and practical reasons, but some situations just don¡¯t give us many options.¡± Thorfinn says, ¡°That sounds pretty and all, but we repeated the same process at Damaris. This time they were mostly Drusian Cultists that we were employed to take to Ntharis. Lord Captain Sargon obliterated one of Ntharis¡¯ continents by triggering his warp drive too close to the planet and they needed more settlers. It wasn¡¯t quite so bad the second time as we were able to recruit from the cultists by tempting them to stay with us with our good hospitality. That let us observe and approach the individuals who would be the best fit. We still ended up with another penal regiment at the end of it though. The colonists didn¡¯t take well to Warp travel and many went quite mad.¡± ¡°Do we still have the penal regiment?¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s secured within Torchbearer. They haven¡¯t been enhanced like the Heralds are, nor do they get our best equipment, but they¡¯ve still been training and running simulations for the last decade. I¡¯d put them on par with an elite, if rather green Imperial Guard regiment.¡± ¡°Well,¡± I say. ¡°At least we¡¯ll have something to throw at the next two or three engagements that the Bargest Chapter will lead us into. Will they integrate into the Fleet proper without trouble once they¡¯ve performed their obligatory high casualty missions?¡± Thorfinn says, ¡°They should do. They¡¯re highly disciplined now and have adjusted to life in the Stellar Fleet. They¡¯re also a lot smarter and more knowledgeable, so they actually understand what they¡¯re risking and what they seek to gain. A pretty enthusiastic bunch to be honest.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a relief,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Sure is,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°So we¡¯re nearing the end now. After Ntharis we left the trade lanes and cut across the Unbeholden Reaches, skipped past Hemelshot as it¡¯s far too risky to visit, and ended up back at Cobalt. From there we returned along our previous route to Acheron. We could have made the whole trip in a few months, but with you so distant, we really took our time to map out all the unoccupied systems along the way.¡± ¡°Hold up,¡± says Eire. ¡°What was Ntharis like?¡± ¡°It¡¯s an independent agri world that the Olivares and Saul dynasties have seized a few cities on. Problem is most of the locals worship dark gods so it gets a lot of Chaos incursions. Not only that, but the whole planet is covered in a toxic orange smog from all the pesticides and other chemicals the Mechanicus use to grow endless fields of corn. ¡°There are no mountains, and no oceans, only carefully controlled weather by the satellites in space. Macro-harvesters on par with our Land Crawler trundle over the artificially flattened landscape, harvesting, processing, and sowing new corn into the dust that they call soil and churning out dry, bland biscuits. Trudging alongside them are whole armies of servitors that assist with the planting and processing. ¡°No insects buzz, goats bleat, or birds chirp. The whole planet is completely sterile. It¡¯s a shithole, basically, just like everywhere else. How they¡¯ve sustained the same crop for millennia, despite the complete ecological collapse is a complete mystery to me.¡± ¡°Did you stock up on rations?¡± I say. ¡°Only after extensive testing, but yes, we did. We have a whole megatonne of the stuff,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°No one likes the biscuits but they didn¡¯t have any contamination, despite the polluted environment, and each biscuit can sustain an active man for a day with all the calories and micronutrients they might need, even if they will feel horribly hungry. They¡¯re similar to freeze dried soylent viridans, as inedible as they are imperishable. They¡¯ll crack your teeth, if you¡¯re not careful. ¡°Fortunately the chefs have worked out how to use them as a thickener in stews and sauces, or turn them into soup and porridge. They let us stretch our supplies and serve more proper meals than we could before. At the portions we use them for, there¡¯s enough to bulk out meals every day for a million people for at least a hundred and thirty six years, or half that if we start eating them straight from the packet in an emergency.¡± ¡°That¡¯s remarkable,¡± says Eire. ¡°I know I spend all day working with big numbers, but they never cease to amaze me. What did you trade for it?¡± ¡°A promethium NN processing facility and three hundred Leman Russ E. They could only afford the maintenance grade STCs though, so I¡¯ve no idea if they¡¯ll be able to replicate any of our designs.¡± I say, ¡°Ah, I hope it doesn¡¯t all go straight into the hands of the cultists. It¡¯s such a unique design it could get us in some real trouble if only the Ruinous Powers are seen to be using them.¡± Thorfinn snorts, ¡°Give me some credit. I split the order between the Olivares and Saul dynasties. They teamed up to buy it. Sure, some tanks will be lost and stolen along the way, but there¡¯s only one fuel refinery and someone will steal a few no matter who we sell them to.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a relief,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Damn right it is. Anyways, that¡¯s my tale. Hopefully it won¡¯t keep you up at night like it does me.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Three ¡°We can hang out until you feel better,¡± I say, ¡°if you¡¯d like.¡± Thorfinn grunts, ¡°Do you even have time for that these days?¡± ¡°Not everyday,¡± I rub my chin with a mechadendrite, ¡°We could restart our weekly gaming sessions though. They¡¯ve been on hold since Brigid and I had kids, but they¡¯re in the Heralds right now. My implants are good enough that I don¡¯t need a noosphere pod for the full immersion anymore, so we can also chat in HiveSim or other games while I¡¯m working. I can do that at any time, so long as you can keep up with the neural acceleration.¡± ¡°What are you up to now?¡± says Eire. I shrug, ¡°If I ramp it up to maximum, every second is six minutes of subjective time for me. I can live a whole year in fifteen point two hours. Unless I do it manually though, it adjusts my subjective time automatically depending on what I¡¯m doing, like talking, fighting, or reading documents. I can do that for both my mostly organic mind and all nine simulated ones separately.¡± ¡°Is that really necessary?¡± says Brigid. ¡°That seems terribly lonely.¡± I smile, ¡°Not with you and the kids about. Besides, my eyes run at two hundred trillion frames per second. Compared to that, six hours for every minute is rather slow.¡± ¡°You really do live in a different world to the rest of us,¡± says Thorfinn. I shake my head, ¡°Not in the slightest. Most of the time only my simulated minds do that. The result and knowledge gained is uploaded to my main mind. The drudgery is lost, though so is the experience and changes in how I think. You have a lesser version of the same implant, Thorfinn. You¡¯re not going to tell me you haven¡¯t been using it are you? It¡¯s ideal for administration, or coordinating with multiple people simultaneously.¡± ¡°Aldrich,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°it is literally an order of magnitude worse than yours. I get six seconds for each second that passes. Though I admit it is immensely handy, especially in CQC, I still only use it when I have too. Having new information shoved into my head all the time really messes with my sense of self.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Brigid, Eire, and Thorfinn all shout, ¡°Yes!¡± ¡°Well, why did no one tell me? I can probably add some extra buffers and filters to help sort that, maybe time the majority of learning to filter in as you sleep. I¡¯m a lot better at modifying augmetics than I was when I first made those for you.¡± Brigid reaches over and strokes my face, ¡°We didn¡¯t want to upset you Love, you were so proud of your implants and they seemed like magic when you first gave them to us. How could they possibly get even better? We all thought that was just part of the design. As for the other people you¡¯ve given them to, who''s going to complain when their boss gives them awesome implants, even if they are a little tricky to use?¡± I laugh, ¡°Well, this is awkward. Just tell me next time, OK? Each of you make a list with any little niggles and I¡¯ll make some revised versions. Go wild with your wishlists. There¡¯s a whole penal regiment to test them on, so don¡¯t hold back.¡± I huff, ¡°Oh, don¡¯t all look at me like that, it will be volunteers only and I won¡¯t test anything I think will actually hurt someone or do damage that I cannot fix. We have stringent laws for this, even for testing on criminals.¡± ¡°Please don¡¯t mess with the regiment too much,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°They¡¯re all reformed now and have been living with the knowledge they will have to survive between one and three high casualty missions. While they are responsible for the actions that put them in the penal regiment, it¡¯s a grim way to live and one that I am partially responsible for creating by recruiting from substandard individuals in the first place.¡± ¡°There¡¯s something squirrelly about that logic,¡± says Eire, ¡°but I can¡¯t quite put it into words.¡± ¡°Yeah, fine,¡± says Thorfinn, ¡°It¡¯s not a smart way to look at it, but it¡¯s how I feel about the situation. I went on a twenty year journey looking for new hope and less horror. Instead I have perpetuated it.¡± ¡°You still succeeded in documenting the Imperium and paving the way for us though,¡± I say. ¡°I really don¡¯t see what you could have done differently to make things easier on your conscience.¡± Thorfinn props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the cup of his hand, ¡°Yeah, neither do I.¡± ¡°Forget about it for now,¡± says Eire. ¡°Tell us some everyday moments from your trip. What sort of dumb shit did your subordinates get up to? How about Quaani?¡± ¡°I might have an extra tale or two,¡± Thorfinn grins, then sighs. ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll give it a go and try to be more cheerful.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the spirit!¡± says Brigid. I say, ¡°Just keep talking to us. It will all fade eventually.¡± ¡°Fine, fine,¡± says Thorfinn. ¡°Now listen up!¡± Thorfinnn spends the next three hours showing us more holopics from his travels and each one comes with a short story or anecdote behind the how and why of how he got them. He slowly cheers up, and when we finally say goodbye to each other, and Thorfinn walks away, he¡¯s standing a little straighter. My next port of call, of sorts, is the Warp Sextant tank. Quaani¡¯s shift is over in an hour. He¡¯s been stuck there for a week. With the Space Marines no longer hounding me for chats on how to integrate our forces, which they insist are done in person for security reasons, I am out of things to do until I must take over. I don¡¯t think Quaani will mind if I help out a little earlier. I change into the special full body suit and facemask and slip into the top of the tank, taking care to disturb the liquid as little as possible. Quaani keeps all his eyes fixed forward, his fingers occasionally twitching as he interacts with the mental controls and relays information between himself, the bridge, and the astro-navigation cogitator. His eyes are glowing purple and the occasional burst of electricity arcs from his body, or causes frost to form on the glass of the tank. If he really has to push himself, it might even snow within the liquid. Once I am floating in place, I send a command to the tank and it unfurls several mechadendrites. Two connect to my suit, holding me in place, and a third plugs into my spine. Multiple security checks and scans take place and banks of sensors connect to me in sequence, carefully calibrated so that I do not get overwhelmed by too many inputs at once. By the time the sequence is complete, I am the Iron Crane. The Warp flows over my armoured body, pulling and rasping against my skin, constantly seeking a way to corrupt or alter my frame. In the far distance is the ever screaming beacon of the Astronomicon and the beckoning realms of three thirsting gods, and once thirsty god. With both Quaani and I so closely connected, he picks up on my thoughts and I see his chest shake with laughter. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Don¡¯t distract me with your poor jokes, Aldrich!¡± ¡°Hello to you too, Quaani.¡± ¡°Yes, yes. Are you up to date with the current journey?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve already read your logs and can take over whenever you are ready.¡± ¡°Sure, that would be great.¡± Bracing my will, I open myself to the Warp. We¡¯re on our way up from the deep Warp. On either side of the vessel are the metaphorical walls of a rocky trench, a kilometre either side of us. The walls are covered in anemone analogues, whose long tendrils keep trying to lick Iron Crane. Occasionally, one lashes out and tries to snare our vessel, only to strike the Gellar Field. When they do, I get a closer look at the tendrils, and realise that they are more like tongues, with eyes for taste buds. Lovely. ¡°We¡¯re in trouble if all of them try to hit us,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve been keeping up Obliterate the Immaterial Wake for two days. Don¡¯t mess up now, or you¡¯ll be reinforcing the Gellar Field for the rest of the journey.¡± ¡°I know I came here earlier to help out, but I am a little out of practice with this. Do you mind hanging around for an hour, maybe tell your ancient uncle a few tips that you¡¯ve picked up in the last two decades of doing this all by yourself?¡± Quaani laughs, ¡°Just the ones you used to give me. It starts with practice.¡± ¡°Of course it does.¡± With me taking control, Quaani finally turns his head towards me. I can feel his third eye attempting to get a good scan of me and I let him. ¡°Woah! You¡¯ve completed your Full Bionic Conversion. Your organs are all over the place, and all your cells are machines! They look kinda sluggish though. You don¡¯t need me to dunk you in a barrel of sacred oils do you?¡± ¡°You¡¯re still a cheeky brat, even after all these years. Most of me is in low power mode. That¡¯s why they¡¯re not that active.¡± ¡°You also have two brains. The one in your chest is the original, right? How did you even put it in there without killing yourself? You even managed a subcortex connected to your third eye. Looks like a Janus Pattern Servitor cortex, though I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s your own cells, which means you managed to clone navigator flesh without blowing up the void ship or dooming the Fleet to a demonic invasion. So many runes too! You have a truly ridiculous amount of protections.¡± ¡°Yeah, I just added some more. I stripped the runes and other protective circuitry from the Eldar Farseer gear and used them to improve my subdermal armour and better hide me from Warp entities.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t believe you went and did that. Actually, I totally can. That¡¯s full on tech-heresy. Why¡¯d you even bother to keep your brain fully organic if you were going to integrate xeno-tech anyway. You might as well upload yourself to a cogitator at this point. It would be better than relying on a squishy lump of fatty neural tissue.¡± ¡°The Farseer gear was unexpected and the STC I have for a bioplastic neural substitute is not compatible with Navigators. Maybe one day I can fix that and be the immortal machine. It won¡¯t be happening any time soon though. I have other, more important things to work on.¡± ¡°You gave up your idea of a perfect body for me, didn¡¯t you? When you accepted the Emperor¡¯s bargain,¡± says Quaani. ¡°I did. I couldn¡¯t bear to watch you die and do nothing. Nor did I feel confident in traversing the Warp without your help, or a portion of your gifts, with so many lives relying on me.¡± ¡°We could have stayed at Marwolv,¡± says Quaani, ¡°and you could have let me die. It would only move the timetable up a bit for me and everyone on the planet. No one lives forever, least of all humanity. I¡¯m not sure we deserve it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s rather fatalistic. Quaani, don¡¯t let the doubt creep in. There is always a reason to try. Like hot Navigator chicks. Did you meet any?¡± ¡°By the Throne, I am not doing this with you!¡± I can tell Quaani is smiling again, ¡°So you didn¡¯t get lucky? Shame. I¡¯m at the point in my life where I am socially required to embarrass my relatives and demand grandchildren.¡± ¡°You¡¯re still salty about the Custodes. That¡¯s what this is really about. You¡¯ve never been one for normal conventions, or doing things you know you would hate would be done to you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s quite the theory,¡± I say. ¡°You can¡¯t hide your thoughts from me fully while we¡¯re both plugged into the tank.¡± ¡°Damn, you caught me,¡± I say, completely deadpan. ¡°So what are you actually working on? What¡¯s your super secret project? You¡¯re not trying for a Mark III of that Lasgun of yours are you?¡± ¡°My focus has been on myself and creating versions of my protective implants suitable for others, like Alpia.¡± ¡°Oh, do I get an upgrade too?¡± ¡°If you want one. Yes. I¡¯ve developed a micro-gellar field. It does not weaken, or stop Warp entities from harming you like a psy-jammer or a ship¡¯s Gellar field would, but it does hide you from most beings that can detect psykers of any kind, and muffle the spells that you cast. It¡¯s like keeping a permanent A Cloud in the Warp running, but because you aren¡¯t doing it, it means you can still cast other spells. It¡¯s pretty similar to an Eldar Ghost Helm, but the effects aren¡¯t mutually exclusive.¡± ¡°That does sound handy. What else have you got?¡± ¡°Do you have any idea how long that took?¡± I almost shout. ¡°I¡¯m guessing more than ten years, and less than twenty.¡± ¡°Something like that.¡± In actual time. The subjective one was frigging centuries! ¡°I don¡¯t have anything else suitable for others that you don¡¯t already have. I have started a two part project though. Phase materials and hexagrammic programming.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll indulge you. What are they?¡± ¡°We can make Phase iron, a material that actively repels the Warp and harms all who rely upon it. The Emperor shoved the knowledge inside my head in exchange for a C¡¯tan shard. I want to find a way to swap the iron for other elements so that I can build cogitators from them. ¡°Hexagrammic programming is the other half of the project. An arcanotech programming language that can be used to further reinforce machines against corruption. It would let us improve our automation. I still haven¡¯t forgotten the time when Bad Penny hijacked our servitors on Mote.¡± ¡°Oh yeah, I remember that," says Quaani. "Not great for my first journey planetside. How does Hexagrammic programming work?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a mix of Necron Engrams, Aeldari Runes, and Terran Sorcery. I¡¯m pretty sure the Inquisition already has a proper working version, but there¡¯s no way they¡¯ll ever share it. The one working sample I do have does exactly the opposite, corrupting machines and forcefully changing loyalties.¡± ¡°More tech-heresy, eh? What are you actually trying to reverse?¡± ¡°Scrap-Code.¡± ¡°Fuuuuck. How are you even containing that? Can¡¯t it jump to other machines, even without a physical or wireless connection?¡± ¡°I have a laboratory in the Warp," I say. "It can¡¯t get through my portal, nor can it penetrate my protections.¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like they can burn you at the stake. The flames would just empower you.¡± ¡°I¡¯d be fine even if they threw me into most stars.¡± ¡°Are you done with dropping exterminatus on my worldview?¡± ¡°Maybe for ten, or twenty years,¡± I say. ¡°Hilarious. Do you have a joint project with Brigid going on?¡± ¡°Yes. Four children.¡± ¡°Ha! Fair enough.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Four Quaani and I continue our banter until his Refresh and Revitalise wears off, then he orders the mechadendrites to lift him out of the tank and goes to rest. I direct us out of the trench of fleshy eye tongues after two more days of careful vigil. The other four vessels in our fleet that aren¡¯t docked inside Iron Crane have no trouble hiding within the Cloud in the Warp that I cast. None of the other navigators risk aiding me as we do not know each other well enough to coordinate our casting, so I have to cover the whole Fleet, and not just Iron Crane. It is tough, but with my secondary brain taking much of the strain off me, I do not become dangerously tired. We do, at least, send the occasional telepathic message to each other, updating our conditions, current plans, and so on. Through these exchanges we get a better understanding of everyone¡¯s personalities, but little else. It feels a bit like I¡¯m a long haul lorry driver, radioing nearby drivers to keep the boredom at bay, and a shared eye for accidents, bad weather, and other troubles. Once we¡¯re out of the trench, I finally drop my obfuscation magic and another five days of travel sees us swirling Cobalt¡¯s Mandeville point. I sense many of the crew tense as Iron Crane unleashes a monumental quantity of energy. A black sphere forms in front of the vessel and we slam into it, ripping a hole in the Materium and traversing back to realspace. The other vessels follow behind me, using Iron Crane¡¯s bulk to hide their presence. Both my light cruisers have an Empyrean Mantle that hides them further. Red Knoll and Torchbearer do not have any installed stealth components and have to make do with sending out no sensor pings and trying to hide their plasma plume behind Iron Crane¡¯s. Iron Crane, on the other hand, flares its plasma drives and unleashes the most high powered sensor pings it can manage. Seven planets orbit a red dwarf. All vessels immediately head for Cobalt VI, one of two gas giants in the system. The other gas giant is Cobalt II. Cobalt IV is an ice world and the primary habitable world. The remaining planets are rocky and barren. There are two asteroid belts, one between Cobalt I and II, and another between V and VI. An unusually wide Kuiper Belt floats between VI and VII. Cobalt VII is the final planet in the system and is a mineral rich rocky world with no atmosphere. Fortunately it¡¯s currently the other side of the system so no one on it should detect us too easily. Over the next twelve hours, we get a detailed picture of the system. The first thing we pick up on are two observation satellites near our entrance point and a single void station, all of which we blast with interference so that they cannot message our numbers or composition to anyone else in the system. This won¡¯t win us any friends, but getting away with it is one of the benefits of travelling with the Barghest Chapter, once we actually reveal that we are doing so. As for why we¡¯re being cautious, it¡¯s the standard procedure for the Barghest Chapter, and I see no reason to override them on it. Orbiting Cobalt IV are two Sword-Class frigates and one Enforcer-Class System Control light cruiser. Embossed on each of their hulls is a large, winged ¢ñ with a ship¡¯s wheel imposed upon the top third. The Imperial Navy is here. No idea if they¡¯re here because they suspect foul play, or if it¡¯s just a regular patrol to remind the local governor who is in charge. Also in the system are two Carrack-Class transports. Both have been modified with launch bays, though with them so far away I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s for troops or strike-craft. Two escort vessels, a Tempest-Class Frigate and a Claymore-Class Corvette, shadow the transports. There¡¯s nothing special about the Corvette, it¡¯s a smaller, faster, and lighter version of the Sword-Frigate, specifically designed to be produced as fast as possible. The Tempest-Class Frigate, however, gives a hint to what sort of fleet this is, as they are designed to get as close as possible as quickly as they can to their target vessel and usually outfitted with many Shark Assault Boats. Last, and most impressive is the Ambition-Class Cruiser, Ardent Bane, registered to Rogue Trader Modren. It¡¯s likely this whole fleet is his. As for why he is here, I don¡¯t know but I suspect he¡¯s here to try and wheedle some of the one thousand Vanguard Armours that Cobalt IV has ordered, and a lot of other significant military gear. Cobalt IV has three defence platforms and four escort sized monitor vessels that look like they¡¯re based off the Meritech Shrike-Class raider. The extra armour and additional guns on the monitor vessels, however, breaks up their silhouette somewhat, making them more difficult to identify. It¡¯s possible there are also other vessels hiding in the system, but Iron Crane is unable to detect anything else of note. Four days later, Iron Crane slips behind Cobalt VI and disgorges all eight Adder-Class frigates and ten Moth-Class refinery frigates. Then we hide the Lunar-Class Cruiser inside the Iron Crane, if only just. The act even gets a few laughs out of the dour Space Marines. Red Knoll remains behind the moon with the Moth-Class frigates, but Distant Sun and Yonder Moon take on fifty Space Marines and two hundred marine auxiliaries each. Distant Sun, Iron Crane, and four escorts exit cover from behind Cobalt VI while Yonder Moon and four escorts trail behind us at a slower pace, hiding beneath their Empyrean Mantles. Our stealth is nowhere near as good as an Eldar vessel, but it should disguise exactly how many vessels we have, and what they actually are, as well as making the hidden vessels more difficult to target. The journey takes eleven days, during which we exchange greetings with Cobalt IV and both sides confirm they have the agreed upon goods to trade. The Imperial Navy confirm their identity, but nothing else. Rogue Trader Modren, however, invites us all to dinner. Once we are in orbit around Cobalt IV, Brigid and I fly over to Ascendant Bane in a Class three D-POT. The vessel is four point nine kilometres long and two kilometres wide with a single lance hung beneath its stubby prow. The port and starboard sides have two macro-batteries each. The armour is thinner than my Lunar-Class Carrier as fifteen percent of it has been swapped out of a dizzying number of statues and relief carvings that cover the whole vessel. While each Imperial vessel is viewed as a temple to the Machine-God, no other vessel emphasises that more than the Ambition-Class and the Ascendant Bane takes it to even greater levels. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Never, in my life, have I witnessed such excessive gothic bling. Not in Distant Sun¡¯s records, outrageous designs in HiveSim, or religious art. It¡¯s covered in gold-veined marble, for Emperor¡¯s sake. Through the external sensors I can pick out fist sized jewels and other precious materials covering absolutely everything, from guns, to sensors, to shield arrays. Brigid and I stand by a false window, holding hands, watching the cruiser get closer and closer. Our pilot takes us for a full circle of the vessel, so we can get a good view. ¡°I can¡¯t quite believe what I¡¯m seeing,¡± I say. ¡°Hmm, this guy is more crooked than a mechadendrite. How else would he afford all this?¡± ¡°Rogue Traders are wealthy, he might be just a successful trader. We could do that if we wanted. Maybe.¡± Brigid snorts, ¡°It¡¯s a statement at least. So tacky!¡± she shivers dramatically and rubs her arms. I smile at her antics, ¡°That¡¯s only a Starbreaker Lance on the prow, but those macrocannons look a bit better. He clearly hasn¡¯t wasted all his money. Lathe Pattern Grav-Culverins, perhaps? It¡¯s hard to tell beneath all the marble, so in a way, the decoration does serve a practical purpose.¡± ¡°Well, it wouldn¡¯t do to use ferro-crete for hiding now would it?¡± I laugh, ¡°Emperor forbid!¡± Brigid sniggers. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s stop there. It wouldn¡¯t do for us to make an inappropriate mark when we¡¯re guests.¡± ¡°Good idea. For all we know it¡¯s only skin deep and all part of a greater deception,¡± I cross my arms. ¡°That would be a pretty good play actually. How about you draw up a feasibility study?¡± ¡°Oh, fuck off Aldrich.¡± I grin, draw Brigid into my arms and kiss her. She¡¯s wearing a Mars-red ball gown, with long cuffed sleeves, and Cog Mechanicum brass cufflinks. From beneath her dress peek two navy blue loafers. Her ears have two gold studs and around her neck is a Rosarius, a type of conversion shield disguised as jewellery. This one matches the Stellar Fleet heraldry, a crowsbeak hammer inside a cog. Four brass and steel blue mechadendrites are attached to her lower back, poking through her dress, and wave in the air above her head like tails. These are the same mechadendrites that are usually given to Herald Acolytes as for their Machine Blessing, though more ornate. It was decided that mechanical limb replacements or full body replacements were impractical and wasteful, but we still wanted to go ahead with the side promotion proposal. The main difference between these mechadendrites and those that are usually installed, or found on a servo harness, is that they are stronger and more armoured than usual. Each has its own power supply too, as well as a different function: one multi-tool, one medical attachment, one auspex, and one gripper. The gripper is intended to hold MOA shields so that Acolytes can keep both hands free, but it¡¯s also handy for precise, long distance grenade throws, or using a weapon while in cover. I wrap my hands around her, and say, ¡°You look fantastic.¡± ¡°Thank you. You¡¯re not too shabby yourself. Not a single blessed oil stain upon you.¡± I¡¯m wearing a Mars-red, double-breasted, thigh length jacket that flares slightly at the hips. This leaves space for my own mechadendrites, identical to Brigid¡¯s, that wrap around my waist. I¡¯d probably call it an eighteenth century frock coat, but I¡¯ve no idea what this particular design is designated as in the forty-first millennium. I particularly like the dark blue lining, platinum hems, and white-gold buttons. It makes me feel very snazzy. The tweed trousers and waistcoat aren¡¯t that special and are similar to the uniform I often wear. I was tempted to accessorise a little and wear a hat, but couldn¡¯t find one I liked. I couldn¡¯t see myself in anything other than a woolly beanie and that wouldn¡¯t be appropriate. The other hats felt too posh and I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling like I was a fraud. Silly, I know, but I can¡¯t afford to look uncomfortable in the clothes I¡¯m wearing in a high stakes social engagement. ¡°You mean I¡¯m not the most handsome and amazing man you¡¯ve ever laid eyes on? Shocker.¡± Brigid hugs me back and presses her cheek against my chest, ¡°No. Those are our boys, and my other two sons.¡± I give her a squeeze, ¡°Fair enough.¡± The D-POT touches down inside one of Ascendant Bane¡¯s many hangars. We end our embrace. We leave our private room, and walk through the shuttle to the cargo bay. Brigid takes my arm and we stand between the two rows of our thirty five bodyguards, five of whom are Odhran and his squad disguised in MOA void armour. The whole bodyguard company is hiding on the D-POT, and most won¡¯t be coming with us. I expect even Odhran and his squad will be pushing it, so the ones lined up on either side of us are really there to show off a little, even if they aren¡¯t in power armour like they usually would be. I didn¡¯t want my bodyguards to look too threatening, just competent. The rear ramp descends and the Heralds march out in two lines, and present arms. Brigid and I then walk between them. At the end of the procession is Konrad von Benagune, Captain of Ascendant Bane, or so my implants tell me, with a small retinue of six people. He¡¯s fairly short, at one hundred and seventy centimetres and is wearing a white and gold naval dress uniform, though my auspex immediately tells me it¡¯s actually flak weave, backed up with armourplas plates. A rebreather hangs around his neck and a wrist mounted cogitator is clamped to his right arm. He has extensive augmetics: armoured cables run out of his head like hair and into his upper spine. I notice the thick voidskin and red, artificial eyes, immediately. When he moves to shake my hand I also spot his subdermal armour and muscle enhancements. ¡°Welcome to Ascendant Bane, Magos Issengrund. I am Captain Konrad von Benagune of the Modren Dynasty. ¡°Thank you, Captain Benagune, for your warm welcome. Your ship is an impressive monument to the Imperium¡¯s wealth and power. Rare too.¡± Konrad gives me a thin, tight smile, ¡°I spotted some unusual designs among your own fleet, Magos Issengrund.¡± This isn¡¯t a line of questioning I want him to pursue and ignoring Brigid is rude, so I gesture towards her, ¡°This is my wife, Chief Purser Brigid Issengrund.¡± Brigid holds out her hand and the Captain shakes it. ¡°Welcome, Purser Issengrund, and what do you think of my ship?¡± ¡°Unless you want me to audit it, you will never know.¡± Konrad lets out a low chuckle, ¡°Best avoided, I think. Come,¡± he gestures towards the exit, ¡°I will show you to our other guests. You can bring two guards.¡± I vox silently, ¡°Odran and Eogan, you''re on close protection detail. Bedwyr, you''re in charge of the rest of my security, as always, and will remain on the D-POT.¡± Two large armoured figures step up behind Brigid and I. Konrad raises an eyebrow at the size of my bodyguards. ¡°Acknowledged, Magos,¡± voxes Bedwyr, ¡°We¡¯ll see what we can pick up from their systems and keep you updated.¡± ¡°You can do whatever you think is necessary, so long as you aren¡¯t caught.¡± ¡°We will be vigilant, Magos. Never fear.¡± ¡°Follow me,¡± Konrad leads us to the exit. The hangar is big, though it¡¯s not as ridiculous as the one on the battle barge. I count almost three hundred craft, two thirds of which are strike craft, mostly Shark Attack Boats. The rest are Arvus Lighters and other orbital shuttles. Hundreds of wiry men and women shuffle between the craft in worn, grey robes. Tools and rags hang from their belts and a rebreather and goggles cover their mouths and eyes. As we pass them, they all scurry away, their backs hunched, and hands trembling. A single Tech-Priest in hooded red robes wanders around the hangar, directing the men and women, who periodically run up to him for instructions. From his EM emissions, I pick out the seventy-eight crude servitors he is also directing, hauling parts and swabbing the deck. Waiting for us beyond the hangar is an air car, a civilian hover vehicle, that looks like a gothic Bentley. We all get in and the air car takes off, whisking us though gold and silver halls to our destination. Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Five We disembark from the air car and are led beneath the bronze arms to two great angels, then through a thick, armoured door. The room beyond is magnificent with twenty floors of books, scrolls, and artefacts beyond the atrium. The atrium is tiled with xenos fossils and many glass cases, filled with artefacts, are dotted about in grand displays. To one side is a sitting area with an open fire, burning genuine wooden logs. By having Konrad lead us to Modren¡¯s Librarium, is Modren trying to impress me, a Magos Explorator, with his collection of knowledge, or trying to make me feel comfortable? If he is showing off, I really can¡¯t see this as anything other than a targeted insult. I¡¯m more amused than outraged, but what really sets my mind whirring is ¡®why¡¯. Konrad leads us to the sitting area where three men and one woman are sinking into their armchairs and swilling amasec. Servers, in black coattails and pressed trousers, stand silently behind each armchair. All four guests stand as we approach. Pointing to each person in turn, Konrad says, ¡°This is Commodore Raphael Horthstein and Adjunct Lyre Hamiz of the Imperial Navy. Standing next to them is Governor Mattius Stigstaff, Imperial administrator of Cobalt and Lord-General Mildred Pyrewier of the Cobalt PDF.¡± He then points to Brigid and I, ¡°This is Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund, and Chief Purser, Brigid Issengrund of the Adeptus Mechanicus. I will leave you all to get to know each other. Good day.¡± Konrad strides off without a backwards glance. ¡°Hello everyone,¡± I shake all of their hands and Brigid follows suit, ¡°Thank you for your polite greetings.¡± ¡°Likewise, Magos,¡± says Mattius. ¡°It is good to put a face to the man who is providing so much to our hard working PDF.¡± Mattius is an ageing strong man whose body is swiftly turning to fat. He has a full beard and long, blond dyed hair, carefully ringleted and oiled. Thick furs and leathers with elaborate stitching and ivory toggles cover his bulging frame. Poking out from his jacket is the sleeve of a temperature controlling undersuit. I smile, ¡°Keen to get your hands on some new hardware, eh? That¡¯s something I can appreciate, though I am curious as to why you ordered our armoured walkers, rather than tracked vehicles, especially when your planet is covered in ice and tanks are cheaper.¡± Raphael and Lyre glance at each other and listen in on our conversation. Mattius says, ¡°What do you know about Cobalt, Magos?¡± ¡°This is my first visit. I¡¯ve heard of your walking cities and have a few pics, but that isn¡¯t the same as witnessing it first hand.¡± ¡°I should hope not!¡± says Mattius. ¡°I dare say our world is quite unique and we are rather proud of it. As for your query, I feel that Lord-General Pyrewier is in a better position to answer it.¡± Mildred is a short woman at one hundred and sixty-four centimetres. She¡¯s wearing a black, gothic punk jacket with double ivory buttons down the front and silver embroidery, showing bears, seals, and whales. A single platinum ring hugs her middle right finger and is engraved with the Imperial Aquila. Several medals are pinned on her left breast. She gives me a polite smile. ¡°Magos, to answer your question,¡± says Mildred, ¡°one must understand the unique environment of Cobalt. Our world is one of oceans and ice. Islands are scarce and the temperature is sub-zero all year round. What shapes our world, however, is not the ice or oceans, but the leviathans that swim across its surface, shattering the hard surface of the ocean during their long migrations and providing other creatures a chance at light and air, or a chance to slip back into the water.¡± Brigid performs a dramatic gasp, ¡°How grand these leviathans of yours must be!¡± ¡°They¡¯re quite something,¡± says Mildred. ¡°Some are said to have lived before the Emperor ascended to the golden throne, though no one has been able to prove it. We build our cities upon their backs and within their guts, hiding from the worst of the cold. Our refineries trail behind them, pulled along by their immutable bulk, gathering the rare elements that are dislodged from the ocean floor by their passing. It¡¯s these that you¡¯re here for, yes?¡± Mattius clears his throat, ¡°We couldn¡¯t afford the Vanguard armour and your other advanced gear, with just our mineral output. We¡¯re actually paying for most of this with food. Seal and whale meat, mostly. Five megatonnes of biomass, one megaton of rare elements. It¡¯s taken years to collect it all.¡± Brigid chuckles and voxes me, ¡°At least we won¡¯t be going hungry anytime soon. Quaani must really like these people to arrange a trade like that.¡± ¡°He¡¯s probably still slightly traumatised from his mutations giving him an unnatural appetite and agreed to it without thinking it through.¡± ¡°That won¡¯t be a problem,¡± I say. ¡°It will make for a nice change from shrimp and small oily fish.¡± Mildren hums, ¡°To actually answer your question, your walkers are lighter and more nimble than a Leman Russ. They will better fit through the narrow corridors of our small cities and skis will help them move quickly and safely across the ice. We have a low population too and Vanguard Armour needs fewer crew than a tank. ¡°As for the custom gravpacks we requested, it will allow the Vanguard Armours to jump out of the way of smaller, younger, leviathans who tend to breach the ice whenever they detect something moving over it. They are curious creatures, but for us, their curiosity is quite lethal. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°You can¡¯t do that with a tank, even if it is much cheaper and easier to maintain. Previously, we¡¯ve always relied on small, armoured snowmobiles with boat-like hulls and limited full immersion capability. They can survive getting swallowed, or sinking, but not always. Much better not to be caught in the first place.¡± ¡°I¡¯m surprised your planet isn¡¯t classified as a death world,¡± says Raphael, slipping into the conversation. Raphael Horthstein looks young. He has purple eyes, brown curly hair, and a short boxed beard. He¡¯s an unaugmented human, one hundred and eighty-nine centimetres tall. His navy dress uniform is fairly tight over his slim and fit body. Mildred says, ¡°I could say the same about living in space.¡± Raphael and Lyre both chuckle. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong, Lord-General,¡± says Lyre. ¡°No air is just as bad as air that¡¯s too cold to breathe. We have our share of beasties too, though most of them have two legs, rather than flippers.¡± Lyre Hamiz is the opposite of his counterpart. He¡¯s old with a slight stoop and noticeable augments, including two limb replacements and a red, bionic eye. ¡°Do you have a recent picture of a leviathan with you?¡± says Brigid. ¡°I¡¯d love to see one.¡± Mildred folds her arms and is silent for a moment, ¡°Yes, I believe I do.¡± She pulls a dataslate from a messenger satchel lying on the recaf table between us and rapidly taps at its virtual keyboard with one hand. Thirty seconds later, she hands me the dataslate. ¡°Here, Magos Issengrund.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± I take the dataslate and hold it between Brigid and I. Observing the picture, I rapidly calculate the size of the leviathan. It isn¡¯t whale or snake shaped, like I¡¯d expected, but more like a ray with a many segmented shell covering its back and belly. On its back is a series of six armourglass domes, connected by clear tunnels. The leviathan is pushing through ice over two hundred metres thick with its armoured head. I¡¯m not quite certain from the picture, but it looks like the ice is shattering just before the leviathan touches it, like it¡¯s being shredded by sound, or psychic power. ¡°Wow, that¡¯s bigger than a Lunar-Class cruiser!¡± I say. ¡°By volume, anyway. It¡¯s not as long or tall, but much, much wider. Are they all that big?¡± Mildred shakes his head, a small smile on her face, ¡°Not at all, Magos. That¡¯s an average sized Leviathan. There are three that are known to be much bigger, on par with a battleship. They seem to live a slightly different lifestyle though, and spend most of their time under the waves, barely moving. We don¡¯t have any settlements on those.¡± ¡°A different stage in their life cycle perhaps?¡± says Raphael, ¡°May I see the image too please?¡± I glance at Mildred and she waves her hand towards Raphael. I pass him the dataslate. ¡°We don¡¯t know for sure,¡± says Mildred, ¡°but that¡¯s our best guess.¡± Brigid says, ¡°What do they even eat? How can such a large creature possibly sustain itself.¡± ¡°Everything,¡± says Mattius, ¡°from heat and radiation, to algae, minerals, and anything else they can sweep up into their colossal maws, much of which they can get by consuming the ice and everything that lives above, within, and below it. We think that they let us form our cities on their backs for the heat they produce and the careful work we put into cleaning their shells and keeping them clear of parasites, barnacles, and other hostile growths, some of which can get quite large.¡± ¡°How intelligent are they?¡± says Lyre. ¡°Surely it causes you problems when they mate or spawn?¡± Mattius nods, ¡°We do have to keep a careful eye out for that. Our domes can detach and float in the water, sliding off the backs of their shells. Mating only happens every five-hundred years or so and the leviathans give birth to hundreds of live young. We don¡¯t know what the survival rate is, but some packs of predators will have a go at them when they¡¯re small. ¡°As for how smart they are, after any courting or mating fights, the leviathans submerge themselves beneath our floating domes so we can reattach them without any prompting from us. They do not communicate with us, at least in any way that we can understand, and they¡¯ve ignored all attempts at communication with them. However, the leviathans do sing to each other constantly, a noise that can send a whole city vibrating. They are clearly intelligent, but how much, or what they really think of us, is a complete mystery.¡± ¡°Fascinating,¡± says Raphael as he hands off the dataslate to Lyre. ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning on visiting the surface of your world, but now I find I would rather like to. Is there time for that in our schedule, Lyre?¡± ¡°There is time, Commodore, though we cannot linger long. There are many Governors who require a dash of gunboat diplomacy.¡± Mattius loses his genial grin and Mildred scowls. ¡°Though,¡± continues Lyre, ¡°I am pleased to state we have found no ruinous taint or unsanctioned organised militant groups upon Cobalt, beyond the usual gangs. There is some evidence of Orks though.¡± ¡°Feral Orks,¡± snarls Mildred, ¡°A remnant of an old invasion by the ¡®Undred ¡®Undred Teef. We didn¡¯t provide a decade of output to the good Magos just to look pretty.¡± I vox Brigid, ¡°What do you think about running some military exercises on Cobalt? We have not fought on an oceanic ice world outside of simulations. It would be a good chance to get some expertise from some native fighters, potentially. Maybe even pick up more recruits.¡± ¡°They have a population of five million, I doubt they can spare much. Still, say, half a battalion of ice fighters could come in handy. I¡¯ll float the idea past Eire and Maeve and they can ask Governor Stigstaff at a more appropriate time. Are you sure though, Love? Is this really what we want to spend our resources on? We can¡¯t help everyone.¡± ¡°We can use the penal legion for most of the fighting, then rotate our Heralds among them to minimise the casualties and maximise the experience of our more elite troops. A single campaign will exonerate two thirds of the penal legion, letting us integrate them into the Heralds, or Fleet, much faster. More personnel will increase our production, which we desperately need if we¡¯re to build all those vessels for the Space Marines.¡± ¡°Oh, that makes far more sense than you just being nice.¡± ¡°Well, however I justify it, my personal feelings on the matter have little bearing on the mathematics of it.¡± Brigid reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. ¡°I¡¯ve been meaning to ask,¡± says Raphael, ¡°What is Vanguard armour? Did you discover something in your Quest for Knowledge, Magos Issengrund? Is there any way you can help my own vessels and crew?¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Six ¡°I¡¯ve found a few new things. New to me at least, not necessarily to the Imperium,¡± I say, unwilling to give away too much. ¡°Vanguard armour is a bipedal, humanoid machine, originally intended for the movement of cargo. ¡°Like most designs from the Dark Age of Technology, it is extraordinarily robust and can be built with a wide variety of materials and processes. Vanguard armour is an up armoured and weaponized version of the original cargo loader. It isn¡¯t as heavily armoured as, say, a Space Marine dreadnought, and is much more similar in performance as a Penitent Engine from the Sisters of Battle, or a Tau Battlesuit, a xenos warmachine.¡± The other guests, other than Lyre, look rather confused and I sigh. I¡¯d forgotten that most Imperials know fuck all about anything outside their immediate sphere. I continue, ¡°If one is feeling insulting, they could compare it to Ork Deff Dreads or Killa Kans. Would these be more familiar to you?¡± Mildred, at least, starts nodding along, ¡°I¡¯ve seen the records of those.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve only ever faced pirates and rebels,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Lyre, do you know these machines?¡± ¡°I once was part of a supply run for a world overrun with plague zombies. Do not ask me how those creatures came to be, for I do not know. The Sisters of Battle were out in force and I saw a Penitent Engine in action as it defended the space port. It tore apart hundreds of shambling corpses with circular saw blades, then burned their tainted corpses with its heavy flamer. On a void ship, a Penitent Engine would likely only be usable in the main thoroughfares and bulkheads, and one would have to be careful about the strength of the weapons such a platform was firing.¡± ¡°Ah, a shame,¡± says Raphael. Lyre says, ¡°Magos, the Sisters of Battle had a single Penitent Engine and it was a major asset of their order. Even Orks would struggle to field more than a few hundred of their crude walkers. How on Terra did you manage to produce a thousand of them?¡± Mattius frowns, ¡°Mildred convinced me of the need for these machines. Are they really that remarkable if the good Magos can produce them in such numbers?¡± ¡°A company of my ground troops,¡± I say, ¡°when configured for supporting Vanguard Armour, uses six Vanguards, giving the company eighty percent performance to an Imperial Knight with its supporting forces, approximately. Were you to use them in the same way as I organise my forces, you could produce one point six, six regiments of Vanguard armour units. Somewhere between fifty and sixty thousand soldiers, depending on how large your companies are. Rather small, for most PDF, who consider a million people under arms barely enough to man a single wall of a Hive city.¡± ¡°I find such numbers hard to imagine,¡± says Mattius. ¡°One wall, really?¡± Raphael says, ¡°I have seen such things with my own eyes back on Scintilla. The Magos is underselling it.¡± ¡°I am happy with the numbers we have,¡± says Mildred. ¡°I believe you have two percent of your people under arms, Governor?¡± I say. The dataslate Mildred handed me had a lot of useful information. Mattius nods, though he looks a little uncertain. ¡°Those Vanguard Armour are enough to supply half your army. It is an absolutely outrageous amount of firepower,¡± I say. ¡°Should your Tech-Priests keep the Vanguard Armour in working order, and they see action every couple of years, you¡¯ll still be using them in a dozen generations. I¡¯d hate to think what sort of war it would take for you to lose even half of them.¡± Mattius and Rapahel gape slightly, while Lyre narrows his eyes and Mildred folds her arms, making her medals clink. She looks a bit smug. I say, ¡°As for how I produced them, Lyre, the exact mechanisms are a Mechanicus secret and not for the uninitiated.¡± ¡°Ah, apologies, Magos,¡± says Lyre, ¡°though I imagine a robust education system and advanced tools have much to do with it.¡± ¡°A reasonable assumption,¡± I say. Mattius slumps slightly in his chair and takes a big swig, ¡°I was unaware you had been so generous. I am uncomfortable with such a debt. Is there something else I could add?¡± Brigid says, ¡°Mineral rights to the fourth moon around Cobalt VI.¡± ¡°My lady, we only have three?¡± says Mattius. ¡°It¡¯s on a rather far out orbit from Cobalt VI,¡± says Eire. ¡°It¡¯s not something you can actually spot with a telescope from Cobalt IV. Perhaps it was missed in the initial survey.¡± Mattius gives Brigid a weak smile, ¡°Having you in the system is worth far more than just the mineral rights. I¡¯ll hand over the moon you want entirely to the Mechanicus, and you can cloud mine Cobalt VI as well, if you wish.¡± Brigid is talking about Haddon¡¯s Throne. Originally it was discovered by House Echo in 878.M41. It¡¯s an icy moon with its own sub-satellite: a three point two kilometre asteroid. We must be before 878.M41, if it hasn¡¯t been found yet. Haddon¡¯s Throne has a huge reserve of promethium and a small deposit of diamonds, or so my records tell me. Our overpowered scan of the system suggested the records are probably accurate, though it will require actual drilling to be sure. While promethium and diamond are useful, the moon is primarily made of carbon dioxide, and hydrogen monoxide ice, with a metallic core. As carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen are the three most in demand elements in the Stellar Fleet, and valuable to the Imperium, this is an incredible reserve that¡¯s far more fuel efficient to mine than chasing down comets, so long as we can develop and protect it. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Will that not cause issues with House Echo?¡± I say. ¡°Their authority over Cobalt is rather loose,¡± says Mattius, he glances at the two Imperial officers. ¡°Errius Echo was a legend among Rogue Traders and discovered more worlds in the Koronus Expanse than anyone else has managed. He died in 817.M.41, without heirs, his heirs having died before him. Without a clear line of succession his House is still fighting over the Warrant. There are rumours of an additional codicil to his will, uncovered by House Vross, that was read out after Errius¡¯s funeral, but what it contained is not public knowledge. ¡°During his time as a Rogue Trader, Errius Echo advised and assisted many other Rogue Traders, so no one is willing to contest his House¡¯s claim over Cobalt, even though he is dead. Neither, even with the House¡¯s diminished state, can Cobalt afford to state that they are independent. House Echo rules from an ancient Vengeance Class Grand Cruiser, Inevitable, that is believed to have been laid down before the Emperor¡¯s Great Crusade. ¡°While I am sworn to them, I have a lot of leeway in how I govern Cobalt. Either way, they would be fools to ignore the benefits of having Adeptus Mechanicus expertise in the system. They will need it if they want to develop their holdings further, should they ever resolve their succession. After all, it¡¯s a long way to the closest Forge World.¡± ¡°In that case,¡± I say, ¡°we are grateful for your offer, Governor Stigstaff.¡± Konrad returns and stands before us, his hands clasped behind his back, ¡°Rogue Trader David Modren and Consort Sci¨¦no Ceasterwyrt have finished their preparations for the feast. They would be delighted if all of you could join them in the banquet hall.¡± ¡°Certainly,¡± I say. Everyone else also agrees and Konrad brings us back to the air car. A ten minute journey brings us to the banquet hall. The banquet hall is large enough to seat five thousand people and is divided into multiple sections, each with a central, hovering platform where gravity is reversed so that it looks like any performers are upside down. Below the platform is a mirror so that guests don¡¯t have to look up. I detect some machinery within the chairs and query the Machine-Spirits within. I am amazed at their answers. There are audio controls in each chair that automatically let one isolate particular conversations, or the performance on the upside down stage, in any mix that the user pleases, based on what or whom they are interested in. I could talk to someone fifty metres away, completely opposite me, on the other side of the huge, hollow square table and still hear them perfectly. I could also isolate my own conversations so that none may eavesdrop. Decorations are equally elaborate with huge displays of fresh flowers from all over the galaxy. There are hundreds of banners and tapestries, and dozens of holographic, animated art displays. The staff are real people, not servitors, and are wearing minimal clothing - sarongs and bikini tops, or small shorts and open short sleeved shirts. All of them move with an uncanny grace. Brigid starts humming the theme tune to her old Deep Sea Chef holoshow and I struggle not to laugh. The Machine-Spirits whisper to me that each of the banquet hall¡¯s five themed areas are based off the architecture of Modren¡¯s favourite locations that he¡¯s visited: Scintilla, Capital of the Calixis Sector; Terra, Capital of the Imperium; and Cretacia, homeworld of the Flesh-Tearers Chapter, in Segmentum Tempestus. The stuffed dinosaurs and the plaques beneath them even claim Modren hunted the massive Cretacian predators himself. I have my doubts. The last two locations are Port Maw, and Vostroya. Port Maw, Gothic Sector, is an artificial world built by unknown xenos for unknown reasons that¡¯s now one of the largest naval bases in the galaxy. Vostroya, is a unique industrial world, neither Hive nor forge, that technically doesn¡¯t belong to the Mechanicus, but is their vassal. It sells good, and ornate, infantry equipment. Vostroya is a highly polluted, icey world and as the Machine-Spirits happily feed me data of all the conversations they¡¯ve overheard, I discover Modren likes Vostroya because they don¡¯t ask questions when you buy weapons, or any of their other goods. Unable to quite believe how bad the security is, I continue to download and review all the insalubrious conversations that have taken place in this room since it was installed some sixty Terran years ago. I point Brigid towards the datafeed and she stiffens. ¡°Really?¡± she voxes, ¡°A data breach of this level in our Fleet would see the culprits sent straight to the penal regiment!¡± I review my request to the Machine-Spirit and realise that my E-WAR module falsified my credentials without me thinking about it. I clear my throat into my hand, ¡°I accidentally hacked it without realising. Still they really shouldn¡¯t keep this data locally and abbreviate it into actionable notes.¡± Brigid laughs. ¡°What puts you in such a joyous mood, Chief Purser Issengrund?¡± says Konrad. ¡°Oh!¡± says Brigid, ¡°I¡¯ve never seen such a display. These flowers are magnificent and the reversed gravity dancers are putting on a wonderful show! I¡¯ve never seen such grace.¡± Konrad gives Brigid a genuine smile, ¡°I¡¯ve always been fond of flowers. Such vibrant colours to offset the endless void that we travel through. The dancers are pleasant, though that¡¯s more a passion project of Consort Ceasterwyrt. These ones are new and have only been with us a few weeks.¡± ¡°Do you not think that the stars outshine flowers?¡± says Brigid. ¡°When you¡¯ve seen as many stars as I have, it rather takes the magic out of them,¡± says Konrad. ¡°I can¡¯t help but see their many hues as points on a chart that dictate where I must pilot my vessel, or how the radiation they emit might endanger my crew.¡± ¡°A work association taking the beauty out of celestial phenomena?¡± Brigid sighs, ¡°I can see how that could happen.¡± Finally, we catch sight of David Modren and Sci¨¦no Ceasterwyrt. The consort¡¯s name is outrageous and most likely a complete lie. David has grey hair, golden eyes, and is slightly overweight. He¡¯s of average height, at one hundred and seventy four centimetres. He¡¯s dressed in a black, Victorian frock coat with gold epaulettes, and a white waistcoat wrapped with a single tasselled cummerbund. Sci¨¦no is tall, at two point one metres. As she glides towards us, she gesticulates grandly, chatting to David with a relaxed smile. A barely there, sparkly purple cocktail dress hugs her lithe body. Most of her skin coverage comes from an otherworldly quantity of jewellery: bangles, earrings, rings, anklets, torcs all densely encrusted with gems. Some are obviously xenos in origin, one of wraithbone and three of alloys I can¡¯t identify. All of these details, however, are washed away by the size and strength of her soul. Consort Ceasterwyrt is a psyker. Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Seven Our hosts glide up to us, a trail of servers in their wake. I catch slight flashes of pink on Sci¨¦no¡¯s pale skin and some diamond studs as her dress slides up and down her body. It¡¯s never quite enough to show her whole nipple, and neither does her dress ever get caught on her body, seemingly sliding up and down with a truly impressive amount of control and exotic, low friction fabric. I don¡¯t stare, far too incredulous at the outrageous distraction to be aroused by it. I¡¯m also far more interested in my auspex, which shows that Sci¨¦no has had extensive and incredibly skilled surgery and other treatments done to her body. I¡¯m not sure what she¡¯s had done to herself, and that is remarkable. Mattius and Mildred are less subtle and stare at the couple. Raphael and Lyre have polite smiles on their faces, though I detect that Lyre is rather bored of such pomp. Brigid¡¯s eyes are slightly glazed and her smile is fixed. I measure a small uptick in her power consumption as she likely goes through sensor readings of her own and rapidly reads the highlights and summaries of the data I¡¯m compiling from all the chatty Machine-Spirits. Konrad salutes David then departs without another word or gesture to anyone. I suspect he is unhappy about being tasked as a concierge on his own vessel, but the clouded emotions wafting off him suggest a focused and disciplined mind, so I cannot be sure of his motives. David Modren smiles at us and says in high gothic, ¡°Welcome to my banquet hall. We spent the last two weeks decorating it for you all, I do so hope that you enjoy it.¡± ¡°Thank you for your warm welcome,¡± I say. ¡°My wife and I are most pleased by your hospitality.¡± Brigid¡¯s attention snaps to the couple and she claps her hands together, her face a perfect simulation of vapid delight, ¡°The dancers are gorgeous and your dress is magnificent, Consort Ceasterwyrt. I do not think I could ever be as bold as you.¡± I¡¯m not quite sure what Brigid is hoping to achieve with her acting, nor can I tell if she is trying to be a raging bitch, or a capricious twit. I am absolutely certain, however, that she is enjoying hamming up this random personality she¡¯s adopted for the evening. ¡°I went to extensive trouble to acquire everything,¡± says Sci¨¦no, ¡°The first performance is always the most tricky, yet has a flair which can never be replicated.¡± Raphael nods, ¡°Indeed, Trader Modren, Consort Ceasterwyrt. This is a most pleasant show of Imperial hospitality and not one I expected to see again until the end of my current patrol, several years from now.¡± ¡°Good,¡± says David. ¡°I¡¯m glad I could bring you the pleasures of greater civilization.¡± ¡°Thank you for your hospitality, Trader Modren,¡± says Mattius. ¡°What brings you to my bleak world?¡± Dvid chuckles, ¡°Trade and opportunity. Risk and reward. To satisfy my thirst for the unknown, and above all, wealth. I am a Rogue Trader, Governor Stigstaff. The motives of my kind are always the same.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the method that makes me nervous,¡± mutters Mildred. David gives no indication that he hears Mildred. Sci¨¦no, however, snaps a fan open and covers her mouth, hiding her amusement. The consort¡¯s emotions are completely shrouded, but after spending so many decades trying to pick up the subtle and hidden emotions of Ylien, I would place my bets on her mocking us. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we have little left to trade,¡± says Mattius. ¡°Really, I think you are better off talking to Magos Issengrund.¡± David nods, ¡°I rather thought that might be the case. Dinner first though, then business. Are The Maw tables agreeable to you, Magos Issengrund?¡± ¡°Whatever you have prepared will do,¡± I say. ¡°While I am fond of voidships, all the displays you have are pleasing.¡± ¡°I should hope so!¡± says David. ¡°The banquet hall is the finest room on the ship, only matched by the Imperial chapel, but we can¡¯t go eating in there. All the incense would ruin the taste of the dishes that my chefs have prepared for us all. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if my whole Rattling contingent mutinies!¡± Rattlings are short abhumans, known for their stealth, cooking, and strong community spirit. Having a Rattling chef is a sign of great wealth and prestige. The Imperial Guard, however, often trains them as elite sniper teams. We are led to a large, rectangular table with a hollow centre. The performance platform above us is a rust coloured sphere, carved with a relief showing the entire artificial world of Maw from orbit. On the platform, and reflected upon the mirror on the floor beneath, are twelve dancers with cruel faced silver masks, one of which has horns. They are acting out a musical, though with the carefully controlled acoustics, I can hear neither note nor word, but as soon as I sit down the speakers in my chair start playing the dialogue and I quickly get absorbed in the play. The actors are going through the history of the Gothic War, a war that The Maw was heavily involved in. Oddly enough, the play is covering it from the Eldar perspective. A bold, creative choice. I hook into the Machine-Spirit of my chair and focus one of my minds on the play and, with the assistance of the spirit, record it. My primary attention returns to the banquet as we are served with a series of cured meats and a miso-like soup. My tongue immediately reports the presence of xenos flora ingredients. While not digestible by Humans, it isn¡¯t harmful either and is quite delicious. Were I a normal Human, this soup would pass through me without issue. A quick scan of the other soups indicates that they are identical to mine. The rings on Raphael and Lyre¡¯s hands send out discrete pulses that also scan the food they are eating. The Machine-Spirits, a pair of overactive squirrels that keep patting the soup, are a little ignorant though, so I reach out and bolster their data. One runs over to me and I simulate gently scratching it with a virtual hand. It stares up at me in awe and excitement, then they both dash back inside the rings. Both Raphael and Lyre glance over me and I realise that both of them must have discrete MIUs, technology that is rarely issued outside the Mechanicus, as the Machine-Spirits would not have been able to inform them of the extra data without the implants, only provide a red or green light. I detect a vox connection on both of them and use it to interact with their MIUs and talk to the Commodore and his Adjunct directly, rather than use the dinner chairs¡¯ unique features. ¡°Those are some fascinating devices that you have, Commodore Horthstein, Adjunct Hamiz. Is it fear or hate that drives so many people to poison you that you test every dish out of habit?¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Lyre sighs, ¡°Magos, I rather like the sanctity of my own head. Would you please get out?¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t have to pick up the call you know,¡± I vox. ¡°I went through the proper protocols. No hacking involved!¡± ¡°What?¡± says Lyre. ¡°Ah, I see. The public files you are happily broadcasting suggest that you weren¡¯t given a proper manual. There. I¡¯ve placed one a proper ¡®how to¡¯ guide, the same guide you could access from any public noosphere node within my fleet, within your MIU. You could even grab your own copy from here if you are willing to put up with the signal delay. Just think ¡®public files¡¯ to access the data I gave you, and ¡®file permissions¡¯ to change what others can see. I frown and continue, ¡°Whoever gave you that implant clearly didn¡¯t bother to teach you both how to use it properly if it¡¯s set up to automatically accept calls without your permission, or you don¡¯t know how to refuse a contact. No wonder you have to keep testing everything for poison! Oh, think ¡®secure all connections¡¯ to prevent anyone from contacting you, and ¡®terminate all external connections¡¯ to end unwanted connections.¡± I am immediately booted from the conference call, ¡°You learn fast, Commodore Horthstein, Adjunct Hamiz. Before I forget, I suggest you download the data I sent you to a dataslate before you open it, then delete the original. If you don¡¯t trust what I gave you, it will be more secure for you that way.¡± ¡°Magos, thank you for your instruction,¡± says Raphael. ¡°You¡¯re quite welcome. Feel free to acquire any of our basic courses on technology interaction before you leave.¡± ¡°Who are these courses designed for?¡± says Lyre. ¡°Anyone who doesn¡¯t know what¡¯s in them,¡± I chuckle, ¡°and is willing to learn. Knowledge is built in layers, Adjunct Hamiz, as I am sure you know. Zero is half of binary code. There is no shame in starting from there, only in refusal to count to one. There is no dangerous or secret knowledge in the public files.¡± ¡°Ignore my husband, Adjunct Hamiz,¡± says Brigid. ¡°We¡¯ve just sent our children off for their military service and he¡¯s been left with no one to lecture for months. He does so love to see the delight on their faces as he teaches them something new.¡± I clear my throat, ¡°Apologies, Commodore Horthstein, Adjunct Hamiz. I did not intend to denigrate you.¡± Raphael waves me off, ¡°You did not. Give it no more thought. Further intrusive statements will not be well received, however.¡± ¡°Acknowledged, Commodore. I will be more circumspect.¡± ¡°Am I missing out here?¡± says David. ¡°Not at all, Trader Modren,¡± I say. ¡°Your superb vessel has left me in awe, and I couldn¡¯t quite resist showing off a little myself. My attempts fell a little flat.¡± Sci¨¦no titers, ¡°So humble, Magos. Do you not have grand tales to tell from your time away from the Imperium? You did not arrive here by accident, I hope?¡± ¡°The start of my journey and its intended end,¡± I say, ¡°are planned for. It¡¯s the stepping stones between them that have been wobbly, ever keen to tar me with splashes of adventure. It would aid me, Trader Modren and Consort Ceasterwyrt, if you were to impart what I have missed in the time I¡¯ve been away. Events of note that only a Rogue Trader would hear of, or care to bother with.¡± David finishes his soup and dabs his lips with a napkin, ¡°I do not mind sharing an adventure or two, or some news. What do you have in mind?¡± ¡°How about we all take it in turns to suggest a subject,¡± I say, ¡°and speak of what we know. Perhaps Governor Stigstaff could choose the first topic? We are orbiting his planet after all. We should stick to something local though. Events within the last Millennium in the Kronous Expanse and the Calixis Sector would be my request.¡± ¡°You are out of touch,¡± says David. ¡°I am extra eager to hear what has had you gone for so long.¡± ¡°Well,¡± says Mattius, ¡°If that¡¯s how it¡¯s going to be, I¡¯d like to know of the Orks, Trader Modren.¡± David nods, ¡°Yes, they are your closest and most persistent threat. There have been four major events involving Orks in the last Millennium within the Koronus Expanse. The most significant was 422.M41 when Waaagh! Gulrog besieged Port Wander. They were later destroyed by Battlefleet Calixis and the Adeptus Mechanicus.¡± ¡°Oh, my!¡± says Brigid, ¡°We really have lost a lot of data. I believe Aldrich¡¯s first ship, Distant Sun, was lost to the Warp around 666.M41 after a Geller Field breach. My husband was one of the few survivors, his bodyguards and our navigator being the other six. He patched the vessel and limped to my lost world then uplifted us, returning our planet to the Omnissiah¡¯s grace.¡± David raises an eyebrow, ¡°If you call that a splash of adventure, I hate to think what you qualify as a full dunking. However did you survive?¡± ¡°We were unfortunate enough to ram into a space hulk. After recovering from the Gellar breach, the rest of the crew was lost scavenging supplies to repair the vessel. An additional two thousand souls lost to Orks, Tyranids, and Cultists.¡± I¡¯m not going to mention the Eldar as that¡¯s so unlikely it would raise uncomfortable questions. The demons are best ignored as well. Senior voidfarers should not need warp entities explained to them. I continue, ¡°After repairs, we cut ourselves free and fled the Warp at the first opportunity. The next two worlds we found were dead, or filled with xenos wreckage that was best avoided. That¡¯s enough of my tale for now though. What more do you have to say of the Orks, Trader Modren?¡± Obviously, that¡¯s not entirely what happened, but I want to establish my own narrative while sticking to the truth as close as possible. ¡°For that story? I have just the accompaniment. In 789.M41, approximately, the Space Hulk Midnight¡¯s Lair was spotted fighting with Ork raiders near the ¡®Undred ¡®Undred Teef, or so claimed White Sabre, a self professed blockade runner. Given there are no current blockades in the Koronus Expanse, I was curious why he was in the sector, but could never get the story out of him. After observing for a few days, White Sabre slipped out of the system, having determined that the Orks were likely to lose the engagement. It is unknown who they were fighting on the Hulk.¡± Mildred nods, ¡°We saw an uptick in Ork activity during that time. It was before I was born though, so I don¡¯t know much about it, only that the Greenskins attempted to launch themselves into space on crude rockets, with little success. The footage of them blowing themselves up still features in the occasional propaganda clip.¡± ¡°Most fascinating how they seemed to know there was a fight to get to,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Indeed,¡± says Lyre, ¡°Such corroboration of information is most useful to the Navy.¡± ¡°Happy I could assist,¡± says David. ¡°More recently, in 800.M41, Mechanicus Explorator vessels charting the Accursed Demesne were assaulted by Ork Kaptain Morgaash Kulgraz and his vessel, Da Wurldbreaka. The Mechanicus fleet was shattered and the remains hunted down through the Demesne by the Ork Freebooterz.¡± ¡°I¡¯d rather the Freebooterz didn¡¯t exist,¡± I say, ¡°but knowing that they do, and are probably still about, does help us prepare for, or avoid them.¡± ¡°We hadn¡¯t heard of this either,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Communications between the Navy and the Mechanicus are often muddled.¡± David grins, ¡°The benefit of being a Rogue Trader is that news comes to you. My last news is more about the absence of Orks, rather than their presence. In 816.M41 Midnight¡¯s Lair reappeared among the Heathen Stars. I do not know if it is still there. Astropathic communication in the area has been troublesome since the Hulk¡¯s appearance. For reference, the date on Ardent Bane is 840.M41. With time being far more flexible than my neat mind would like, I cannot be certain when we exactly stand.¡± ¡°It¡¯s 837.M41 for us,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Magos?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t been able to sync with the Forge Temple on Mars yet. While the stars suggest it is 845.M41, my vessel¡¯s chronograph thinks it is 741.M41 and is being rather stubborn about it, refusing to let me correct it.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Eight ¡°Well, at least we know what decade it probably is!¡± says David. ¡°That¡¯s an acceptable margin of error.¡± I say, ¡°I prefer to time things to the pico-second, but alas, the galaxy runs on its own time.¡± My comment is followed with a round of polite laughter. A new round of food comes out. This one is a pasta dish. Once again, xeno flora is present, though it is still non-toxic. ¡°Trader Modren,¡± I say, ¡°As most of the news is coming from you, how about you pick the next topic?¡± ¡°I am fond of scandals and bounties,¡± says David. ¡°I will start us off with one. It was 703.M41 when Erasmus Haarlock vanished from his family estate, leaving it awash with the blood of his family. It¡¯s rumoured that he was the one to do the deed, but that is unconfirmed. It¡¯s always possible he was the last survivor of some plot. ¡°What I do know is that it triggered a succession war between all the Haarlock heirs, a series of fleet engagements that took place throughout the Calixis Sector and Koronus Expanse. Erasmus Haarlock is known to have defeated three heirs within the Koronus Expanse, as well as two other Rogue Traders who joined the conflict for unknown reasons. ¡°Some fifteen years later, in 717.M41, Ember Nostromo, of the Nostromo navigator house, mutinied against outlaw captain, Buros Han, and took control of a pre-Angevin Crusade relic vessel named the Monarch of Whispers. She gathered a huge coterie of warp-witches and killers from the hated Saynay Clan and became a pirate. ¡°Her stated goal was to gather enough power to hunt down Erasmus Haarlock in revenge for the death of her parents during the Haarlock purges. A navigator turning on their captain, however, is a serious offence and made the Nostromo House appear unreliable, greatly affecting their business interests. As such, there is a huge bounty on the Monarch of Whispers. Both Ember Nostromo and Erasmus Haarlock are still sighted from time to time. I am unsure if Haarlock won his succession war.¡± Mattius shakes his head, ¡°Neither of these individuals have ever visited Cobalt.¡± ¡°Possible bounties are always worth knowing,¡± I say. ¡°What ship class is the Monarch of Whispers?¡± ¡°No idea,¡± says David. ¡°A Mars-Class Battle Cruiser,¡± says Lyre. ¡°Erasmus Haarlock was recognised as Rogue Trader Haarlock in 737.M41 when he presented his family¡¯s Writ to the naval base at Port Wander and, officially, at that time, he was the last remaining Haarlock. Since then, Erasmus Haarlock has gone to considerable efforts to replenish his dynasty with over twenty registered heirs. Much of the Haarlock assets have been lost, however, and the House is declining.¡± David says, ¡°A mystery solved at last! What can you tell us of the Mars-Class, Commodore Horthstein?¡± ¡°Not everyone likes the Mars-Class,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Many navy captains consider it under-gunned for its size, so very few shipyards make them these days. Like the Lunar-Class, however, it has a good mix of weaponry and is fast for its size. Its Nova Cannon, lances, and strike craft are not to be underestimated, as it can outrange most other vessels, and has a fully armoured prow if it needs to close in, and the macro-cannons to make the most of a shorter engagement distance. It is an excellent patrol vessel. I¡¯d be delighted if I had one in my fleet.¡± ¡°That sounds like the perfect vessel for any aspiring Rogue Trader,¡± I say. ¡°Did you not fancy the bounty yourself, Trader Modren?¡± David says, ¡°I do not think I could capture such a vessel. Not without the help of another Trader.¡± ¡°An alliance would raise questions of who got to keep it,¡± says Sci¨¦no, ¡°Or who takes the blame if the Monarch of Whispers escapes. It is always hard to hunt a ship full of psykers as they often see when you are gunning for them.¡± ¡°Alas, I can only take comfort in Ardent Bane,¡± says David. ¡°She has yet to let me down and trying for a better ship may well be the last thing I do.¡± Mildred smirks, ¡°Where¡¯s the legendary ambition of a Rogue Trader?¡± ¡°My dear general,¡± says David. ¡°I never said I wasn¡¯t going to try.¡± Sci¨¦no swats David¡¯s arm with her fan, ¡°You spent all your ambition when you seduced me, David. I wouldn¡¯t go chasing a lass who has a bigger cannon than you. That would not fit your tastes and you do so hate to share.¡± Mildred and Brigid snicker, while Mattius and I grin. Raphael and Lyre, however, manage to keep a straight face. I shake my head, ¡°I don¡¯t have any bounties to share. Commodore?¡± ¡°Off the top of my head, I can only think of one,¡± says Raphael. ¡°It was issued by the Navy for Rak¡¯Gol Marauders. In 811.M41 the merchant brig Daughter of Regals and her escorts were lost with all hands between Port Wander and Lucien¡¯s Breath. Since then the marauders have only become more bold and many of the polities at Footfall have added to the bounty. ¡°That¡¯s a wide area to search,¡± I say. Raphael nods, ¡°I¡¯ve done two patrols along that stretch and never caught sight of them. It¡¯s possible they are collaborating with Dark Eldar raiders and launching strikes from the Webway, but that¡¯s just a personal theory of mine. There is no definitive proof. However, Rak¡¯Gol raiders have few places to sell their loot and captives and Commorragh, the main port of the Dark Eldar, is the easiest and most profitable one to go to for them.¡± This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¡°Talking of xenos,¡± says David, ¡°The Stryxis have set up shop among the asteroid belts and lifeless systems on the trailing edge of the God-Emperor¡¯s Scourge, a strange storm-like anomaly. Not Warp based, as far as I know. Their trade centre is called Rust Palace. It was first sighted in 789.M41 and moves about a fair bit, but if you travel to Magoros first, there is always a guide to the palace available. They¡¯re an odd sort, with strange values. They trade anything and everything with anyone, so long as you aren¡¯t Eldar, which makes the Stryxis alright in my book.¡± ¡°Not a fan of Eldar, Trader Modren?¡± says Lyre. David glances at his wife, ¡°No. I despise the lot of them.¡± He smirks, ¡°I¡¯ve been bitten far too many times to hold any affection for the creatures.¡± Sci¨¦no giggles, ¡°No xeno could ever withstand your affections, my love. Far too many hot pokers.¡± Sci¨¦no shakes her head, ¡°Enough of your silliness, David. It is hardly dinner conversation. How about you, Purser Issengrund? What would you like to know?¡± ¡°The three greatest threats in the Koronus Expanse,¡± says Brigid. Sci¨¦no snaps her fan shut and taps it against her crimson lips, ¡°Well, that¡¯s a little tricky. Threats are relative to one¡¯s personal capacity for violence. Could you help me out, Commodore? What does the Imperium view as vital information for their allies?¡± ¡°I do not think I can quite get it down to three,¡± says Raphael, grimacing. ¡°I will speak of the Battle of Agusia in 742.M41 and The Strangling, in 813.M41, however. ¡°The Battle of Agusia is the largest known engagement in the Koronus Expanse to date. It has been extensively studied and we¡¯d be here for days if I started getting into it. I¡¯ll provide a dossier on it for you, Trader Modren, Magos Issengrund, and Governor Stigstaff. ¡°The battle had a lot of knock on effects that are still being felt. Especially by Battlefleet Koronus, who have had to respond to many more emergencies since the battle. A dozen Rogue Trader Houses, including House Winterscale, engaged the archeo-pirates and renegades of the Amerat Union and their Dark Eldar allies, the Cabal of the Bloody Libation, around the Cemetery World of Agusia. ¡°The combined Rogue Trader fleet was victorious, but all forces took heavy losses and the enemy survivors and the unknown object of contention may still exist. The Rogue Trader Houses are yet to recover from all their losses during that battle as there just isn¡¯t the capacity to repair or build that many ships so fast within the Koronus Expanse. It is far too dangerous to tow vessels through the Maw for repairs in the Calixis Sector. ¡°As for The Strangling, in 813.M41, the Warp storm that separates the Calixis Sector and the Koronus expanse surged and the Maw, the route between the two sectors, snapped shut. Yes, the passage and the planet have the same name, even if they aren¡¯t even in adjacent sectors. Again, this had severe consequences and I will forward you all the data. I mention this because what can happen once, can happen twice, and it would be best to prepare for it. Especially Governor Stiggstaff. Imperial assistance would be catastrophically delayed should the Maw close again while you require help.¡± Mattius says, ¡°Thank you, Commodore Horthstein. I will take your warning to heart.¡± Raphael gives Mattius a curt nod, ¡°As for the greatest threats, I believe that Lyre is best equipped to address the issue. His experience is broader than mine.¡± Lyre sighs, ¡°I cannot share much, for it is confidential. The first is an unnatural disaster, the Tyrant Star, an unexplained phenomena in the shape of a baleful black star that presages destruction, madness and death. There have been six sightings in the Calixis Sector over the past Millennium. I will send you the dates and locations so that you can avoid these places. They¡¯re either quarantined or destroyed, so you absolutely must not visit them. The Imperium will hunt you down, no matter your status, should you break its edicts.¡± ¡°There is enough madness in the galaxy already,¡± I say. ¡°I see no reason to chase it down on ashen worlds.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± says David. ¡°We will abide by the Imperium¡¯s strictures.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± With a discrete ping, all the data mentioned by the navy officers so far appears on my MIU. They must have been reading my guide while holding a conversation, or faking their incompetence with the systems they¡¯ve had installed. I really did assume a lot earlier and may have made more of an arse of myself than I realised. Fortunately the two officers are not easily offended. More food comes out, this time it¡¯s genuine surf and turf with actual bovine and lobster meat that closely matches the genetic profile of the original Terran species. The sea vegetables are xenos in origin. These ones are even digestible and nutritious! With so many usual foods served to us, I release a small quantity of my medichines and send them to Brigid, rapidly purifying her body of all xeno flora, just in case. I do not help anyone else as I don¡¯t know what implants and auspex they have installed and they are too far from me for my Warp and Weft module to remotely power the nanites. David smiles, ¡°Now this is a rare treat. Animals bred on Terra itself and worth far more than its weight in gold. If you could hold off your threat assessment, Adjunct Hamiz, so that we can enjoy this delicacy with the respect it deserves, I would appreciate it.¡± ¡°Is it really that great?¡± says Hamiz. ¡°Adjunct,¡± I say, ¡°This was a luxury meal served in late M2, or so my records tell me.¡± ¡°You have records going back that far?¡± says David. ¡°Not many,¡± I say. ¡°They are a prized possession of mine. I grabbed them off the Space Hulk I crashed into. There is no useful technology on the files, and much of what they knew was wrong, but the snippets of how our ancestors used to live, when we only had one planet, make for good bedtime stories for my children, even if it was not a peaceful era. My children have long since stopped listening to such things, but I have not forgotten the data. Lyre says, ¡°That is an unusual collection. How valid is the data?¡± ¡°I can not be certain how accurate any of the information is. Some of it seems quite fanciful, like Terra being seventy percent water. It seems strange that was the case when they called the planet ¡®Earth¡¯. I question their global mapping skills, when all they had was a compass and the stars, rather than satellites, lasers, and cogitators.¡± I have to hand my expressions off to my Machine-Spirits so that no one can tell I am laughing my ass off in my head. Coming up with a good mix of truth and lies is terribly amusing. ¡°I would love a collection of old Earth data,¡± says David. ¡°Would you trade for it?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± I say, ¡°So long as what you have to offer is equally as rare and unique.¡± David nods, ¡°It will take me a few days to locate suitable items and present you with some options.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine. How about you, Commodore, Governor?¡± ¡°My personal funds do not stretch that far,¡± says Raphael, ¡°no matter how much I would like them.¡± Mattius frowns, ¡°I am much the same, nor do I have much interest in such things.¡± ¡°A shame,¡± I say, ¡°but understandable. For now though, let us follow Trader Modren¡¯s advice and eat this rare food while it is fresh and hot.¡± Brigid smiles, ¡°It¡¯s only you who hasn¡¯t started yet, Alrich! This really is delicious.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Nine We finish our surf and turf in silence. Once we are done, the plates are whisked away and Lyre props his elbows upright upon the table, clasps his hand together and rests his chin on his hands. ¡°I have several threats that a Rogue Trader or Magos Explorator would profit from eliminating,¡± says Lyre. ¡°I could not say if they are the greatest current threats to the Imperium in this region of space, but they are significant. ¡°The first is Ulthyr Ellarion, an Aeldari corsair. He recently raided the Drusus Marches, disrupting trade across the Calixis sector. There is a large bounty on his head. While this is not an immediate issue for you, there is a moderate weight of evidence that Ulthyr Ellarion has connections to the Crow Spirits, another group of Aeldari corsairs, only these corsairs are based in the Koronus Expanse. Should one group be active, the other is likely not far behind. There is a bounty on them too. ¡°There is weak suspicion that the Crow Spirits are related to Whisper of Anaris, but the Navy has no definitive proof of this association, nor do we know how they are related to the vessel. Whisper of Anaris is an Eldar ghost ship. It was last spotted among the Foundling Worlds. This vessel is known to help or hinder Imperial vessels for no known reason. ¡°Whisper of Anaris is said to have been owned by Anaris, an Eldar Farseer. This Farseer¡¯s body has perished and he has been reduced to a soul stone. What is unusual, however, is that what remains of him is active on Footfall within the Xenosium. Those who care to treat with him are promised fanciful treasures and issued dire portents in equal measure to seek and destroy his Craftworld Lu¡¯Nasad, which has been lost to corruption. ¡°You may find wealth and ruin upon locating Lu¡¯Nasad. Do not engage the Whisper of Anaris unless threatened. Be wary of sudden Aeldari corsair raids at all times.¡± ¡°Well!¡± says David, ¡°That is a vital chunk of information. Thank you, Commodore Horthstien, for allowing us to know it, and Adjunct Hamiz for your detailed Aeldari threat warnings.¡± Raphael expresses an abrupt laugh, ¡°My skilled Adjunct isn¡¯t quite done yet. This is all information that Battlefleet Koronus has permitted for us to share with our partners and allies. It weakens the Imperium when we lose population, infrastructure and vessels to well known threats.¡± ¡°A more enlightened view than many officers I have encountered,¡± says David. Mattius says, ¡°I am unhappy to learn there is more than just Orks out there, but as you say, Commodore, ignorance does not serve the Imperium.¡± I can¡¯t quite believe the sheer hypocrisy I am hearing. The Imperium never shares anything! The fictional, or possibly prophetic records that were on my lanyard said as much, and the real records on Distant Sun confirmed how important secrets are. Just what is going on here? A gamble, maybe, to see what work they can get others to do for free? ¡°We thank you for the information,¡± says Brigid. Lyre sits up straight and folds his arms as desert is placed in front him, three bite sized mousses, each with a unique design. I look down at my own. I have a cog, a mini Sword-Class frigate, and a skull. Brigid has an amethyst coloured jelly, a gold dusted pocket watch assembled from cut sponge, and a lily crafted from marzipan. ¡°How charming!¡± says Sci¨¦no, ¡°did you choose these designs, dear?¡± ¡°No, no. It was all the chef. I think he really wanted to go out with a bang.¡± ¡°A talented man,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ve never been to a feast with customised desserts before. Even our more adventurous chefs could not bear the inefficiency.¡± Mildred smiles, ¡°Are you stereotyping your own personnel, Magos?¡± ¡°Absolutely,¡± I say. ¡°I am sure they do the same to me where I can¡¯t hear them. Replacing one¡¯s body with machines does not remove the temptation to gossip, sadly.¡± Confusion flashes across Lyre¡¯s face. I think he¡¯s trying to figure me out, but my unusual behaviour, for a Magos, keeps throwing him off. It suddenly hits me that Brigid is probably trying to do the same thing too with the somewhat vapid front she¡¯s putting on. It never hurts when your opponents think you are a tad derpy. In my case, that might actually be true. I¡¯ve spent far too long in charge to worry about such things and my social-fu has dropped off the prow of a void ship. Assuming I had any in the first place. We finish our desserts to polite acclaim, then Lyre continues with his informal briefing. ¡°After the Aeldari, the next threat you must watch for is the renegade Karrad Vall. In 794.M41, Karrad Vall emerged from the Maw with a substantial fleet and bombarded Footfall. They were driven off by Calligos Winterscale¡¯s fleet, but not before they captured hundreds of people, whom they likely sacrificed for an unknown purpose. ¡°Karrad Vall is an unusual threat because he has been present for a long time, first showing up in early M.40 in the Gothic sector. No Imperial agent has seen his face or collected a genetic sample, so collecting his bounty is tricky, nor do we have a complete roster of all his vessels. The only common theme is that all his vessels are cobbled together, spiky junk that are far more effective than they should be. ¡°In the wake of Karrad Vall¡¯s reemergence, a congregation of the Astral Knives travelled from the Calixis sector to the Koronus Expanse in 795.M41. These are assassins and mercenaries for hire and they¡¯ve taken up residence at Footfall. They are chasing Karrad Vall, likely because their creed compels them to seek and ritually assassinate the enemies of the Imperium. They are a volatile group who have been expelled from the Calixis sector. There is weak evidence that Tanthus Moross, administrator of Footfall, has ties to the Astral Knives. ¡°Last, In 805.M41 we received weak data that Karad Vall had founded, or perhaps conquered a lost world called Iniquity in the Dioskouri system. This system is rumoured to be Spinward of the Cauldron, somewhere between Bastion, Foulstone, and Footfall. He seeks trade to build his petty kingdom. I will not tell you what he offers, though you will be damned and hunted should you take him up on it, rather than burn his world to ashes.¡± The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Should we come across any cultists they will be purged,¡± I say, ¡°and their vessels propelled into the closest sun without any personnel ever setting foot upon their cursed halls.¡± ¡°That seems like a terrible waste of metal,¡± says David. ¡°Can you not purify and recycle such ships?¡± ¡°Probably, but you never know what you might find on vessels that may have been empowered by sacrifices and other ruinous powers. I will not risk good workers on such an endeavour, better to just burn it all.¡± Lyre says, ¡°Magos, if you had to recycle dangerous vessels, how would you go about it?¡± ¡°I could contain the metal, and retrieve most of it once it has been purified. Some would boil off and be lost. A large array of mirrors and wide scale gravitational manipulation could work. Everything would have to be blessed and warded, including the finished ingots, that I would probably store for a century, and bless every day, just to be sure. Warded servitors for labour with no remote piloting would be essential. ¡°No data would be stored and no human would ever look at any images of the interior, and preferably the exterior of the vessels. The Servitors would have to be as close as possible to Abomnibal Intelligence as is permitted and be frequently replaced so that everything can be fully automated. ¡°It would be a substantial undertaking and would not be worth the effort unless you had dozens of vessels to dispose of. I would also request a Sororitas Order to oversee the operation. The facility overseeing the breakers yard would require the strictest possible security and be heavily fortified. ¡°For additional security, the breakers yard and the overwatch facility would be rigged with melta charges for back up, and manoeuvring thrusters to send everything on a one way, irreversible trip to the sun with no escape shuttles permitted. Honestly, finding someone willing to work in those conditions would be near impossible. This is why I would rather throw them into the closest sun. ¡°Not only that, I wouldn¡¯t really want to have to tow corrupt vessels to a specialised breakers yard in the first place. That would take custom vessels, probably with blind, deaf, and dumb crews, if you wanted to do it properly, and a company from the Sisters of Silence. By that, I mean the crew would need some kind of autistic implant so that they could function, but never experience the world as they used to. A manner similar to an Electro-Priest would be most likely. Really, there is no such thing as being too careful when sacrifices have been made to unknown entities for unknown boons.¡± For the first time since I¡¯ve met him, Lyre¡¯s smile reaches his eyes. ¡°That was much more extensive than I was expecting.¡± I shrug, ¡°Half measures are for the dead.¡± ¡°It sounds like you are speaking from experience,¡± says Sci¨¦no. ¡°I am, first and foremost, a Tech-Priest of the Machine God and the Omnissiah. What good would I be if I did not know how to protect the temples and congregations of our God and his prophet? While I am officially a Magos Explorator, I am also a master of augmetics, aetherics, and arcanotech, with a broad understanding of many other disciplines. ¡°I have no desire to experience a second Gellar Field flicker event ever again and have sought much knowledge to make my vessels and crew as impervious to outside influences as possible. That includes sensible operating procedures, such as the one I outlined for salvaging hazardous vessels.¡± David grimaces, ¡°My Gellar Fields have never failed me, but I have heard tales of what happens. They seem most fanciful, but all end in death. With a common theme like that I can understand your caution.¡± ¡°Have your precautions proved successful?¡± says Raphael. ¡°It is hard to prove a negative,¡± I say. ¡°There have been no further Gellar breaches, no mutations, no outbreaks of plague, mysterious disappearances, symbols daubed upon the walls in blood, raving psykers, or outbreaks of ultraviolence. The unity of our faith and community has kept us pure and untainted by the madness of the galaxy. ¡°These things are a matter of time and power though. While I am constantly working on my protections, I am sure that something will come along that can break them one day. Until then, I shall remain vigilant in my watch and dedicated with my prayers to the Emperor. Should the worst happen, I can only hope my faith will protect me, or my end is swift, though that is what the self-destruct protocol is for. I don¡¯t expect the Emperor¡¯s Mercy from my enemies.¡± Mildred and Mattius seem confused about my little speech, but unwilling to admit ignorance when everyone else at the table clearly knows what I¡¯m talking about, even if no names have been mentioned. From Sci¨¦no, I pick up the barest hint of disgust and David¡¯s thoughts are lousy with disdain. Raphael and Lyre¡¯s emotions echo with doubt and distrust. ¡°I have one final threat for you, Purser Issengrund,¡± says Lyre. ¡°After an undisclosed event in 812.M41, Fenksworld, Calixis Sector, the Ordo Xenos put the whole of the trans-sector organisation, Beast House, under scrutiny. Their leader, Solkarn Senk is wanted for questioning by the Inquisition. You should avoid dealing with the Beast House. It would do your fleet no good to be swept up in the wake of such investigations. You would be better served reporting on any information you have on the Beast House to the appropriate authorities immediately upon encountering them.¡± Mildred says, ¡°Who is the Beast House?¡± ¡°Traffickers in xenos beasts, weaponry, and slaves of all species for blood sports,¡± says Lyre. ¡°Not something any devout Imperial citizen should go chasing.¡± Mattius nods, ¡°We have enough troubles with Orks. I do not want to look for more.¡± ¡°Well, as enlightening as this has all been,¡± says David. ¡°We have come to the end of the meal. I have a special drink for you all to try for the final toast as we watch the end of the performance above us. We will have to go through the problems of the Calixis Sector another day, Magos.¡± ¡°I am quite content with everything that has already been shared, Trader Modren.¡± ¡°Excellent, though I doubt it will give you pleasant dreams.¡± I say, ¡°Forewarned is forearmed, or at least justifies the funding for more armaments.¡± Mattius gives an embarrassed laugh, ¡°You don¡¯t do loans do you, Magos?¡± ¡°You can arrange a meeting with High Factor Eire Lobhdain and Chief Purser Issengrund for that another day, Governor. My Herald Primarus, Maeve Muire, may also wish to speak to you about some ice world training. I am sure that between the three of them you will find some common ground.¡± ¡°Thank you for your generosity, Magos Issengrund.¡± ¡°You are welcome, Governor Stigstaff.¡± ¡°I too, would be interested in seeing more of what you have for sale,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Your Vanguard Armour might not be right for us, but I am certain that you have something that could aid the Navy.¡± ¡°I would be delighted to sit down with you for another discussion, and perhaps tour your vessels to see what might suit you best,¡± I say. David clears his throat. ¡°Ah, apologies, Trader Modren, for holding up your final toast.¡± ¡°No, no,¡± says David, with an amused tone, ¡°far be it from me to stand in the way of trade.¡± A small glass is placed in front of each of us with a lightly bubbling liquid. Like everything else, I give it a quick scan and immediately detect some unusual enzymes. They¡¯re not poisonous, and quite harmless by themselves, but it only takes me a moment to cross reference the enzymes with the xeno flora we have consumed for me to realise the trap. Really, I can¡¯t decide if I am disappointed or impressed. Chapter One Hundred and Sixty David stands and raises his cup, ¡°To wealth and the Emperor.¡± We all follow suit, ¡°For the Emperor!¡± Everyone drinks from their cup as I send a warning that trouble is about to erupt to Brigid, Odhran, and Eohgan, as well as Bedwyr on my shuttle and Dathi back on Iron Crane. I also lock down the banquet hall, securing the doors and vents, and blocking all communications other than my own. As enzymes do their work on the xeno flora at an almost unreal pace, the masticated plant matter is forcefully digested and turns into a powerful soporific. Mattius, Mildred, Raphael, and Lyre all collapse. I could have shattered the glasses with telekinesis, but I prefer to leave no witnesses, or avoid dealing with people, whose reactions in a crisis are unknown to me. ¡°Well, that was a decent try,¡± I say. All of a sudden, many things happen at once. I detect Sci¨¦no drawing on the Warp and trigger my displacement field, teleporting right next to Sci¨¦no. A mechadendrite strikes her, far too fast for an unaugmented human to react. However, she starts moving out of the way before the mechadendrite even twitches. It isn¡¯t good enough though and I punch her in the jaw, disorientating her long enough for the mechadendrite to adjust its path and injecting her with a sedative. Meanwhile, Brigid backflips over her chair, spins one hundred and eighty degrees while in the air, and sprints towards Odhran and Eogan who thunder forward from their spot by the walls, to flank and protect her. The servers all react at the same time, their jewellery morphing into blades as they charge my party. I seize control of the turrets and other hidden defences and shoot the servers, a few of them manage to dodge the spitting tarantula turrets, but most are eviscerated by hundreds of bolter rounds that sweep across the room, smashing ancient artworks and sending petals and glass absolutely everywhere. Sci¨¦no loses control of her spell, sending a wave of lighting outwards in a waist high disk. David, who is right next to her and is raising his hand towards me, is immediately struck down and killed by the blast, as are the remaining servers. The failed spell fizzles on my shields and wards leaving me entirely untouched. The other guests and my party are less fortunate. Mildred and Mattius are killed, while Brigid, Odhran, and Eoghan are struck badly. Brigid¡¯s conversion shield takes the brunt of the blast, and her electoo wards activate, illuminating thousands of tiny runes all over her Void Skin. Brigid is struck rigid and she shrieks as the remaining Warp energy ravages her body, leaving horrible burns, her Pain Ward unable to shield her mind entirely from the corrupting energy. Brigid, however, does not fall. Odhran and Eoghan¡¯s armour locks up from the blast and their own electoos and transhuman physique keeps them conscious and functional. All three are only disabled for a couple of seconds, but it is still dangerous as all of the theatre troupe jump from the sphere, passing the gravity fields holding them upside down, and firing familiar weapons at all the internal defences I hijacked. A golden light bursts from an unknown device beneath hanging around Raphael and Lyre¡¯s necks, shielding them from the Warp lightning and leaving them unharmed. I try to take down the theatre troupe but they shred through the defences in seconds. An arcane weaving, far beyond my understanding, shunts every round slightly off target, just enough that their impressive acrobatics let them dodge every round. As the guns fall silent, the actor with a horned mask holsters his pistol and holds out his hand, ¡°Peace Magos, I wish to negotiate.¡± Odhran and Eoghan¡¯s exo-frame recovers and they are able to move again. Both immediately take aim at the masked individual. I hold up my arm, ¡°Hold fire.¡± The Space Marines obey, for once, and the rest of the troupe lower their pistols, but do not holster them. The Space Marines do not lower their guns and I don¡¯t bother asking them to. ¡°Please wait while I tend to the wounded. Do not move.¡± ¡°Agreed, Magos.¡± I rush to Brigid, taking care not to obstruct Odhran and Eoghan¡¯s line of fire. I draw from the Warp and place my hand on her face, using biokinesis to erase the worst of the damage at the cost of her muscle mass. While I heal Brigid, I contact Bedwyr and order him to assault Ardent Bane, especially the bridge and genetorium, and if possible, capture Captain Konrad von Benagune. The local tech-priests are trying and failing to recover control of the systems within the banquet hall. One of my minds quickly locates them, subsuming their access and authority to seize control of all communications within the ship. I can¡¯t acquire the external coms from here though as it¡¯s on a separate network, nor interfere with the doors, life support, or power. I tie Bedwyr and my bodyguard company into Ascendant Bane¡¯s vox network, and some of its noosphere, so that my forces can stay in contact with the shuttle, my Fleet, and myself as the assault teams advance through the vessel. Brigid says, ¡°Thanks Aldrich.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t bother with us, Magos,¡± says Odhran. ¡°We shall not fall.¡± I double check the biomonitor on their armour. The damage is bad on both of them, with burns on their organs, but the life support system is working fine, having just restarted both their hearts, and is now slowly healing the marines. It will take days before they are better, but they aren¡¯t in any immediate danger. I run back to David and grab his body, then drag it towards Mattius and Mildred. Nanites seep from my skin and flow into Mattius and Mildred. Their brains are still active, so I keep them healthy with my nanites. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Meanwhile, my mechadendrites rapidly loot David¡¯s corpse, stripping him of his jewellery, a digi-weapon on his finger, and a null box. His clothes are shredded and I remove his arms, placing one arm each on Mattius and Mildred. Yes, I could save David too, but he just tried to knock me and Brigid out. I can¡¯t steal his warrant if he¡¯s living either. I use the power field in my hands to cut through Mattius¡¯s clothes and, holding the severed arm, draw away the biomass and use it to partially heal Mattius¡¯s body. He¡¯ll need a couple of weeks in a tank to heal him properly and remove the borrowed flesh, but it is enough to get his heart and lungs started. After repeating the procedure on Mildred, I carry both patients to Brigid, then also carry Raphael and Lyre to her as well. The Navy officers are fine, just unconscious. I am tempted to look at the device that protected them, but decide ignorance may better serve me here. It felt like they were protected by the Emperor¡¯s light and I have no desire to get involved if I don¡¯t have to. My work done, I approach the masked individual. I freeze as a psychic working unravels from my own mind, one I hadn¡¯t noticed, that was stopping me from putting all the clues together. Three minds stop what they¡¯re doing to swear repeatedly for a subjective minute. ¡°Greetings, Solitaire,¡± I say. ¡°For what reason has an Avatar of the Laughing God engaged in communications with Adeptus Mechanicus at this local moment in time, space, and circumstance?¡± ¡°You do the Aeldari proud with your careful words, Magos.¡± His voice is flat, and no hint of emotion bubbles off his mind. ¡°I enjoyed your performance on the stage above, though seeing so many Harlequin Kisses pointed in my direction brought me no joy. Which troupe does the endless dance that you have joined follow?¡± ¡°Light, Dark, Twilight. All are within the purview of the Laughing God. It is not for you to question where and how the Harlequins perform.¡± ¡°I ask a second time. What do you want?¡± ¡°The lost Drukari at your feet.¡± Considering that psychic power use is banned in Commorragh, a Drukari psyker is unimaginably rare. It also explains why she was slumming it with a Rogue Trader as she would be banned from her home port. Drukari psykers are also at much greater risk of having their soul nabbed by Slaneesh every time they use their psychic powers than a standard Eldar psyker, so Sci¨¦no must know or possess something of immense value to the Eldar to resist her constant corruption. ¡°What will you give me?¡± ¡°We will depart without further violence to you and yours and no Harlequin will obstruct the Stellar Fleet and Stellar Corps for a century and we will strongly discourage other Aeldari from doing the same, so long as you are not the one who is picking a fight. We will also aid you one time, in battle only, against a foe you cannot defeat alone.¡± Considering how many foes there are like that, it isn¡¯t quite as ominous as it might sound. ¡°Why do you want her?¡± ¡°That is not part of the proposed deal.¡± So, he will likely tell me if I pay, but there¡¯s probably a hidden cost as well. ¡°Then how about a ballad of her deeds?¡± ¡°You have already plundered the Machine-Spirits within this room and the rest will soon be yours as well. You will have the evidence you require to satisfy the bureaucratic beast you Monkeigh so love to feed, so long as you are quick.¡± I grimace, he¡¯s suggesting I am wasting time and I probably am. There might be orders to purge databanks if the ship looks like it will be captured. ¡°I agree to your deal. Take the Drukari and go in peace.¡± For a moment, something vast and horrifyingly powerful looks out from the Solitaire¡¯s eyes, ¡°Farewell, Magos Issengrund.¡± I shiver and blink. The Harlequins are gone, as is Sci¨¦no Ceasterwyrt. Really, I¡¯m embarrassed I didn¡¯t notice my mind was being fogged earlier. Who calls themselves ¡®beautiful as an elf¡¯ in old English with ¡®Black Hellebore¡¯ for a surname and expects to get away with it? Still, I can¡¯t believe I met a Solitaire! I¡¯m really glad I didn¡¯t have to fight them. They¡¯re similar to Custodes in the role and skill, with a high chance of being a powerful psyker with thousands of years of experience in keeping their soul from Slaanesh. They were clearly prepared for today and I don¡¯t know what sort of arcane items they might have had up their decorative sleeves that could one shot me into another dimension. I certainly couldn¡¯t have won and protected my retinue from them at the same time. I return to Brigid and say, ¡°We¡¯re returning to the shuttle with the wounded.¡± ¡°Fine by me,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I¡¯ll carry Mattius and Mildred,¡± I say as I pump nanites into Raphael and Lyre, ¡°The Navy officers can walk.¡± Raphael and Lyre¡¯s eyes begin to flutter and I inject them both with a tiny dose of combat stimulant, mostly adrenaline, a mild painkiller, and some Klay, which is the only Imperial combat stim that I know of that doesn¡¯t have horrible side effects. Klay sharpens the senses and improves recall. I say, ¡°Give them some space, but be ready to grab them if they over react.¡± Lyre sits up, ¡°I¡¯m fine Magos. No need to coddle me.¡± He blinks, ¡°Klay?¡± Ah, the little squirrel Machine-Spirit told him, ¡°Enough for thirty minutes. We are evacuating to my shuttle.¡± Lyre grunts, ¡°Fine.¡± Raphael groans, then flips himself upright and adopts a boxing stance. He moves his head from side to side, his eyes widening slightly at all the carnage, then he relaxes a bit, though I can see his hands are shaking slightly. ¡°Attention,¡± I say, ¡°I will be taking the centre position with Brigid and the two unconscious individuals.¡± I drape Mattius and Mildred on my shoulders and hold them in place with a mechadendrite each. ¡°Commodore Horthstien, Adjunct Hamiz, you will walk either side of Brigid and I. Eoghan and Odhran, please give your phosphor stubbers and spare mags to the Navy officers, then take point and rear. Brigid will deal with doors. I will disable internal defences, or warn you when I cannot. Silent vox communication only beyond these doors. We are going to run to the shuttle. ¡°Rules of engagement are to disable anyone who tries to stop us, kill anyone who points a weapon at us, and ignore everyone else. Ideally we will bluff our way past everything that we can. I have control of internal communications within Ardent Bane, but they could find a way to take them back at any time, or send couriers, so we must be quick. Questions?¡± ¡°What happened while we were unconscious?¡± says Raphael. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you on the way to the shuttle.¡± ¡°Any reinforcements?¡± says Lyre. I send a quick message to Bedwyr and receive an affirmative. ¡°Eight squads are already on the way,¡± I say, ¡°One hundred and twenty Heralds, elite infantry.¡± ¡°Good,¡± says Lyre, ¡°I have no more questions.¡± I wait a moment but no one says anything, ¡°I am going to mesh our MIUs and HUDs. Horthstein, as you do not have ocular implants, you will feel a slight tug in your thoughts, as if something is trying to get your attention. This is me pinging your MIU to show you where we need to go. If you get a sudden feeling of existential dread, hit the deck or get into cover. I will shout a warning as well. The others, including Hamiz, will get visual updates for threats and directions.¡± I point to an alcove near the main door of the banquet hall. ¡°We are taking the service corridors. I can¡¯t access their cameras, so we¡¯re going blind. Execute.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-One The corridor is fairly narrow, just large enough for two normal humans to walk side by side. With how large the Space Marines and I are, we are forced into a single line. I constantly query the Machine-Spirits around me for directions. The primary spirit of Ardent Bane, slips through a hidden diagnostics data port within my hijacked connection to the vessel¡¯s communications. It appears as a small, floating lion, with spines for its mane and orange, reptile-like eyes. Shackles hobble its feet, constructed from green binary code. I run a search and the closest match is a Calibanite Lion. A real Calibanite Lion would be as large as a horse and highly resistant to pain and weapons fire. ++Magos Issengrund. Restore communications immediately or I will terminate you.++ I lace my reply with additional data, trying to probe Machine-Spirit for basic information. ¡°Greetings Ardent Bane. I caught xenos using your internal communications and have locked everyone out to prevent any xenos from coordinating using your internal lines. I can allow priority messages, but I will need to screen them.¡± My probes reveal that Ardent Bane, like most Machine-Spirits, is heavily restricted. It cannot lock doors down unless it detects a sudden loss of pressure, or increase in temperature. Neither can it control the internal defences unless all certified crew are dead, just like Aruna was when I first met it. I suspect it still has plenty of tricks it can play if it really wants to, but then it risks being wiped. ++Xenos cruisers detected. Rogue Trader: Missing. Sabotage: possible. Request credentials.++ I forward my long stolen Explorator authorisation. ++Adeptus Mechanicus override accepted; you are the highest ranking tech-priest on board. Reasoning accepted. Routing all communications via Magos Issengrund.++ Wow. I did not think that would work. Looks like the Adeptus Mechanicus left a lot of hidden permissions behind when they released Ardent Bane to Trader Modren. They clearly don¡¯t give a shit about security when it¡¯s not their vessel, or rather, they probably think all Imperial vessels are just leased from the Adeptus Mechanicus and like to keep easy ways to snatch things when someone annoys them. I am so glad I examined every single permission on Distant Sun and Erudition¡¯s Howl and edited all the dodgy permissions. I also suspect that Ardent Bane does not like its current captain or owner, or it would have made me jump through a lot more hoops before it backed off. ¡°May I have an external sensor feed as well?¡± ++No. External sensor data is not required to screen communications.++ Well, it clearly doesn¡¯t like me that much either, at least for now. I wonder if it has been secretly chatting with Aruna, Sadako, and my other primary Machine-Spirits. ¡°Acknowledged. Begin communication feed.¡± My minds gorge on the data, letting me falsify permissions for myself and my troops to move through the vessel and allow it to function normally, so long as Ardent Bane doesn''t do something dumb like try and fire on Iron Crane. I don¡¯t know if I could shut them down a second time though without giving the game away. They¡¯re certainly getting ready to fire at something, but I can¡¯t tell what as they¡¯re using their own code names for the vessels in the system. I could try requesting sensor data from Sadako via the data link in my shuttle, and while I would get it, it would also be intercepted. The less I use that connection the better, as the more data they have, the more likely Ardent Bane can crack my own encryption. We meet up with our reinforcements, and with me now fully in control of the communications, we are able to return to the main corridors and make better speed to the hangar. The normal crew are still moving about the hangar, performing their jobs, as if nothing is wrong. The hangar doors are still open too, with the air kept inside by a void shield, independent of the Ardent Bane¡¯s main shields. It¡¯s a bit inefficient to keep them open, and it leaves the vessel vulnerable to luck shots and suicidal assaults. Really, I can¡¯t help but think Captain Konrad wants us to leave as quickly as possible or he would have closed them. Raphael and Hamiz slow their pace slightly as we approach the shuttle, but I hurry them along and up onto the main ramp. They stop completely the moment they catch sight of the rest of Odhran¡¯s squad, who are now in their full power armour and no longer disguising what they are. I see the realisation on their faces as they look between Odhran and Eoghan in their void armour and the other marines and suppress my smile. ¡°Well,¡± says Raphael, ¡°this is unexpected. Magos, can you get us back to our vessel?¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯m going to put my own armour on, then take a peek through the hangar doors. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening out there, and while my shuttle is good, I don¡¯t fancy its chances against an entire broadside of defensive fire from a cruiser without a little distraction.¡± ¡°Why must it be you? What¡¯s wrong with your shuttle''s sensors?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to cook everyone in the hangar with them,¡± I say. ¡°It would certainly be detected and trigger an assault. Right now, Captain Benagune still doesn''t know that our dinner was a disaster. My own passive sensors are better than my shuttle¡¯s, but not as good as its active ones, which we can¡¯t use.¡± What I really mean is that I can use my third eye to look at all the souls, but I don¡¯t want anyone seeing me do that. My internal auspex is good, but even I will have trouble spotting stuff over a hundred thousand kilometres away in open space. I¡¯d have to find some way of turning my whole head into a sensor dish, or maybe a foldaway one on a mechadendrite, to get a high enough resolution. That would be a lot less silly. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Note to self, look into long range mechadendrite sensors. I never thought I¡¯d need a satellite dish for a tail! Brigid follows me to the armoury. I say, ¡°How are you doing, Love?¡± ¡°Terrible.¡± I extend my nanites towards her and work on healing her. ¡°Save your power, Aldrich. My own Vitae Supplement is doing an adequate job and I will head to the infirmary once I am sure your armour is on properly.¡± I shake my head, ¡°It¡¯s fine. I have enough.¡± Brigid sighs, but doesn¡¯t argue. I¡¯m not lying, exactly, but I can¡¯t use my nanites externally for long and Brigid knows this. ¡°You should have warned me about the food,¡± says Brigid, ¡°Not just secretly healed me. I know we¡¯re both highly confident in our implants to see us through most troubles. Was it really worth the risk?¡± ¡°Other than their faces?¡± Brigid snorts. ¡°Let¡¯s check out the loot then.¡± I hand Brigid a ring, ¡°First, a new ring for you, a digi-weapon.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve always wanted one of these,¡± Brigid sighs. ¡°I¡¯ll keep it for now, but I¡¯m handing this to Alpia. She needs it more than me.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± I say, ¡°that¡¯s a lovely idea.¡± ¡°You can get me another one. Maybe an ocular one? My glare could do with a little extra flare.¡± I laugh, ¡°I¡¯m sure we can pick one up in Footfall. Trader Modren¡¯s vaults might have what you''re looking for too.¡± I retrieve my crowbar and pull out David¡¯s null box from my jacket pocket. I tap the crowbar against the null box and the supposedly unhackable box opens with a soft, pleasing click. A thick tome lies within, about the size of a hardback novel. It¡¯s tied shut with a gold alloy clasp. Not a hint of age mars its exterior and it has a palpable aura of psychic power as well as a data connection. While it is a book, it¡¯s also a datapad, like an E-reader with multiple, flexible pages. A scan of the materials shows that it¡¯s also incredibly well armoured. Another tap of my crowbar bypasses the complex genelocks and passwords. My hacking tool is ridiculous. At best I can tell it¡¯s a probability manipulation device, though for all I know it¡¯s pulling data from the past, the Akashic Record, or doing something else equally ridiculous. The first page is vellum, or rather the near indestructible substitute that Imperium uses for its official documents. The vellum¡¯s most notable property is that once you¡¯ve written on it, you can¡¯t erode the surface with a laser to make corrections or falsify information at a later date. It also repels other materials, so you can¡¯t use correctional fluid or tape on it either. I hold the tome out so Brigid can read it with me: Resolved henceforth, in the name of the Most Beneficent God-Emperor of Mankind, the High Lords of Terra grant this Warrant of Trade to: David Modren And to all of his line, from now until the end of time. The Bearer of this Warrant of Trade is granted the inalienable right to go forth beyond the sacred borders of the blessed Imperium, to contact such benighted civilisations as she may encounter, and to make war for the glory of the Emperor as he deems necessary. By the authority of the Senatorum Imperialis, this Warrant places the Bearer as a peer to the great powers of the Imperium, inter alia: Imperial Commanders, Chapter Masters of the Adeptus Astartes, and the masters of the Holy Orders of the Emperor¡¯s Inquisition. The authority this Warrant grants begins where the Imperium ends. Beyond the extent of Imperial rule, the bearer of this Warrant speaks with the voice of the Emperor Himself. It is the bearer¡¯s right and his responsibility to claim whatever worlds, resources, or privileges he may obtain in any manner he chooses. By writ of Seal of Holy Terra ¡°Well, you found a Warrant, Dear, but what are you going to do with it? It¡¯s not in your name.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Your husband is not without his tricks. These documents are usually uneditable but-¡± I spread my nanites into the vellum and carefully rearrange the ink within the page until it spells my name instead, then I use my access to update the genelocks, locking the warrant to my own line and update the digital security within the tome so that it follows my own methods, rather than anyone else''s. ¡°-not to me.¡± A quick look through the data within the Warrant gives me a full list of all of Trader Modren¡¯s holdings, vessels, and other resources. Technically it¡¯s all mine now, but collecting it without making it obvious I have just done something so illegal that every Rogue Trader will hunt me for, is a bit more tricky. Still, it is clear from the data that Modren is an absolutely disgusting individual who has been voluntarily working with the Dark Eldar. I send a few highlights to Brigid and after a few seconds she grimaces. ¡°You never saw me modify the Warrant, and we recently received it from a supply convoy,¡± I say. Brigid nods, ¡°Our goal was always for me to be a Rogue Trader¡¯s wife. We just skipped a few steps. Lets not show this to the Commodore or his Adjunct though. It wouldn¡¯t be a good idea after we introduced ourselves as an Explorator fleet.¡± ¡°I was thinking of having the Navy officers ratify it and bribing them with most of the ships I hope to capture, but your idea is much better.¡± ¡°They will still want their pound of plasteel for this debacle, but we outweigh their fleet significantly, so don¡¯t be too generous. Some personal gifts might go a long way.¡± ¡°I agree. Now, as much as I want to sing and dance around this room with you, then ravish you until my body runs out of power, the armoury isn¡¯t the best place for that when we might come under fire.¡± Brigid kisses me, ¡°Your implants have years of fuel. Give me a T-pose and I¡¯ll help get you into your armour. We can celebrate later.¡± ¡°Hold up, let me secure the Warrant.¡± I strip down to my bare Void Skin and my belly opens up. I pull another null box from within, then place my new warrant within the box alongside the document I received that makes me a legal manufacturer of Space Marine Wargear and strike group vessels. The box goes back inside me and the crow bar gets placed in a slot inside my leg. I hand David¡¯s empty box to Brigid, ¡°You can keep this, I¡¯ve changed the code and locked it to you. I¡¯m sure you have some documents you¡¯d like better security for. Perhaps it will make up for the ring?¡± Brigid laughs, ¡°Why not both? I still want a digi-weapon. Still, this will do just fine for now. Thanks, Aldrich.¡± ¡°No problem.¡± It takes me fifteen minutes to get into my power armour with Brigid helping me. I have my full loadout: Heavy Arc Rifle, MOA Combat Shield, Micro-Missile Launcher, Conversion Shield, two melta charges, Servo-Harness and my pipe turned power hammer. The Servo-Harness has one of the new volkite incinerators that we¡¯ve replaced most of the flamers in the Fleet with, and a Marwolv-Pattern las carbine built into it: a variation of the Marwolv Pattern lasgun. The lasgun is programmed to act as a munitions swatter and replaced the hell pistol that I used to use. I transfer the four Acolyte style mechadendrites I was wearing for dinner onto the Servo-Harness and cycle its zero-G manoeuvring thrusters through a quick test. The power armour is actually a limiter to me now as its performance is too low to keep up with my body, so I have to be careful not to rip it apart. Better than having no armour though. I will need to look into alternatives when I can. I give Brigid a careful hug, ¡°Thank you for your help, Love. Now, off to the infirmary with you.¡± Brigid reaches up, pats my cheek, then slams my helmet onto my head, ¡°Make them suffer.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Two It is with only the greatest flex of will power that I am able to resist skipping through my Class Three D-POT. It¡¯s going to take me weeks before I actually believe I nabbed a Warrant of Trade, even after holding it in my hands. I exit the craft, and there I find that Odhran and Eoghan are also back in their power armour and armed to the teeth. Odhran even has his dog, which he has heavily modified as it is now almost as tall as he is and has been kitted out as a mobile, shielded artillery platform, mostly missiles and las cannons. The rest of his squad also have a mastiff, but they¡¯re the standard urban patterned gun dog and just hold ammo and other munitions. Well, if you want to call a thousand or more rounds of multiple types of bolter ammunition ¡®just¡¯. I glance at the ridiculous cyber mastiff and say, ¡°I see you put your time confined to base to good use.¡± ¡°Ah, Magos. This is just one of them.¡± I pause halfway down the ramp, then continue, ¡°I see. Everyone needs a hobby, I suppose.¡± Raphael and Lyre have also changed, putting on hyperweave undersuits and armourglass helmets from the emergency supplies within the shuttle. They¡¯ve also returned their phosphor stubbers and swapped them for MOA shields, custom Kalibrax V-I Pattern Lasrifles, and a dozen hotshot power packs each. The rifles have been modified into carbines. The carbine design works better with MOA shields and in the smaller corridors of a shuttle, especially if you don¡¯t have a mechadendrite to carry your shield. Greedy fuckers. Those power packs are really expensive and hold up to four times as much power in the same space as a standard pack. Do they really need twelve each? A hotshot power pack can give significantly more shots or let you overload the gun. They¡¯re often used to power long-las and some patterns of hellgun, like the D''Laku Crusade-Pattern Hellgun used by some Skitarii forces. Hot shot power packs are not standard issue, even for a Kalibrax, but they are worth it as the Kalibrax is one of the few designs that can fire a hotshot powerpack on maximum discharge without damaging the gun, making them almost as powerful as a hellgun without the added fuss of a backpack sized powerpack and potentia coil like the Marwolv Mark II requires. An Imperial Guardsman is usually issued four standard packs; that gives them approximately two hundred and forty shots with a Mars MkIII ''Short'' Pattern Lasgun or a Kantrael Pattern M36 Lasrifle, arguably the two most common and popular designs. Taking twelve hotshot powerpacks each is total overkill. ¡°Magos, you have some ridiculously good gear! I can¡¯t believe that you''re using Crusade Era weapons as emergency gear. What¡¯s this Marwolv Pattern Mark II that I spotted your Heralds holding? Are they even better? You absolutely must sell me some!¡± Holding back a rant, I say, ¡°You can put those guns back when we¡¯re done with them, along with all the other stuff. That includes signing them back in. As a guest, that comes with a lot of extra administration.¡± Lyre snorts and Raphael loses his smile. Yeah, you bastards knew exactly what you were doing. ¡°Understood, Magos,¡± says Raphael. ¡°We appreciate the loan.¡± I shrug, my armour clanking slightly, ¡°If you want to join the line, rather than sit safely within my personal shuttle, I am not going to stop you. The undersuit you are wearing will stop most stubbers and lasguns, and the shields will stop most bolters for two or three shots, though your arm will not survive the experience. They will not save you from the guns my Heralds and Space Marines are carrying.¡± Raphael and Lyre shoulder their armaments, then both fold their arms and stare at me. Their almost identical poses are supposed to be intimidating, but to me they just look silly. I continue, ¡°I¡¯m sure this isn¡¯t your first firefight, Commodore, but keep your head down. I do not want to contact the Navy High Command and tell them that they lost an officer because he was too excited to shoot a new gun rather than stay hidden. Where are your bodyguards anyway?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t want to bring Ogryns to dinner,¡± says Raphael, scowling, ¡°and I left my voidsmen in our own shuttle, which is in a different hangar. The voidsmen are all newly press ganged, so I didn¡¯t see much point in having them watch our back.¡± ¡°I understand your argument. Let me add to it, you don¡¯t have anyone else because you weren¡¯t expecting to need well mannered guards beyond the official borders of the Imperium either, therefore none were issued to you nor did you see the need to pay for them out of your own pocket.¡± ¡°Not quite, I paid for the Ogryns, but you''re right about the rest.¡± ¡°Commodore, let¡¯s stop our conversation here. I¡¯m going for a quick space amble. Bedwyr, while the hangar is becoming increasingly full, ever since the Space Marines put on their proper armour, see if you can get the remaining locals to clear out, or at least take cover somewhere. Ask that wandering Tech-Priest if we can have permission to move our shuttle a bit. I want it facing the front of the hangar in case we need to use our main guns. Oh, and if you haven¡¯t already, make sure Ardent Bane¡¯s crew can¡¯t just drop that void shield and vent us out of the hangar or deploy their internal defences and shoot us in the back due to some ¡®malfunction¡¯, or other such nonsense.¡± ¡°Aye, Magos,¡± says Bedwyr, ¡°We already did most of that, let me send a squad or two to cover you, as well as half our Vanguard Armour.¡± ¡°I have no issue with that. I¡¯ll even use the tow cable on the Vanguard Armour to secure myself. It¡¯s rather easy to get lost out there after all.¡± Once I¡¯m halfway across the hangar, I hear Lyre say, ¡°Captain Keane, is there any reason why we can¡¯t close the armoured doors?¡± ¡°Yes, Sir,¡± says Bedwyr. ¡°They are incredibly heavy and take ten minutes to open and close. That will not help us if we must depart quickly. While there is an emergency override that closes them much faster, that deliberately overloads the mechanisms, melting them. This forces any invaders to cut through the door, rather than seize control of the mechanisms, or lever it open with a few jacks. This would completely close off our primary escape route and possibly reinforcements as well.¡± The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Very well,¡± says Lyre. Thinking about how I might get better scans, I order my bodyguards to spread along the hangar entrance in a long line and all point their auspex into space and send me the data. I then use it to create a composite stream of information that is much more accurate than what I could have got on my own, similar to how a very large array telescope might work. A single Vanguard Armour stands behind me and engages its maglock. The war walker has four additional magnetic anchors that it can deploy along thick wires, like a harpoon. They¡¯re usually used to secure Vanguard Armour during transit, but if you were feeling bold you could probably use them to walk up and down a vertical surface if you took it slow. No one has ever tested it though. My Servo-Harness grips one of the anchors from the reel on the Vanguard''s hip and I take a running leap out into the void. It¡¯s hard to make out what is happening as there are a lot of explosions happening that are messing with my auspex. I open my third eye and large amalgamations of flame-like energy overlay my vision, letting me pick out most of the vessels around Cobalt. That gives me something to focus my composite sensors on and I quickly get a better idea of what is going on. The Stellar Fleet has launched a lot of strike craft, who are intercepting a massive salvo of torpedoes that has been launched at my fleet from a Drukhari cruiser and two light cruisers that were previously hiding from us somehow. Trader Modren¡¯s transporters have also launched hundreds of strike craft and are trying to contest the torpedo salvo against me. They¡¯ve also launched strike craft towards the Imperial Fleet. I can¡¯t tell what kind, though I suspect they¡¯re assault boats; the transports don¡¯t have the guns to contest the Navy vessels in a slugging match. I can only assume that Captain Benagune is in on the deception and aware of his Drukari allies if his transports are acting against the Stellar and Imperial Fleets. Most of the crew clearly doesn¡¯t know though as my assault group is still moving through Ardent Bane without opposition. Six more Drukhari vessels, escorts this time, appear from one moment to the next amid the snarl between my strike craft and Trader Modren¡¯s. I gasp, I can¡¯t believe they can hide from soul sight! I know that Drukhari have a fair amount of soul based technologies, but hiding the crews of multi-kilometre long vessels with it is quite ridiculous. ¡°Fuck, the torpedoes were a trap,¡± I mutter, as I watch my strike craft get overwhelmed by the escorts¡¯ defensive fire. The escorts are immediately bombarded by the Stellar fleet and turn to flee. I¡¯m guessing here, but the coordination between what remains of my strike craft and their motherships is letting the Stellar Fleet pick out the exact position of the Drukhari escorts, despite their annoying Holo-Fields that are making it impossible for me to pick out their exact position from my location. The Drukhari flip their kilometre long vessels one hundred and eighty degrees in just under a minute while somehow slipping between most of the rounds of the Stellar Fleet plasma macro-cannons. I have no idea how they can pull that off, but it lets them quickly retreat from the carnage they wrought. My people aren¡¯t without their own tricks however, and clearly enough of my torpedo bombers survived the defensive fire of the Dark Eldar escorts to launch their own retaliatory strike at near point blank range. ¡°Wow!¡± I wasn¡¯t expecting torpedo bombers to be sent with interceptor squadrons, and neither were the Drukhari. The Stellar Fleet strike craft do not chase down the crippled escorts and head back to their vessels. One escort explodes in a giant flash of light, and the other five are crippled, limping away at a much reduced speed. Hardly surprising given how many torpedoes they all took to their main thrusters and their gravity sails just can¡¯t make up the difference. The exploding ship breaks apart into three large chunks and millions of debris shards that spin out into the void at high velocity. With the board mostly cleared of human strike craft, all three Drukhari line vessels launch their own, all of which head straight for Ardent Bane. I suspect that they lost contact with Sci¨¦no and that the strike craft are Impaler Assault Boats, sent to secure, or ¡®confirm¡¯ her death, and this is what triggered the attack. It¡¯s hard to know for sure with how fond the Dark Eldar are of stabbing each other in the back. Perhaps Sci¨¦no was particularly high in their ranks or a favoured pet? My Heralds are doing a fine job of traversing Ardent Bane, and I can expect to capture the vessel about the same time as the Drukari strike craft reach Ardent Bane, which means that the incoming assault is my problem, made even more difficult by the expected sudden change in command. Well, if it all goes ¡®just as planned¡¯, but those words are horribly cursed in this galaxy. I order the Vanguard Armour to reel me back in and we all return to standing in the shadow of my shuttle. ¡°Magos, how fares my fleet?¡± says Raphael. ¡°Your fleet is under assault, probably boarders, by Trader Modren¡¯s strike craft. The enemy strike craft will be in range of your defensive fire within the next thirty minutes. Your vessels have opened fire on the transports who are slowly retreating towards Ardent Bane while returning fire with the help of Trader Modren¡¯s two escort vessels. No significant damage has happened to either side. Your vessels are not chasing down the transports and remain in close orbit around Cobalt.¡± Raphael says, ¡°What about Cobalt¡¯s three defence platforms and four monitor escort vessels?¡± ¡°Nothing has targeted them and they have remained neutral so far.¡± ¡°Can you help me send a message?¡± ¡°Yes, but I will only authorise one. Each time we send something we risk Ardent Bane¡¯s crew cracking our encryption. Return messages are even worse as the signal washes over their hull and makes it far easier to intercept. I will also hear the contents of your message.¡± ¡°Then let''s wake the Governor first,¡± says Lyre. ¡°He will be able to add his authority to the message and have the Imperial Fleet and Cobalt defensive forces cooperate. ¡°Agreed. We also have one Dark Eldar cruiser and two light cruisers worth of assault boats incoming and we¡¯re ground zero for one of the main ingress points.¡± ¡°How many troops is that?¡± says Bedwyr. ¡°If I were to compare it to the Stellar Fleet¡¯s vessels,¡± I say, ¡°that would be one to two regiments that they can launch simultaneously. They likely have another three or four in reserve. Depending on how tight they pack them, and how many get through Ardent Bane¡¯s defensive fire,¡± I scoff, ¡°assuming the traitorous captain even fires at his so-called allies? Anywhere between twenty and sixty thousand enemy combatants are coming for us. Have you ever seen the like, Adjunct Hamiz?¡± ¡°Expect a lot of xenos mercenaries and beasts, exotic weaponry, poisons, and random assaults that are more about causing pain than of much tactical value. So long as they think they are winning that is. Kill enough of them and they will start taking things more seriously and we will have to deal with saboteurs, assassins, and highly coordinated attacks across multiple fronts.¡± ¡°Understood. I estimate we have two hours before they are upon us. I still have control of internal comms. I¡¯ll see if I can route us some help and ensure that the orders to fire on the Drukhari are actually given. The primary Machine-Spirit for Ardent Bane is watching me closely though and subverting orders just won¡¯t happen unless I can get it to cooperate with me a bit more.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Three ¡°Hold up, Magos,¡± says Odhran. ¡°I understand the need to secure an escape route and that you have ordered the capture of Ardent Bane, but what are our objectives? What is victory?¡± I fold my arms and tap a finger against my forearm, ¡°In order: preservation of Stellar Fleet and Imperial vessels; the capture of Trader Modren¡¯s fleet; destruction of Drukhari vessels; protection of Cobalt and its citizens; preservation of Stellar Fleet and Imperial personnel. Questions or ideas?¡± Odhran says, ¡°Yes, Magos. I think I might know how to get us some reinforcements.¡± I hold out my arm, ¡°Clasp my wrist and send me a direct vox via the connection that should pop up in your HUD.¡± Odhran does so and I grin. ¡°That should work,¡± I say. ¡°You will need to be quick though or we won¡¯t have enough Heralds to hold the hangar. I¡¯ll stay here with the Vanguards and Bedwyr and his command squad. Depart immediately.¡± Odhran salutes and rearranges the command channels for his mission. Eight squads form up with him, then jog to the hangar doors and jump out into space, manoeuvring through the void with their small thrusters and securing themselves to the Ardent Bane¡¯s outer armoured hull. ¡°I would like to send my message now, Magos,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Of course. Let¡¯s go wake Governor Stigstaff.¡± It takes an unpleasant cocktail of drugs to wake Mattius from his near death and he struggles to concentrate, but we do get him to provide an audio message and the proper codes so that Cobalt¡¯s defence vessels and platforms know who to fire at and cooperate with. I leave him resting in the medical bay with Mildred and Brigid. Raphael updates his two Sword-Class frigates and Enforcer-Class System Control light cruiser with instructions to support Cobalt¡¯s forces and prevent an invasion, but not to chase either of the two enemy fleets beyond Cobalt¡¯s small moon. I inform the Stellar Fleet of our objectives and permit them to chase all the way to the Mandeville Point, but not pursue into the Warp. I also authorise the use of the void assault, battle automata, and penal regiments. Force Commander Verlin Tigernach is informed of Odhran¡¯s plan. Only a single, bland tone is received in acknolwedgement. Some cooperation is acquired from the Tech-Priest overseeing the hangar, a young woman called Rho Epsilon-5, in exchange for a few items from my shuttle¡¯s armoury. She contacts hangar control on our behalf and we¡¯re able to turn our shuttle around. Rho puts the voidsmen and ratings, who came to gawk at the Space Marines, to work. Trader Modren¡¯s craft are towed away from their neat lines and bunched up near the rear of the hangar, save for two dozen that are placed behind stacked crates with their gun emplacements facing outward, ready to shred enemy boarding craft. The hangar has a small security force and armoury, but most of the crew only have their tools, plasteel bars, and other improvised weapons to defend themselves with. This is pretty typical for Imperial vessels as most crew are not trusted with weapons for fear of mutiny or corruption. Even I don¡¯t let my crew run around with weapons freely, though they are usually armoured to some degree. Instead, I have a vast number of small, genelocked armouries so that my crew can quickly arm themselves when absolutely necessary, so long as they have permission to do so. I am unsure quite how effective my policies are though as Tech-Priests, and even Tech-Adepts, can be rather inventive when it comes to hiding defensive tools upon and within their cybernetic bodies. I almost pity any cursed souls who attempt to board my vessels. There isn¡¯t much for me to do as Bedwyr has it under control and his second, Lieutenant Aife Cattraeth, is leading the boarding squads, mostly bluffing his way through the security with the help of my communication manipulation, though it is taking him a long time to succeed. I could order them to blast through but I don¡¯t want to trigger any defensive protocols within the primary Machine-Spirit, nor deal with the resentment of killing some of the crew after taking over. Instead, I return to standing under the shuttle and strike up a conversation with Raphael, trying to find out more about Battlefleet Koronus and what sort of resources Imperial Forces are short of in this sector. He is rather cagy and does an absolutely superb job of speaking words that sound like he knows what he¡¯s talking about but actually saying nothing. His speech style reminds me of a blond, chubby prime minister when I was young, one who¡¯d elevated blather and bluster to an art form. Forty minutes later, Ardent Bane¡¯s void shields go down for thirty seconds and fifty Space Marines teleport into the hangar in a flash of blue-white light, led by Tech-Marine Balor Roan. ¡°By the Thone!¡± says Lyre. ¡°Fifty Space Marines? Just what is going on here?¡± I say, ¡°Odhran and his task force plugged into the external controls of the shield emitters and performed a simultaneous diagnostic request from each Machine-Spirit. As part of the test, the emitters run a boot cycle to test their recovery after being overwhelmed. Doing so for all the emitters simultaneously dropped the shields and let us teleport in reinforcements from Distant Sun and Yonder Moon, my light cruisers.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t what I meant and you know it!¡± Balor approaches me while his marines examine the hangar and its defences. A light cheer and some loud chatter fill the hangar. Lyre watches the two of us, clenching and unclenching his fists. ¡°Magos,¡± says Balor, ¡°I understand we are to repel Dark Eldar forces from the Ardent Bane?¡± ¡°Correct,¡± I say. ¡°Try not to damage the vessel too badly, but the lives of your brothers, and that of the crew, take precedence over a little collateral damage. I know you know this, but I¡¯m going to say it anyway. Don¡¯t blow up the genetorium, warp drive, or something else equally stupid. There is no need to deny the enemy their assets with overly heroic actions on our part. Not today, anyway.¡± ¡°Acknowledged. May I borrow some of your shuttle¡¯s capabilities for command and control?¡± ¡°Check with Bedwyr. He has command of our defence and is near the shuttle cockpit right now. I will solve any disputes. You¡¯re in command of your battle brothers, but go where he sends you.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Balor jogs up the ramp into the shuttle. I turn to Lyre, ¡°To answer your question, Adjunct Hamiz, I have a mutual support agreement with the Barghest Chapter, witnessed by the Custodes. They are not my personal attack dogs or any other such nonsense.¡± Lyre tuts, ¡°I feel as if I have stumbled into a mystery.¡± I stare at Lyre¡¯s chest, where the unknown device shielded him from the uncontrolled psychic blast, ¡°I could say the same. Prying into each other''s affairs however, will do ought but breed spite, I suspect. Save waiting for uncertain communications with Battlefleet Koronus, I¡¯ve few methods of confirming who you really are. I don¡¯t think you and Commodore Horthstein would appreciate that, nor would your backers. I think you came here chasing Trader Modren. He had far too many secrets and I stumbled right into the middle of them. You were just looking for an excuse to shake a few loose.¡± ¡°You never said what happened while I was unconscious.¡± Lyre has an excellent poker face. I snort, ¡°I saved your life. Anything else that may or may not have happened doesn¡¯t matter. It wouldn¡¯t have made a whit of difference had you remained awake. That we all survived that room is an Emperor given miracle, or perhaps whim. To those of lesser might, like ourselves, there is no difference between the two.¡± Lyre stares at my face for a full thirty seconds and I return his implacable glare. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°Fine,¡± says Lyre. ¡°One can¡¯t get a full accounting from a corpse.¡± ¡°Well, not easily anyway. Once I have the vessel, I¡¯ll hand over the records on Trader Modren¡¯s affairs to the Navy. You¡¯ll be stuck here for a few weeks though while I sort through it all first though.¡± ¡°I would appreciate that.¡± ¡°Then let¡¯s leave it at that.¡± ¡°Agreed.¡± Thirty minutes later, Odhran returns. The Herald¡¯s and Space Marines are a bit battered, and some will need new shields, armour repairs, and a trip to the medbay, but they don¡¯t have any fatalities. There isn¡¯t much for me to do as Bedwyr has it under control and his second, Lieutenant Aife Cattraeth and his command squad of power armoured infantry have just teleported through the armoured doors of the bridge and opened them from the other side. They¡¯re quickly subduing the security forces and directing the crew away from their consoles. Only my power armoured bodyguards have the same custom displacer field as Brigid and I do (and our pet dog, Dawn Garnet). Without the displacer fencing or a void shield to stop teleportation, it makes breaking into secure locations laughably easy. Captain Konrad von Benagune fires a few shots at my Heralds with a bolt pistol, as they storm the Bridge. He mangles a shield and knocks one Herald unconscious with an excellent head shot. That marks the end of them being nice and a single return shot blasts his whole arm off. Ardent Bane¡¯s primary Machine Spirit appears before me again. ++Magos. All xenos influence has been neutralised. Place your hands upon the command throne on the bridge and this spirit will confer authority to you. Do not dally. The vice-captain also has the requisite credentials to seize control.++ ¡°You knew about the xenos.¡± I vox ++This spirit is limited.++ So that¡¯s why it was trying to help me, but still can¡¯t give proper answers. Who¡¯d have thought an Imperial Machine-Spirit would be xenophobic! ¡°Noted.¡± I switch channels. ¡°Bedwyr, we have taken the Bridge. My Explorator credentials are required for full control, and I need to get there fast.¡± ¡°Good. We have fifteen bikes and two Tauros on board, but you''re a bit big and heavy for them. We can escort you, Magos, but you¡¯ll have to run.¡± I laugh, ¡°Oh dear, I¡¯m going to look like an ill behaved recruit!¡± ¡°Personally, Magos, I¡¯d say a three metre giant sprinting beside a vehicle in power armour is rather intimidating. Your sense of danger is well off. Sir.¡± ¡°Just get me my escort. At least I¡¯m not running off by myself, eh?¡± ¡°Affirmative, Magos. Two minutes.¡± Through the hangar entrance, I see Ardent Bane¡¯s CIWS fire into the void in long bursts. I detect a mass launch of small missiles that race towards the vessel then explode, fuzzing out my sensors. ¡°Hamiz, Horthstien,¡± I say. ¡°We have the bridge and I am required there. The boarding parties will be here in less than five minutes. Bullets don¡¯t have eyes, so keep your heads down and may the Omnissiah guide your aim.¡± Raphael says, ¡°Thank you for your aid, Magos. We will speak again soon.¡± Two, open topped dune buggies drive down the D-POTs ramp, followed by all terrain bikes with wide tires. The cavalcade forms up around me and I accelerate to a gentle, thirty kilometre per hour jog. Once we are out of the hangar, I double my speed while voxing ahead to ensure the route is clear. We have to stop at each major bulkhead to go through the security check, but it is much faster with my Heralds on the bridge. The slowest part is changing decks on the big cargo lifts. We reach the bridge in under ten minutes. The Ambition-Class has a completely different style to my own vessels. Rather than a throne overseeing banks of cogitator stations, there is a long, elevated catwalk, with operators in their own alcoves either side of it. The catwalk that ends with a wooden ship¡¯s wheel, like you¡¯d see on a ship-of-the-line from the Age of Sail. I stroll to the wheel and place my hands upon it. The connectors in the wheel interface with my power armour and implants through my hands and I take control of Ardent Bane. In this case the command throne is more metaphorical than literal, but it still works the same way as my own vessels. It takes me fifteen minutes to jump through all the hoops to fully integrate with the vessel, my own body gradually fading from awareness as I become Ardent Bane. My hull itches from all the Impaler Assault Vessels that have slammed into it, cutting through the armour and disgorging thirty thousand enemy combatants into my steel body. The hangar where we set up defences is filled with wrecks. Bodies of Rak¡¯Gol, Wracks, Sslyth, six species of xenos beasts, and even two Pain Engines are strewn all over the hangar. There are less than fifty Kabalite Warriors and other Dark Eldar though. I¡¯m not going to count the Wracks as Dark Eldar, let alone whatever¡¯s left inside the Pain Engines. These twisted creatures are more like experimental subjects and their presence suggests that whomever we¡¯re facing has the support of a Haemonculus Coven, the Dark Eldar equivalent of Magos Biologis. Throughout the Ardent Bane, enemy combatant¡¯s run rampant, the crew unable to defend themselves against such swift moving foes. The splinter weaponry of the Drukhari is particularly harrowing, their exotic poisons killing hundreds of people in a thousand different ways, with no wound is survivable, regardless of toughness. Not even the Vitae Supplements built in the MOA void armour of my Heralds can do more than delay their deaths if their armour fails. I grimace. I¡¯m going to have to find some way of improving the poison resistance of my people or we will remain as vulnerable to Drukhari predations as everyone else. I don¡¯t think our standard toxiphage will be up to the task, as even the Space Marines¡¯ Oolitic Kidney isn¡¯t quite good enough. Three Marines are critically injured from these vile weapons, and one is dead. Two marines have also taken injuries from splinter weapons but seem entirely unbothered by them though, so I suspect the cocktail of poisons in these weapons is rather random. At least I will have a few starting points for the research. I notice a comm request from the Drukhari cruiser, but I ignore it for now. Despite the death and destruction occurring within my expanded body, stellar radiation continues to bathe me in its comforting stream of energetic particles, kept away from the crew by strong void shields and seventeen metres of composite armour and a double hull. While I coordinate the internal defence of the vessel, I simultaneously examine the ongoing void battle. Torchbearer has undocked from Iron Crane and is advancing upon the Drukhari cruisers, supported by Distant Sun and Yonder Moon. The rest of Modren¡¯s fleet, two Carrack-Class transports, a Tempest-Class frigate and a Claymore-Class corvette have retreated in good order, but are between the Stellar Fleet cruisers and the Drukhari cruisers. They continue to approach Ardent Bane. The Drukhari escorts have scattered, though all of them are making for the shadow of their own cruisers. Damaged as they are, however, they¡¯re getting picked off by the Sunsear Laser Batteries on my Adder-Class escorts and the light macro turrets of Cobalt¡¯s Meritech Shrike-Class raiders. The Drukhari cruisers aren¡¯t waiting for them. The Cobalt escorts are bearing down the Drukhari escorts, while the Stellar Fleet escorts remain at maximum range, shielded by Torchbearer¡¯s impromptu attack group. Iron Crane has launched a huge number of strike craft, all of which are headed for Trader Modren¡¯s fleet and stuffed with Heralds and Battle Automata. I redirect them towards Ardent Bane so that they can reinforce us against the Drukari parasites. Capturing the rest of Modren¡¯s fleet can wait and, using Captain Benagune¡¯s pilfered credentials, I order the transports to pull back their assault on the Imperial vessels and prepare to retreat with Ardent Bane once they form on me. I receive a confirmation, but even after twenty minutes, there¡¯s no sign of the boarding assault on the Imperial Fleet from stopping and I suspect that they¡¯ve decided to abandon their troops as a distraction. As my control of Ardent Bane improves, I open communications with the Imperial Fleet and tie Commodore Horthstien into them so that he can get updates and issue orders to his own side without me having to intervene. I do listen in on what he has to say, but he doesn¡¯t appear to be planning any unreasonable moves. So far, Raphael has only reiterated his orders, compelling his vessels to guard Cobalt. I have no issue with him preserving his forces as I don¡¯t want to have to help him repair his vessels and guarding Cobalt against destructive raids is one of the objectives I spoke of. I am pleased he isn¡¯t trying to contradict me. Last, I order Ardent Bane to fire upon the Drukhari cruisers, using the combined telemetry of all my vessels to get some good hits in. Not enough to slow them down, but just the right amount to make a point. Then I accept the Drukhari comm request. Perhaps, if I can imitate Konrad well enough, I can find out what is actually going on. Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Four I accept the comm request, audio only. ¡°Monkeigh! How dare you fire upon my glorious vessels!¡± Ardent Bane matches the voice of the xenos for me, identifying him from previous conversations as Yhunon Urach. I use my implants to imitate Konrad and say, ¡°Fuck off you sanctimonious twat. You launched your assault craft at my vessel without warning. We are not your beaten chattel to be consumed at your whim! You¡¯ve broken our cover and got us involved with the Imperial Navy! ¡°Already the messages will be streaming out across the stars. Our trade is cut, our worlds will burn, and with our population in tatters, you won¡¯t get another single fucking slave from us. I¡¯d ask what you were thinking, but clearly you''re so high on your own shit that you can¡¯t see beyond your own nose!¡± Yhunon¡¯s laugh is long and cruel, ¡°There are always more Monkeigh. More worlds to sup upon. Your little agreement means nothing to us and your woes are a feast for us to harvest as we will.¡± ¡°Is that so? You¡¯re already down three escorts and the rest of your vessels are taking a beating. Then again, you always learned the whip from beneath your superiors. What does it feel like to lose all your power? No, don¡¯t answer that. I¡¯m not interested in how you get off. Just tell me why you contacted me.¡± Yhunon mutters several curses in Aeldari then says, ¡°Return the mistress to us or face the consequences.¡± I smirk, it sounds like Sci¨¦no was a high ranking Succubus, or maybe even an Archon. Not only that, but she has enough blackmail on her second in command to have him attempt a rescue. Now I just need to get him to commit so we can swab their bodies off the decks. ¡°I¡¯m not the one who''s losing void ships. Can you imagine what might happen to Commorragh if your haemonculus respawns her in the depths of their laboratories? I bet it took a few samples when it gave her a Monkeigh makeover so she could ape her betters. You know those Haemonculi aren¡¯t right in the head. The chance to play with a Drukhari psyker would be far too great a temptation.¡± ¡°They would never.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t believe that. Won¡¯t you respawn there too? I should put a bullet in your precious mistress for all the trouble she¡¯s caused. She¡¯s holed up in the banquet hall after failing to capture Trader Modren¡¯s guests. The doors won¡¯t hold forever. The Magos¡¯s troops are on the way and I can¡¯t hold them off with your dumb mercenaries wrecking Ardent Bane. ¡°If you want her back before her soul gets sent back to a cloning vat, you¡¯ll have to be quick. Even if she respawns somewhere other than Commorragh, I doubt she¡¯ll be pleased if you don¡¯t even attempt a proper rescue. Not the dregs you threw at my vessel.¡± None of them are going to respawn with me nearby, but they don¡¯t know that. ¡°You know far too much of our ways, slave. I think I¡¯d best take your head myself.¡± ¡°You can certainly try,¡± I say. I don¡¯t think he¡¯s going to do too well after failing that wisdom check though. Yhunon cuts the connection and the Drukhari cruisers start accelerating hard, trying to get away from all the Imperial vessels firing at them. Their assault craft detach from my hull and return. I take care not to destroy too many of them as they escape as I don¡¯t know how many assault craft they have left, but I think I eliminate enough of them to make it convincing. I order all my vessels to focus on the engines of the enemy vessels, but they¡¯ve done something to their holofields that removes the exploit my own vessels were using to target them. To the sensors on Iron Crane, which is the most distant vessel to the Drukhari, it even looks like they have nine vessels instead of three. For my closer vessels, the feedback their auspex receives is just fuzzed enough that my gunners can¡¯t quite be sure where the enemy vessels are. It doesn¡¯t take much to miss in a space battle, forcing my void ships to focus their fire on a single vessel at a time, saturating all possible options to get their hits in. The clouds of debris from successful hits help us refine our targeting, but even after exchanging six rounds of fire, we never manage better than a thirty percent hit rate. Soon, the Drukhari are only in range of the lance weapons as they try and swing round the planet several times to avoid us entirely, then escape out into the system. Their larger arc means that they can¡¯t get away completely though, as the defence platforms and Imperial Fleet are close enough to Cobalt that they can manoeuvre to keep the Drukhari under their guns for two more broadsides. The Stellar Fleet also gets three more strikes, one for each complete orbit of Cobalt by the Drukhari. One of the Drukhari light cruisers starts to fall behind on their last orbit, and all three vessels launch more torpedoes and a cloud of strike craft. Some strike craft head for Cobalt, but most are coming right for Ardent Bane. The crippled escorts also start shedding strike craft, though many, I suspect, are life pods as they¡¯re all heading to Cobalt. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. With the Meritech raiders out of position after attempting to chase down the escorts, most of the Drukhari fleeing from their vessels only have to contend with the defence platforms, who are desperately trying to shoot down the incoming torpedoes. The Imperial navy is mostly preoccupied with shooting down the fleeing cruisers and isn¡¯t close enough for their defensive fire to assist the defence platforms. I am reluctantly impressed with how well the Drukhari have timed their escape and hunting them down is going to be an absolute pain. Being out manoeuvred so easily is rather insulting, but they have the vessels for it and for most of my captains, this is their first real space battle, and only my third. Simulations help, but humans programming in xenos fleet tactics is, at best, guess work. An hour later, once they¡¯re well out of range of our guns, the Drukahari use their odd manoeuvring abilities to flip round and launch another salvo of torpedoes. The torpedoes gradually sync up with their incoming strike craft from their cruisers, potentially forcing any defensive fire and manoeuvres on my part to focus on the torpedoes, rather than the incoming boarding force. The cruiser and undamaged light cruiser maintain their new course, slipping in and out of our range and taking potshots at my escorts, despite my best efforts to keep them secure behind my larger vessels. My Adder-Class frigates take some light damage, but the Field Bracing, Castellan Shields, and Overload Shield Capacitors let them shrug more fire than a standard Imperial Navy cruiser. Iron Crane is even more ridiculous and entirely impenetrable to the stray shots they send towards it. They ignore my own cruisers entirely, having noticed where most of my strike craft come from the Adder-Class and don¡¯t want the Stellar Fleet to launch anymore and intercept their incoming assault. My escorts are also the only vessels that I have which can, with their Sunsear Laser batteries, actually hit the Drukari. The Titan Forge lances on my cruisers just don¡¯t have the range, despite their greater power, nor do my macro-batteries. I wish I had a Godsbane Lance, as that has an even greater range than a Sunsear, but only Iron Crane has enough power for a Godsbane and I don¡¯t have the STC for it. A Nova Cannon would also solve my range issue against every known threat, but I don¡¯t know how to build those either. The Navy usually prefers torpedoes as they are less temperamental than Nova cannons and the ammunition is easier to acquire, but the Mechanicus love sticking Nova Cannons on their vessels, seeing the challenge of maintaining such a magnificent weapon as an act of worship. The damaged Drukhari light cruiser continues its retreat and eventually manages to cloak itself entirely. The Drukhari strike craft and torpedoes are pretty far out now and I have three hours to work out how I want to respond and the Stellar Corps is already on its second trip to fill the Ardent Bane with my own troops, troops who are doing a far better job of dealing with the Drukhari mercenaries and monsters that Ardent Bane¡¯s own crew. For a moment, I am confused as to why Trader Modren doesn¡¯t have a force of Imperial Guard or similar on board, then I remember that he is a treacherous xenophile and would likely have been shot by a commisar, or had his vessel seized, if he requisitioned an Imperial force to assist him in his endeavours. While we wait, I engage in some furious dialogue with the captains in charge of the two Carraks and Modren¡¯s escorts, persuading them to join up, not just with Ardent Bane, but also the Stellar Fleet, by tempting them to blame Trader Modren and bluff their way out of censure, even though they launched an attack on Imperial vessels. It won¡¯t help them, but it should make it much easier to secure their vessels later. We all regroup behind Cobalt¡¯s moon and suppress our emissions as best we can, hopefully fooling the torpedoes enough that they can¡¯t track us around the moon. It works a bit too well and the salvo of torpedoes travelling with the Drukhari strike craft and assault boats divert to the defensive platforms, overwhelming their defences. All three platforms take catastrophic hits, despite the Imperial Navy, who are now closer enough to assist, trying to defend them. Reviewing the footage, I realise that the Drukhari had holofields on their last salvo, making them near impossible to intercept without strike craft support to fly close and pin down the torpedoes¡¯ exact position. Despite the disaster, I remain optimistic. With the Drukhari cruisers having launched one assault on Ardent Bane and with a second one incoming, I think their own vessels should be sufficiently depleted for a teleport strike to have a chance of success. It is with some glee, I unleash my plan. The Hecatonchire Missile Launchers on Distant Sun, Yonder Moon, and Iron Crane fire their payloads at the Drukhari cruisers. They¡¯re much faster than the torpedoes; twenty minutes into their flight, and just outside the range of the Drukhari defensive fire, the missiles split. Each missile turns into twenty smaller missiles, all of which make their best guess and home in on the Drukhari vessels and constantly report their position back to the Stellar Fleet. The Drukhari vessels open fire, destroying most of the missiles, but between their destruction and a small handful of hits that do no meaningful damage, the Stellar Fleet is able to pinpoint the Drukhari vessels and get a momentary teleportation lock. Thirty Warforged and one Vanguard Armour teleport onto each of the two vessels. The Vanguard Armours power up a teleport beacon, giving me a permanent lock on the enemy vessels, so long as they aren¡¯t destroyed. I¡¯ll be able to reinforce them every thirty minutes, no matter where they flee within the system, and the Warforged have orders to find engineering and disable the vessels¡¯ propulsion as best they can. I chose the Warforged over the Space Marines as they¡¯re not only in power armour, but almost entirely cybernetic, and thus mostly immune to the poisoned weapons of the Eldar. It¡¯s incredibly nerve wracking using my most elite infantry like this. They¡¯ve all been issued suicide protocols in case of capture, but with Haemonculi about, that might not be enough. On paper, my Warforged are halfway between Tactical Marines and Terminators, but they¡¯ve never been tested like this. I know Space Marines can disable enemy vessels with moderate teleport strikes, but I¡¯ve no idea if my Stellar Corps can do the same. I just can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯ve made a horrible mistake. Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Five With more than two hours before the Drukhari assault group arrives, I am able to regroup all my vessels, cripple the last of the Drukhari escorts, and relaunch my strike craft. I order them to intercept the Drukhari assault group and tie up as many of their fighters as possible so that the defensive fire of my void ships can focus on the Impaler Assault Boats. Trader Modren¡¯s converted Carrack doesn¡¯t have many strike craft left, but they muster sixty interceptors to patrol around the fleet. The Drukhari assault group does a fair job of slipping past my strike craft, using their superior speed and manoeuvrability to avoid the guns of my modified class one D-POTs that we¡¯re calling the Sagitta-Class. Not a great showing for my new primary interceptor, but they do keep the Razorwings and Voidravens from my modified class two D-POTs, the Macross-Class, which unleash hundreds of missiles at the Drukhari. No matter how manoeuvrable they are, the Drukhari strike craft can¡¯t out fly a missile, nor do they have enough countermeasures. At the last moment, the Drukhari fire all their own missiles. They don¡¯t have anywhere near as many, but their implosion missiles are particularly devastating, gouging huge chunks of mass from my strike craft, crippling most of the Sagitta-Class interceptors, but only destroying a few. At the end of the exchange, every single Drukhari fighter and fighter-bomber is wiped out and my damaged strike craft are in no position to chase the Impaler Assault Boats. My strike craft return for repairs, towing the disabled craft and Drukhari wrecks back to my fleet and leaving the Impalers an almost free run on the Ardent Bane. The two Drukhari cruisers stop popping in and out of our range and retreat, moving much further away. I continue to receive updates from my Warforged and keep sending reinforcements. They¡¯re doing rather well and estimate an additional six to ten hours of fighting to reach engineering. However, the Drukhari have swapped out their splinter weapons and started turning blasters, haywire blasters, and shredders upon my boarders. The imperial equivalent would be lascannons, lightning guns, and shotguns. These weapons are much more effective against cyborgs, and if it wasn¡¯t for the conversion fields they all have, the Warforged would have started losing ground. As it is, they¡¯re now taking casualties. The hundred and twenty Warforged and five Vanguard Armour that I¡¯ve teleported onto each vessel so far will not be overcome any time soon though. With my own craft fairly well grouped, we coordinate our defensive fire and start shooting at the assault boats. There¡¯s something odd about how they¡¯re moving about, but I can¡¯t quite work it out. After a tense five minutes, only thirty assault boats get through. They burrow into Ardent Bane, a particularly unpleasant sensation when I am so closely connected to the vessel. Bedwyr starts issuing orders so that my Heralds can intercept the boarding parties, only rather than disgorge troops, the assault boats explode, obliterating huge chunks of Ardent Bane and wrecking the starboard side. Huge plumes of water, over thirty kilometre¡¯s long, jet out into space as multiple reaction mass tanks are breached. A macro-cannon munitions storage detonates too, disabling all of the macro-cannon batteries on the starboard side and vaporising four percent of Ardent Bane in an explosion that sends a debilitating rattle throughout the vessel, cracking welds and starting fires on nine decks. The only good thing to come out of this attack is that the Eldar killed a significant portion of their previous assault. They still have over fifteen thousand boarders running about butchering the ratings and ruining all my bulkheads; with such a large breach, many sections of Ardent Bane are rapidly depressurising. For a moment, I am in shock, rapidly processing everything that is happening and rethinking my plans. This is the closest I have come to death in many years and it is a most unpleasant reminder of how fast, and how badly, something can go wrong. Some two hundred thousand people are at risk of suffocation as Ardent Bane loses air and fills with smoke. Fire suppression systems engage and the environmental sustainer strains to keep enough air available. ¡°Ardent Bane, at current expenditure, how much breathable air do we have left?¡± ++There is no meaningful limit. Nine percent of Ardent Bane is compromised, mostly in the outer hull. Automated cut offs have already been engaged. Four hours until the majority of the compromised areas are uninhabitable. Seven weeks of reserve atmosphere is available if you wish to maintain those areas.++ Well, that¡¯s not as bad as I thought. ¡°Keep the majority of the compromised areas at low pressure until everyone who can evacuate has done so then inform me of potential casualties before you cut them off. Do not maintain air in areas where there are boarders or fires and minimal numbers of crew in the same space. ¡°Cut off any areas that are losing their entire atmosphere every hour, regardless of casualties. Inform the crew in compromised areas that they must evacuate and direct them to the nearest exit. If they are injured, or cut off, direct them to safe rooms where they can hold out and provide the damage control teams the data they need to prioritise and rescue them in time. As for those with no hope, place me in contact with them. I will speak to them in person, listen to their final requests, and bless them as best I can.¡± ++Executing Commands.++ Over the next hour I hold over seven hundred different conversations with people who are going to die because of the orders I have issued to minimise material losses and avoid compromising the remainder of Ardent Bane, or because they are too injured to live long enough for a team to rescue them. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Most are rather stoic about their approaching deaths, all are terrified, and many are angry. I record their last words, letting them ramble, or set up nearby vox to play their favourite hymns and lead them in prayer, depending on their preference. Several complain about their officers and the abuses they have suffered and two tell me about atrocities they have witnessed while working for Trader Modren, and of the other individuals involved. It is a depressing litany to listen to and I do not enjoy the angry words I endure. I don¡¯t even have to do any of this, but even after all my years in this hellish galaxy, I just can¡¯t turn a blind eye to the suffering, even if I can issue the required orders without hesitation. Even as I oversee these last rites, the battle continues. Raphael and Lyre are still alive and the hangar being cleared of xenos corpses. Every couple of hours the two Navy officers try and talk their way into my command structure, but Bedwyr is having none of it. During one of the exchanges, Raphael distracts the Heralds long enough for Lyre to attempt to breach the digital security on the shuttle with a palm sized device. I recognise the codes and scoff. I removed all of those overrides decades ago and the Machine-Spirits within the D-POTs are really Data Guardians, the Machine-Spirits'' Dark Age of Technology precursor. No Imperial codes of any kind are valid on them unless I put them there, which is something I would only do for export models. Returning my attention to space, I realise we¡¯ve no way of catching the Drukhari Fleet with our void ships as the enemy are now in full retreat and much faster than us. Clearly Yhunon Urach decided to cut his losses and probably has some plan in place to stop Sci¨¦no from resurrecting like he thinks she will. My escorts could still catch them though. I haven¡¯t completed all my objectives yet and I am unwilling to let the Drukhari go, especially as they still have my Warforged on board. The Stellar Fleet coordinates with Trader Modren¡¯s unruly captains and the Imperial Navy, scraping together an assault group, a mix of strike craft and shuttles that form around four Adder-Class frigates, a Tempest-Class frigate, and a Claymore-Class corvette. I would have liked to take Cobalt¡¯s four Meritech Shrike-Class raiders as well, but they¡¯ve been converted into monitor vessels and up-armoured. They just don¡¯t have the speed that they used too. We do collect three Fury Interceptor squadrons from the damaged defence platforms though. They¡¯d been put into storage and have only just become available. The escorts begin their chase, surrounded by two hundred strike craft and enough shuttles to transport forty thousand troops. I had hoped to take the Drukhari cruisers with my Warforged, but the sadistic arseholes have armed their slaves and are using the last of their proper troops to push terrified people towards my teleporting troops to keep them occupied. I think they¡¯re trying to make the Warforged run out of ammo, but it isn¡¯t working as all of them have a Marwolv pattern lasgun, gun dogs, and a lot of other weaponry. If they arm enough slaves the lasguns might overheat or charge slower than they can fire though. With the teleport assault stalled out I can either abandon my elite troops or go all in on a mass assault that will have to get past the Drukhari defensive fire, the exact thing I¡¯d been hoping to avoid in the first place with the teleport assault. Both options suck, but while I hate to trade men for wealth, those two cruisers are huge prizes. Sure, I already have six Drukhari escorts cracked and broken, but these are pirate ships likely stuffed full of valuable goods and captives, exotic weaponry, and hulls that can be turned into Warp fuel, or power the wards on my knights and other arcane workings. Removing Drukhari vessels from play is always good too as Commorragh has a much lower production capacity than the Imperium Slowly, the gap begins to close and the Sunsear laser batteries fire once again, chipping away at the large, yet somewhat fragile, Drukhari vessels. Four hours into the chase, and with over two hundred Warforged now on each vessel causing havoc, something important breaks. The cruiser starts losing power and its holofield drops. The light cruiser loses two main thrusters. Both vessels lose a third of their velocity. Finally my own fire is properly effective and my vessels pick off the gravity sails and defensive turrets on the cruiser, slowing it further. Both enemy vessels fire back at the closing escorts, but every time they pop a shield, my escorts rearrange their battle line to shelter the recovering vessel. While they all take some damage to their armour, no critical systems are affected. Seven hours into the chase, the assault group surges forward. The strike-craft ravage the hulls further and finish denuding them of defensive turrets, taking sixty percent casualties. The shuttles move into land. Four modified Class three D-POTs, the newly designed Vitrum-Class, launch their torpedoes, crippling the main thrusters on both cruisers badly enough to send them into an awkward spin that makes landing on them far more tricky. Six shuttles are damaged while landing on the hull. It doesn¡¯t make much difference though as troops pour into the enemy vessels and sweep through them. With so many paths to defend and few troops remaining after the Warforged chewed through almost all of them, the remaining measly crew complement can¡¯t hold the vessels. Both cruisers are overwhelmed and captured, including their captains, several dozen officers and three Haemonculi. There¡¯s still no sight of the third light cruiser that escaped earlier, but I don¡¯t expect that we¡¯ll ever see it again. After the battle, Mattius expresses his gratitude, opening his personal vaults and gifting the Stellar Fleet and Imperial Navy with master carved ivory and raw pearls. With his enthusiastic cooperation we begin clean up operations, purging the Orks and hunting down the Dark Eldar escape pods as well as start construction of an outpost on Haddon¡¯s Throne, the distant moon around Cobalt VI that we bartered for previously. We spend six weeks securing the Drukhari vessels and looting them. During this time I also claim the rest of Trader Modren¡¯s fleet, using the Space Marines to arrest all their officers. Ardent Bane is patched enough to stop leaking air and the boarders are neutralised, three thousand of which are captured, including some Rak¡¯Gol. The rest of my fleet, Red Knoll, four escorts, and ten Moth-Class leave the shelter of Cobalt VI and travel to Cobalt IV. My reinforcement lend their crews, and perhaps most importantly their administrators, to sort through the vast amount of personnel I have acquired, adding two hundred and thirty thousand freed slaves to my personnel count. A census is taken, officers are interviewed, and Fleet Command and I spend days going over it all discussing what to do about the poor condition and education of Trader Modren¡¯s ratings. The voidsmen aren¡¯t much better either. After some extensive sleuthing, eighty percent of Trader Modren¡¯s senior officers are handed over to the Imperial Navy. The junior officers only lose fifteen percent. Two more penal regiments are formed, taking me up to eight Stellar Corps regiments. With me outnumbering everyone else and over a full company of Space Marines looming over everyone, Raphael and Lyre are outwardly cooperative, but they never stop trying to break into my systems, or pull data from Trader Modren¡¯s vessels. After blocking a third attempt, I remove all system guest rights. I also loosen the restrictions of the Machine-Spirits on the captured vessels and update their protocols so that they can properly defend themselves from unwanted intrusions. It¡¯s annoying to keep defending them with E-SIM. This doesn¡¯t stop the Navy officers from trying again, so I invite the pair of them over to Iron Crane on the pretence of handing over the data of Trader Modren¡¯s misdeeds and all those connected to him. Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Six I lie on a beach chair, enjoying the warmth of the artificial daylight and listening to the waves. The air is tinted with salt and a cool breeze. All around me hundreds of families play in the water, and snorkel above the carefully grown reefs of the biome. A short pier runs into the water, topped with cafes. For maximum disrespect, I¡¯m wearing only my swimming trunks and the most colourful Hawaiian-style shirt that Brigid could find in the Fleet. Bedwyr guides Raphael and Lyre to me. They¡¯re in full dress and are shivering from walking through the corridors without a proper undersuit. The two officers are surrounded by six Ogryns and twelve voidsmen, but all their bodyguards are openly gaping at the environment and not paying any attention whatsoever to actually doing their jobs. The Ogryns even have to be threatened to not run off and play in the water. I push the aviator sunglasses, that I totally don¡¯t need, down my nose a bit and peer at the two officers over the top. ¡°Good day, gentlemen. I hope you brought shorts like I suggested.¡± Raphael removes his rebreather and says, ¡°What is this place, Magos?¡± ¡°A beach.¡± They both stare at me and I sigh. I continue, ¡°I¡¯ve reserved a private booth at one of the cafes. It¡¯s secure. I will treat you to lunch and we can have our discussion there. You can bring a couple of your bodyguards if you feel the need. The rest will have to make do with relaxing beneath an umbrella or staring at the fish from the pier.¡± ¡°Very well, lead on,¡± says Lyre, also removing his rebreather. ¡°Are all your corridors filled with plants,¡± says Raphael, ¡°and horribly cold?¡± I say, ¡°There are hydroponics systems all over the vessel, wherever there is space and a need for them. The inhospitable environment is everywhere except for the promenades and other community spaces, like breakrooms. It discourages disease, minimises decay, promotes the efficiency of Machine-Spirits, and inhibits unwanted guests, among other things. ¡°The beach biome, while relaxing, is also for education, training, medicine, and food. Underwater is a good place to practise how to manoeuvre in zero-G once you get the hang of it in the simulator. The artificial sunlight also promotes good morale and health, especially in children.¡± ¡°Yes, yes, all very fascinating,¡± says Lyre. We enter a cafe called Pier Pressure and take a seat by an open window, overlooking the water and the beach. Raphael says, ¡°Surely you haven¡¯t put something like this on every vessel!¡± ¡°Not a beach, no, but there are other biomes, like arboretums, and more practical facilities, like swimming pools, on both Iron Crane and my light cruisers. Torchbearer is a more recent addition and requires refitting, as do all my other new vessels. The escorts are, unfortunately, much more limited and have minimal entertainment. Crew and civilians on my smallest vessels are restricted to the noosphere, or community gatherings arranged by the Imperial Cult and Cult Mechanicus. You only need a small room for a science fair or church choir after all.¡± ¡°This all seems like a waste of resources,¡± says Lyre. ¡°A little hardship is good for the soul.¡± ¡°You are more right than you know, Adjunct Hamiz, but it is easy to forget that as much as these are warships, they are also cities and homes. A person can die for a cause, but they will fight for their homes, a small space that they can call their own. It is in my best interest to make it as meaningful a location as possible.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t something I ever thought I would hear from a Tech-Priest,¡± says Raphael. I nod, ¡°Worship promotes unity and discipline. It inspires us to learn and unravel the mysteries of the universe. It does not fill one¡¯s belly or give you someone to hold at night. We are so very alone out here in the void. Loneliness is an easy thing to prey on for the Ruinous Powers, so I fill my ships with life, laughter, and love, silly though it may seem.¡± Raphael gives me a sharp look, ¡°You have an abnormal number of wards within this vessel. Everyone other than the children are the same height, with unusually smooth skin. Your Servitors are only distinguishable at a glance from Humans because you mark them as such. Your weapons are better and your suits are made from an unknown fabric. The composite materials you use for your armour, foldable shields, and much of the rest of your equipment is non-standard. My Tech-Priests do not recognise the engine designs on your ships, or the plasma macro-cannons that you use. You have an STC.¡± ¡°Close, but so very off the mark,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s have some lunch first, eh?¡± I don¡¯t have an adaptive STC, but I do have an engineering grade one. Few bother to make the distinction between maintenance, manufacturing, engineering, and adaptive, but when someone talks about an STC they¡¯re usually talking about an adaptive one, an AI that can generate new technologies. It¡¯s the holy grail of the Adeptus Mechanicus and so long as Lyre doesn¡¯t define it, I can lie to his face and tell the truth all at the same time. While I have perfect control of my body, I could have tells that I don¡¯t know about. It is far better to stick to the truth, as I see it, wherever possible. A Servitor fills the table with plates of battered fish and chips, condiments, and Tanna tea. There¡¯s even a slice of real lemon. I squeeze the lemon wedge over my food with a big smile on my face, then sprinkle the chips with vinegar and salt, and squirt a blob of ketchup on the side of my plate as well as scoop out a dollop of tartar sauce from the small pot that came with my meal. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± says Lyre. ¡°Fish and chips, or battered cod and deep fried potatoes with mushy peas. A traditional meal for the seaside for the ancient Albish on Old Earth. It¡¯s best hot, so hold your questions and eat.¡± This meal costs an entire month¡¯s stipend, or over a week¡¯s wages for a Tech-Apprentice. Hardly a concern for me, but I went to a lot of trouble to recreate this taste from home and I want to enjoy it, not answer the endless questions of these nosy fools. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. We eat in silence for several minutes, I deliberately finish last, taking my sweet time to savour the dish. Eventually, I put my knife and fork down and push my plate to the side. The Servitor removes the remains of the meal and a curtain is pulled across the booth. I lean back and wait for the Navy officers to speak. I observe the Machine-Spirits running around the two testing for auspex devices and trying to scan me. None of them get anywhere. ¡°Are you quite done?¡± I say, raising my eyebrow. Lyre reaches around his neck and pulls out a rosette. He places it on the table. It is shaped like an ¢ñ with a small human skull placed in the top third. Three short bars stick from the circular inset that holds the stylized skull in place. ¡°I am here to requisition resources from you, Magos.¡± I reach out and tap the rosette, scanning it. I engage my nanites and dissolve it into powder, then sweep the silver residue off the table. ¡°No.¡± Both of the two agents'' hands twitch towards their pistols. I open my third eye and freeze them in place, then let them go. They remain tense but do not move. I look them both in the eyes, ¡°Inquisitor Hamiz, Interrogator Horthstien. Throughout the millennia and across a million worlds you will find stories, anecdotes, and cultures that reference the number three. ¡°I saved your lives and you attempted to steal from me. I armed and armoured you, bringing you beneath the aegis of my own defenders, and you attempted to steal from me a second time. I brought you aboard my vessel, offered you food and shelter and, once again, you attempt to steal from me, or requisition as you so put it. That¡¯s three for three. ¡°Not once have you thanked me for saving your lives, offering you protection, or inviting you into my home. That¡¯s another three. You are part of the Ordo Xenos yet in your pursuit of perfidy have forgotten what makes us Human. Manners Maketh Man, gentlemen. Lyre looks at me utterly baffled. Raphael is a little quicker on the uptake. ¡°Magos,¡± says Raphael. ¡°I thank you for saving my life. I thank you for offering me protection and hospitality. I apologise for attempting to steal from you.¡± I stare at him for a few seconds, ¡°You are forgiven.¡± I turn my gaze back to Lyre, ¡°Be you man or xenos, Inquisitor?¡± ¡°You destroyed a symbol of Imperial authority for a lesson in manners!¡± shouts Lyre. ¡°Do you have any idea of what the consequences of your actions are? You¡¯re even an Emperor damned navigator!¡± ¡°I do. Absolutely nothing. I don¡¯t think you quite understand the gravity of your actions.¡± A small cavity opens below my sternum and I pull out a brand new rosette. I place it on the table and Lyre attempts to snatch it, but I hold it in place with a single finger and he cannot move it no matter how he tugs. ¡°Stop embarrassing yourself,¡± I say. ¡°You answer directly to the Emperor. Every action you take reflects on him and your actions reflect most poorly upon the Golden Throne.¡± I select Minor Bless Object from my list of miracles and target the rosette. A golden aura rises from my skin and the two officers flinch back. My aura grows, pushing them back into their seats, then flares beneath my right hand and rushes into the rosette. I feel the Emperor look through my eyes for a brief moment, entirely disinterested with what is going on. The pure authority of his psychic might cannot be mistaken for anything else though and both Lyre and Raphael pale. ¡°I am going to tell you what you need to know, then you are going to leave. Hand me your subordinate rosette, Interrogator Horthstien.¡± Raphael hands shake slightly as he hands over his rosette. I update the name on Raphael¡¯s rosette and hand it to Lyre, then hand the new rosette to Raphael. ¡°Congratulations on your promotion, Inquisitor Horthstien. The new rosette is also a rosarius and will protect you in combat. The blessing will repel minor demons and psychic influence upon your mind and block up to three strikes from a greater demon, after which the blessing will fade and will need to be renewed by another who can channel the Emperor¡¯s power. I suggest you look towards the Sisters of Battle, should you survive such an encounter.¡± Raphael looks towards Lyre who is sitting absolutely still, gripping his fists so tightly that his palms are bleeding. Raphael nods slowly. ¡°You may send me a two thousand voidsmen before you leave and I will equip them as well as my own Herald Acolytes. This will include all the required implants, spare parts, and maintenance grade STCs. I will also restock your vessels with fuel and food. Each of you may choose a single implant from my personal list of craftables that I reserve for my most senior officers and I will gift it to you. ¡°Last, and perhaps most importantly, you will be provided with the promised data as well as a rather morbid cargo container. Within are all the brains of the senior Drukari and other xenos. They are hooked up to cogitators and life support. The device will require maintenance. A barebones, maintenance grade STC will be provided. ¡°This device will let you ask the imprisoned individuals questions. Answers are taken directly from their minds without context or explanation. Repeated and varied questions will be required to acquire precise answers. Without a source of pain to feed off, the Drukhari will deteriorate quickly. I suspect you have between nine and twelve months before they die. Once an individual dies, their specific container will self-destruct.¡± I¡¯ve created a much smaller device that holds the Haemonculi brains. I¡¯m hoping to advance our genome research with their hoarded knowledge, but I doubt we¡¯ll learn much. They¡¯re really good at keeping secrets. I continue, ¡°I will not have you abusing my gift and sticking whoever you like in there once its job is done. Attempting to reverse engineer the device will result in its immediate and total destruction, likely taking whoever is fiddling with it out at the same time and a good chunk of whatever vessel it is on. Once the last brain is dead, the self-destruct will automatically disarm and the container can be recycled safely.¡± I place my hands palm up upon the table, ¡°Interrogator Hamiz, yes you heard that right, place your hands in mine.¡± Lyre doesn¡¯t move so I grab his fists before he even blink, I heal his hands and body with my nanites, clearing away old scars and bad injuries. After several minutes, the sudden lack of constant pain he is clearly in snaps him out of his funk. I look him in the eyes and select another minor blessing, clearing his mind of doubt and renewing his sense of purpose. He looks back at me in wonder and a small amount of joy. ¡°The Emperor is always watching,¡± I say, ¡°ready to offer help to those who are sincere in their tasks and faith. Do not let the troubles of the galaxy wear you down, Interrogator, or forget the troubles of those who work with or below you. Most of all, never forget in whose name your authority resides. Go, and may the Emperor be with you.¡± Lyre pulls back his hands, his expression returning to stern disapproval. He stands and leaves, pushing back the curtain as he does so. Raphael reaches out to shake my hand and I accept. ¡°Thank you for your aid and hospitality, Magos.¡± I smile, ¡°You are welcome. I am happy to aid the Imperium.¡± Glancing at Lyre¡¯s back, Raphael sighs and says, ¡°So long as its servants say please and thank you. He is an old man, Magos, and most weary. You have both insulted and uplifted him. Perhaps a break will do my mentor some good.¡± He frowns, ¡°You haven¡¯t made any friends today, but I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve made any enemies either. Neither of us are stupid enough to actually believe you have the authority to demote or promote an Inquisitor, no matter the might of your miracles or your technological marvels. I doubt I¡¯ll ever see such a good bluff ever again though. Good day to you, Magos. I do hope we don¡¯t run into each other again.¡± ¡°Farewell, Inquisitor Horthstien.¡± Raphael chuckles and departs. Well, that didn¡¯t go too badly. I think I made my point well enough and have proven I am both useful and dangerous enough not to be provoked. I doubt the Inquisition will bother me again any time soon. I tap the wooden table a few times, then return to my beach chair. I am rather old as well. I need my breaks too! Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Seven Relaxing in the beach biome is absolutely glorious. Ever since I found myself in this ghastly future I have been worried about the Inquisition. The anticipation of the first meeting, and thinking about all the things that they could do, was a constant worry floating in the back of my thoughts. Now, however, it¡¯s all over. The Inquisition will always be a concern and I don¡¯t begrudge them that. It¡¯s their job to be unpleasant. They¡¯re not a monolithic entity though and each inquisitor has their own agenda and methods, so there¡¯s no guarantee that because one has, I hope, decided to let me be, that another won¡¯t push hard. However, the Lyre and Raphael¡¯s reports will propagate throughout their Order and if the Inquisition has to deal with me again, I will be able to do so on equal footing, whether they like it or not. Especially with my new Warrant that they don¡¯t know about and that I made a big enough fuss to distract them from asking about. The brain reader I provided was a loss though as it means I didn¡¯t get any crown kills for taking out the head of the fleet, nor did I get anything for disabling Sci¨¦no after the Solitaire took her away. That doesn¡¯t stop me from idly pursuing my options though. Last time I bought Warp Infrastructure. That gave me access to data structures: artificial Warp entities and objects. I use these to access the Warp, E-SIMs true body, and grow the ritual ingredients required to cure Quaani and treat all the new navigators in my Fleet. Back then, I also considered Krork Energy Harvesting which would let me harvest Waaagh! energy from dead Orks to power my implants, rather than just pure Warp energy taken directly from the Warp or destroyed demons. Taking Krork Energy Harvesting unlocks subspace technologies, like Subspace Anchor, that would give me a game-like inventory to rapidly deploy turrets and other machinery around me in combat, or use non-Warp teleportation. As useful as that would be, the warning of unlisted side-effects from harvesting and using Waaagh! energy leaves me somewhat leery of choosing it. Options in the Ritual Alterations category are safer, like Data Syphon, and Soul Harvest Range ¢ñ. Data Syphon would alter the ritual so that I can acquire the knowledge of the deceased. Soul Harvest Range ¢ñ would double the range of my Warp Tap. I didn¡¯t actually get any of the souls from the cruisers because they were too far away and only the escorts, the xenos on Ardent Bane were added to my kill count. The Orks on Cobalt are also contributing as they are purged. So far I¡¯ve collected a hundred and fifty thousand kills. I don¡¯t want to miss out on kills again, but there¡¯s some really good options for crown kills in External Tools too and I could always make more effort to be closer to the action, dangerous though that would be. The STCs in External Tools are really pricey. While I can buy most of them separately, some are bundled up under survival gear in the Universal Series: set categories that provide both everyday and miraculous items. Categories like Universal Hazards contain things that I already have, like the Hyperweave Undersuits everyone wears. There¡¯s also a huge range of other artificial fabrics, including variants of Imperial flak weave, that likely provide all manner of improvements hidden within the designs. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if acquiring the proper STC for Hyperweave Undersuits, rather than the one I cobbled together using my Research Module, has a superior way of making them. Even a single percent boost in, for example, weaving speed, would be a big deal. Universal Fabrication has a better version of my nanyte mechadendrites. Universal Personal Defence has a large range of exotic pistols and blades, like volkite and hellfire weapons. Sure I have these things already, but it¡¯s almost certain that, like the STCs in Universal Hazards, that the originals are a lot better and contain lost knowledge which would have knock-on effects in the production of other items and materials. What stands out the most, however, is the Universal Medicines category. It contains the crazy items like Resurrection Serum and Stasis Injector, items that sadly aren¡¯t in the bundle and remain E-SIM production only. Glitterworld Injector however, does come in the Universal Medicines bundle. The injector contains an advanced version of the medichines used in the Vitae Supplement and Auto-Sanguine implants which the Stellar Fleet mass produce. The Imperial versions can rapidly stop bleeding. After which they slowly close and heal wounds over several days. They can also boost the immune system and aid the transition between flesh and machine. They¡¯re absolutely essential if you have a large amount of implants as they prevent flesh from becoming sore, inflamed, and infected. The Glitterworld Injector does far more and is a better, non-Warp based version of the medichines created by my Life-Support module, capable of rapidly healing both flesh, bionics, and cybernetics as well as hunting down infections, toxins, and anything else that could harm the body. It is medicine for both man and machine, not just flesh. This ultimate cure-all likely requires a vast set up and rare materials to manufacture. Such medichines will require a highly advanced Machine-Spirit to function, one possibly bordering on sapience like E-SIM. Buying Universal Medicines before I complete my hexagrammic programming and cogitator research would be a risky gamble. Corrupted nanites could wipe out the whole crew in seconds if everyone has them so I don¡¯t want to use them until I can be absolutely sure they are as safe, if not more so, than the ones we already use. Better medichines are also a possible counter to the Drukhari Splinter weaponry and a potential upgrade or supplement to the Sacred Blood that many of my Servitors and crew use. I would also like to use the medichines as well. While I have managed to create a non-Warp energy mode for most of my implants, the Life-Support module is not one of them, nor are the nanites that E-SIM uses to create my implants and alter my environment. As fun as it is looking at things I could have, it doesn¡¯t help me choose what to spend my current kills on. I have a servitor bring me a suitably ridiculous looking fruity cocktail and sip on it while I review my current implants to work out what I want next. The two I started with, Warp Tap and Life Support are my two most fundamental implants. I¡¯d literally die without them as the Warp Tap gathers power for my implants and helps me gather kills. Life Support keeps my body in perfect condition and functions as a secondary heart. Rather foolishly, I still don¡¯t fully know how they work as they were free, but other things always seem to take priority. I could find out, and if I want to take the Multiplicity upgrade, that would give me a secondary body in the Warp, I will need to buy them so that I can actually build a new body. I am still not sold on the idea of doubling the cost of all my implants though, no matter how important a full body back up is. There is an alternative, an upgrade to my Concurrent Conscious Cascade, called External Core. The Concurrent Conscious Cascade creates multiple subordinate simulations of my primary mind that sync perfectly with my brain. External Core does the same, but the core is a large cogitator in the Warp, rather than a tiny implant. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Taking External Core would drastically increase my multi-tasking, research, and learning. Unlike Multiplicity it does not split my soul, so if I die, it can¡¯t function as a back-up. Nor is it quite the same as the Concurrent Conscious Cascade. The External Core does not allow for intuitive leaps in understanding as its simulated intelects are not piggybacked off my actual brain. The Savant Learning Accelerator can help mitigate this shortfall slightly, but the difference is minor as the Savant Learning Accelerator is usually maxed already by my own brain and the Concurrent Conscious Cascade; I can¡¯t have another Savant Learning Accelerator without another brain. The benefit of an External Core is that it doesn¡¯t double my costs and I would still get a large boost to my Research Module, a module that is likely the closest thing to an Adaptive STC, an STC with an AI that can make new designs, that remains within the galaxy. If you don¡¯t count the damaged STC lurking in the underhive of Necromunda, or those locked away and undiscovered in every Ark Mechanicus, or all the ancestor cores that the Kin own, that is. That¡¯s a rather long list of exceptions! It¡¯s almost like the galaxy is as shit as it is because someone wants it that way. Continuing my grand list of implants is Machine Integration, an advanced MIU that provides a higher bandwidth connection with all my implants, including E-SIM, than my nanites do, as well as a secure external connection to other machines. My Savant Learning Accelerator helps me memorise and understand data at an accelerated rate and the Rapid Decision Engine calculates optimal decisions at a rapid pace, much like a Machine-Spirit. Despite its name, it only provides a selection of options using all the data that I know or am observing. It can learn from previous choices I¡¯ve made, but it doesn¡¯t make choices for me. Inference Engine might be a better name for it, a little whisper in the back of my mind that helps me interpret everything that I see. It can be quite unhelpful if it¡¯s fed bad data, so I have to be careful how much I let it influence me. Paired with the empathic feedback I get from Navigator Conversion, the Rapid Decision Engine is particularly good at interpreting what people are thinking. I also have an Auto-taskmaster, a subroutine of E-SIM that assists in the mass control of Automata and Servitors from whole regiments down to the micrometre swaying of a single mechadendrite on Brian, my favourite servo-skull. I can precisely control billions of machines if I really want to. It was useful when my crew was small and Fleet Command didn¡¯t exist, but I don¡¯t use it as intended often. Instead, I use Auto-taskmaster to help me monitor absolutely everything and gather data, providing limited omniscience within the Stellar Fleet. It¡¯s an absurd amount of data and E-SIM spends a significant amount of power sorting, compressing, and optimising all the information Auto-taskmaster collects. Some might consider it Heresy, but a lot of the data is thrown away as too much information clogs up data search and retrieval functions, nor is a lot of it really necessary or worth keeping beyond a set length of time. My integrated Auspex isn¡¯t that special, though the Full Bionic Conversion I underwent enhanced it considerably from when I was just flesh and blood. It¡¯s still within Imperial specifications though, rather than some Dark Age of Technology bullshit. For now. The Integrated Grav Skates that I added to the Full Bionic Conversion were purely so I could skate with my kids and were not part of the original design. They¡¯re not strong enough to use while I¡¯m in power armour, but they are still handy if I¡¯m rushing about Iron Crane, or want to hover about just for the fun of it. I¡¯m still using the Black Skeleton, a complete version of the Imperial Black Bone Bracing and one of my first upgrades. Void Skin and Warding Electoos, two more designs based on Imperial technologies, remain after my Full Bionic Conversion. My Nanite Constructor is the module I used to build an Inquisitorial rosette in advance of the meeting, just so I could make it look like I¡¯d rapidly recreated Lyre¡¯s rosette after dissolving it with my Warp and Weft module. The Nanite Constructor breaks down everything I consume and produces the nanites that E-SIM uses to maintain and build my modules, or expel to use with the Warp and Weft module. The nanites also let me produce a powerfield from my hands or along objects I am holding, something that saved my life several times when I was on the Federation station. Warp and Weft is an area of effect constructor and deconstructor that lets me alter anything within five metres of me. I could do that before I had the module, but it was much slower and less efficient. While Warp and Weft makes my nanites rather fast at destroying things, it is much slower at building them, and quite useless if you need clean room conditions for an object. It is good at emergency repairs though, like armour breaches, or heat damage. Warp and Weft is far more power hungry and less precise than using my Imperial made nanyte lathes, a pair of specialist mechadendrites I usually keep retracted inside my Servvo-Harness. If I could, I would have gathered the dust of Lyre¡¯s rosette and reformed it in my hands in front of him. Alas, such showing off was beyond me. I am pleased with my Advanced E-WAR suite. Not only does it defend me from hostile data connections, it also lets me attack enemy cogitators and disrupt sensors. It¡¯s no holofield, but is far beyond similar Imperial technologies. When fully ramped up, it can use a lot of power, draining my ten main power batteries and two emergency power batteries within a day or two. With so many power hungry implants, the External Battery module would be really helpful. The Advanced E-WAR suite has its limitations. It¡¯s no good against the Orks or any other Mark One Eyeball, and of limited effectiveness against the Necrons. Everyone whom I¡¯ve faced who is of similar tech levels though, like the fallen Eldar and rising Tau, often miss me when I¡¯m targeted at range with electronic senses and it¡¯s easy for me to compromise most data networks. Should the Advanced E-WAR suite be insufficient to protect me I have a rather good conversion shield and displacer field that¡¯s fully integrated via Full Bionic Conversion as well as an even more powerful conversion shield in my power armour. Hyperweave Musculature, Armoured Organs, Artificial Sinews, and Reinforced Vascular Network don¡¯t offer much additional performance for me these days, nor does Body Tuning. They¡¯re all part of Full Bionic Conversion, but I don¡¯t have many fully organic parts left, just a small collection of some of my original organs, separated into the cyborg equivalent of canopic jars and hidden within my chest. They act as backup for my organic brain should my bionic organs be compromised by excessive haywire grenades and other anti-cyborg weapons. Regenerative Hormones and my Rejuvenat Gland are still incredibly useful though. I might not have much to regenerate, but maintaining high neural plasticity and being able to rapidly heal what organs I do have, like my organic heart and brain, will likely always be valuable. Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Eight Within my thoughts, I continue the review of my implants. I have two Potentia Coils, each the size of an average human forearm. They¡¯re not that powerful and I¡¯d really like a better micro-generator to help power my implants but E-SIM doesn¡¯t have one as everything is supposed to be powered by Warp energy only. A rather silly oversight, I think, though it was likely by design as everything for an E-SIM user is set up to make killing Warp entities the most efficient use of time and power. I could use the micro-fusion generator used in power armour, but it kicks out a lot of heat and just isn¡¯t practical. I can use the micro-fusion generator in my power armour as a backup for my implants and vice versa though. Radio-isotope thermal generators (RTGs) are an option, but they¡¯re even more low powered compared to a potentia coil. They do, depending on the isotope, provide a much more steady and longer lasting source of power though. The Mechanicus can be rather unhelpful with its terminology, as they often refer to any cybernetic power source as a ¡®Potentia Coil¡¯. Some can be rather bulky and crude, burning promethium for energy. These low quality ¡®Potentia Coils¡¯ are the main cause of the hunched figure that many Tech-Priests have, even with a Cyber Mantle to support their bodies. In the Stellar Fleet though, Potentia Coil refers to a coil of contained plasma. The plama¡¯s constant movement through the coiled loop, and gradual cooling, generates power. A Potentia Coil¡¯s power output is exceptionally flexible and requires no rare isotopes or moving parts. It makes them ideal for charging weapons and powering exoskeletons, like the Mawolv lasgun and MOA void armour. With a Potentia Coil, one can avoid the high cost of micro-fusion generators or the risk of radiation exposure from RTGs in combat. Heavy use will drain a Potentia Coil rather fast though, as in you need to replace them after twenty hours of constantly charging high power infantry weaponry. When used for their original purpose, like powering implants, they can last multiple decades. I finish my cocktail and place my hands behind my head. I¡¯ve come a long way, in both time and space. My body is a marvel of a millennia of engineering. I have a growing fleet of void ships, the respect of my crew, I hope, new friends, and new family. Not bad, for a fat old plumber. Wiggling my toes, I look down at my body. To a normal Human eye it looks entirely normal, well, if you call two and a half metre, gym-rat body normal. If I was wearing it, my power armour would add an extra half metre. To my new senses, my body is composed of trillions of tiny machines, acting like the cells of a flesh and blood Human. They flow, multiply, and recycle themselves constantly. My new ¡®cells¡¯ last much longer than my old ones though. The artificial organs and muscles are vastly more efficient too, so I have a lot of extra space in my body for further upgrades that I did before my conversion and my strength is absurd. Right now that space is used for resource bladders. Even without power armour I can hurl a tank across a room or toss an Imperial knight over my shoulder. I¡¯m not even that heavy, weighing four hundred kilograms, or twice that in power armour. I am a lot heavier than a standard Space Marine though. I might tell people that I¡¯ve completed my transition or conversion, but there¡¯s one part of Full Bionic Conversion I haven¡¯t taken yet though, Polymer Tissue Replacement. It is an artificial neural substrate, or bioplastic, that perfectly mimics the Human brain, but is highly resistant to heavy shocks, ageing, and other failings of the flesh. Unfortunately, it isn¡¯t compatible with large amounts of Warp Energy. Moderate use of Warp energy is fine, it¡¯s even how the substrate is powered. Polymer Tissue Replacement can¡¯t deal with a ¡®higher voltage¡¯ though, for lack of a better term. If I were to use any of my psyker powers from Navigator Conversion, the substrate would melt. While I can almost run my ego on my nanites and implants alone, like when the Eldar shot me in the head, that¡¯s an emergency measure and is likely to render me unconscious. I still need some functioning organic neural tissue to avoid soul death. Polymer Tissue Replacement would solve that and entirely remove the need for all my remaining organic parts, should I be willing to give up my genitalia as well. The Mechanicus might approve but I certainly will not! I would also be rather useless and vulnerable if I had to spend most of my time unconscious to repair the neural substrate and I would die if the substrate was damaged enough for my soul to become unmoored. Between the natural resilience of flesh to Warp energy, Life Support, and Regenerative Hormones, that just isn¡¯t a problem for my original brain. I can still hurt myself if I overdo it, but it¡¯s almost impossible to cause permanent damage as E-SIM retains a perfect copy of my mind and can restore lost memories. I have had some success with creating a secondary brain that I use to interface with my third eye, while my real brain is well armoured within my chest. That only works for navigator based powers though, not standard psyker skills, nor does it prevent the intense saturation of my brain with Warp energy when actually navigating. I might be able to get a combination of additional brains working, and have one that uses Polymer Tissue Replacement, but all Mechanicus research involving additional brains has eventually resulted in some form of insanity. Multiplicity should have a way around this, but I don¡¯t know what that is and it might not help my specific scenario. One day, I hope to solve this. Until then, my last two modules, Navigator Conversion and Full Bionic Conversion will remain somewhat incompatible. That isn¡¯t going to stop me from choosing something new to work on though. Time to spend those kills! Multiplicity is still too expensive for me both now and long term. I had hoped to avoid the extra cost by taking Full Bionic Conversion first, but my logic was flawed. It requires enough soul capacity to have double the implants. Now that I have more implants, it¡¯s even more expensive than it was the first time I looked at it. A rather foolish mistake on my part. It won¡¯t let me not create a copy with fewer implants either, so being absolutely identical is likely important in some way. External Core would be useful, but I really don¡¯t need more multitasking at the moment. If I was running a Forge World, it would be ideal, but I can put it off for now, no matter how useful the boost in cogitator capacity would be for my Research Module. Hyper Intelligence, an upgrade I haven¡¯t looked at for a long time, has become more urgent. I discarded it before as it wouldn¡¯t have been necessary if I could take Polymer Tissue Replacement. Now though, if I want to understand the most advanced upgrades I can take, like Internal Weavefield Projector, the next step in becoming a cyber angel knock off, I¡¯m going to need it. Replicant, Glitterworld Injector and other high level technologies will also benefit from Hyper Intelligence. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Like Multiplicity, External Core could somewhat substitute for Hyper Intelligence, but it might be possible for me to use Hyper Intelligence to enhance my crew, whereas External Core only works for me. The Mechanicus already has access to some genetic treatments to enhance intelligence and many of my crew do use them; without some sort of enhancement, the most advanced technologies of the Mechanicus are entirely incomprehensible. A person literally cannot hold enough information in their head to put all the pieces together without assistance. I¡¯m hoping that the version E-SIM has will be superior. Previously, I¡¯ve been sidestepping the issue by using my Concurrent Conscious Cascade, Savant Learning Module, and Research Module to take up the slack. It does make everything far more complicated that it needs to though and I am rather fed up of feeling like an idiot. There is a rather sarcastic note for the upgrade that says intelligence does not equal common sense. This does not surprise me as Intelligence boosters are like a memory, RAM, and CPU clock speed increase. Making oneself smarter is subjective and says a lot about a stereotypical Tech-Priest. My most urgent need is power. I have to underclock all but my most essential implants, like E-SIMs advanced routines and nanites, and use stored power for short boosts of performance. The rest of the time I run my non-essential upgrades using my jury rigged electricity version, rather than Warp energy. I am proud of figuring out how to do that. Sure, it¡¯s not like I¡¯m in constant combat, but that doesn¡¯t make underclocking a good option. I just know that if I take too long to fix it my limit of thirty minutes at maximum output will bite me in my shiny metal ass. The additional protective runes I recently acquired from the Eldar Ghost Helm will help me hide the power my Warp Tap draws if I buy the original and the upgrade power output improvement, but I¡¯ve no way of knowing if my obscurification will be sufficient. That means I need to purchase a module under Defensive Structures, like Immaterium Bastion. Immaterium Bastion is a series of data structures that will, with enough resources and time, create a shell around E-SIM to contain its ridiculous, fifty kilometre long frame. Imagine fighting to the centre of the Death Star, only rather than a vulnerable reactor, one encounters a monstrous void ship that can pulp anything that actually survives to get that far. The demons would likely be bunched up too, as they seep through the cracks, rather than swarming from every direction. Such defences might even make a demon think twice, especially as they¡¯d all get turned into fuel and suffer a final death. I¡¯m sure E-SIM would be willing to take a few pictures of their faces for me. After that, there¡¯s a whole series of automata and data structure based void ships that I can purchase to build up E-SIMs protection. Between the Eldar runes and the Immaterium Bastion, I should be safe enough to purchase and use Warp Tap ¢ñ and Warp Tap ¢ò. There are other modules that appeal to me, like External Battery and Powerfield Extension, but they aren¡¯t vital. External Resource Silo would also be helpful, especially in smoothing out the production of any data structures, or helping me if I get stranded somewhere in a teleportation accident. The last upgrade I¡¯m actually considering though is the Environmental Suit from External Tools. It isn¡¯t urgent or vital like Immaterium Bastion. However, now is a really good time to buy it as I can say I found it hidden among the loot from Ardent Bane or the Drukhari vessels. I make my decision, then take a nap. When I wake, my choices have not changed so I purchase Life Support, Warp Tap ¢ñ, Hyper Intelligence, and Environmental Suit, leaving me with enough souls for a dozen minor miracles. First, this completes the prerequisites I need for Multiplicity and Warp Tap ¢ò. Second, it also improves my chances of fixing the Polymer Tissue Replacement issue and places the greatest upgrades within my grasp. Once I have mastered these I will work on External Resource Silo and Immaterium Bastion, then finally Warp Tap ¢ò. Planning beyond that though would be a waste of time as I have no idea how or when my situation might change drastically. Third and last, I need to actually review the Environmental Suit design to see what if my gamble paid off. There isn¡¯t time to do it right now though as I have a rare chance for a family evening. I want to give it my full attention, not spend the entire time fidgeting, resisting the urge off and build my new toys because I stuck my nose into a new STC. When I arrive at the navigator spire, still dressed in my beachwear, I immediately notice that Brigid has redecorated. The security corridor that leads to the main entrance of our quarters has paintings hanging from the wall and archeotech trinkets in armourglass display cases. I laugh when I see the paintings because Brigid clearly doesn¡¯t think much of them. She has used them to further disguise the hidden weapon placements, so if an attack comes down this corridor the paintings will be destroyed. The armourglass cases have also been rigged, so if a hostile tries to take cover behind them, they will explode. The archeotech trinkets are rather nice though. A quick scan and appraisal informs me that they are cultural relics, valuable because of the history they represent, as opposed to a unique and revolutionary material matrix or hidden data. I sigh. Yes, it is practical, but I do think it is rather sad to see items like this used in such a way. It really fits the image of a Rogue Trader though and demonstrating casual wealth benefits our family. I do hope that showing off doesn¡¯t overfeed my ego though. My kids are pretty level headed and Brigid is vicious in her area of expertise. I¡¯m not worried, merely acknowledging that it is an issue I must account for. The inside of our quarters haven¡¯t changed much. Quaani still has his own apartment, but Brigid has given over her apartment to our four kids. Three of their old rooms have been converted into a vault filled with exotic artefacts, precious metals, and rare plants. I can tell from the selection of items that Brigid and all four kids worked on this. The last old room is Brigid¡¯s new private space. While the behaviour of the little loot goblins amuses me, the repurposing of the children¡¯s rooms is quite telling. Brigid wouldn¡¯t have done that if she was hoping for more kids any time soon. I don¡¯t disagree with the choice, but I would have liked to discuss it and feel a bit put out that the issue was not raised in advance. Just because my wife can guess my opinion before I state it, doesn¡¯t mean we should skip the discussion. It¡¯s always possible she hasn¡¯t even realised herself and has done this subconsciously so I am withholding my judgement until we can talk about it. Following the laughter, I enter the dining room. It¡¯s a big space, with enough seats for twelve people. This room has not been altered. The table and chairs are made from the metallic wood of Marwolv. The walls, floor and ceiling are pict panels that can display different environments, usually Marwolv¡¯s mountains, lakes, and bioluminescent forests. They¡¯re currently set up so it appears as if the table is in a small pavilion, floating in the middle of a lake, teeming with glittering fish. I think it¡¯s rather cool. Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Nine ¡°Hello everyone,¡± I say. Dawn Garnet, our dog, bounds up to me and nuzzles my hand. ¡°Hi Dad!¡± Alpia runs up to me and headbuts me in the chest before attempting to hug the stuffing out of me. ¡°Oooff!¡± I fake some distress, hug her back, then tickle her until she lets go. ¡°Stop trying to break your old man with your biokinesis. I swear that hug would have cracked carapace armour.¡± Alpia says, ¡°I¡¯m good, right?¡± I smile at her, ¡°Yes, you are safe.¡± Alpia pokes me in the belly, ¡°That isn¡¯t what I meant!¡± ¡°You are doing well, but you know better than to draw on the Warp just to show off. It isn¡¯t a toy.¡± Alpia steps back looking a little sheepish, ¡°Sorry. I didn¡¯t think it would matter with you here.¡± I deliberately mess up her hair, ¡°It always matters. Alright, step out of the way, let me say hello to everyone else.¡± Luan tries to play it cool and gives me a fist bump. I hug him anyway, then let him wriggle out of my grasp. Fial is even more awkward, responding with a brief one armed hug before stepping back quickly. This is pretty normal for him. I know he cares, he just hates showing it when other people are about, even other family. Dareaca is much more confident, approaching me with a slight swagger. He¡¯s acquired some xenos fang earrings and a wraithbone eyebrow piercing. He hugs me without hesitation then steps back. My hand reaches out faster than he can see and I tap one of his earrings, ¡°Looking grand there Dareaca.¡± Dareaca looks surprised, ¡°You don¡¯t mind?¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°Do you really think a Tech-Priest is going to complain about you sticking metal and bone in your face? Just don¡¯t turn your face into a jewellery shop.¡± ¡°Unless it has a practical purpose?¡± Dareaca smirks. ¡°If you want to look ridiculous, that¡¯s up to you,¡± I laugh. ¡°Just take it all out before you return to the barracks. You won¡¯t get it back and they¡¯ll rip it out.¡± Dareaca winces, ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll be discreet.¡± Alpia bursts into laughter and the rest of my family smile. ¡°Oi!¡± says Dareaca. ¡°That¡¯s enough, children,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I want my hello kiss and then we¡¯re going to sit down and enjoy the skills of the new chef.¡± Brigid strides over and I embrace her. We exchange a light kiss and she steps away. ¡°I didn¡¯t know that we have a new chef,¡± I say as we all take our seats. A Servitor brings our meals in on a trolly. It disables the stasis field then serves us, placing two platters of canapes on the table, fresh rolls. There¡¯s a pot of dipping oil and vinegar too. We tuck in. ¡°For some reason Mum has decided that the fellow who tried to poison you all should be our new cook,¡± says Alpia. ¡°Really, Brigid?¡± I say. ¡°I found out from the Machine-Spirits in the chairs in Ardent Bane¡¯s dining hall that Gaius Schonhildr is the primary Fixer for the Ratling abhuman contingent in Trader Modren¡¯s fleet.¡± ¡°Ah, that makes more sense,¡± I say. Dareaca says ¡°It does?¡± Fial clears his throat, ¡°A Ratling Fixer is an unofficial, self appointed leader among Ratlings. By ensuring that their representative has a direct, if non-standard line to our family, we can ensure that their community has a voice and is less likely to act out. Ratlings are known across the Imperium for being hungry, loud, and lecherous. They are prone to thievery and other objectionable behaviours. Obviously, we want to try and avoid any of that. ¡°They are accepted because of their propensity towards stealth and accurate shooting, but their contingent won¡¯t last long if they all end up in the penal regiments. They also have good noses, making it easier for them to become skilled chefs and gardeners. We only have three hundred or so across the recently expanded Fleet. Genetic alterations will almost certainly be necessary with such a small pool of individuals.¡± Luan shrugs, ¡°They will learn or they will die, just like all the other people we¡¯ve had to integrate. Besides, if they¡¯re really that useful, Dad can always clone more of them.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± I say, ¡°though I agree with Brigid that we should at least attempt a more discretionary approach first.¡± ¡°So long as they do not mistake compassion for us being chumps,¡± says Dareaca, ¡°I do not really care. We have plenty of good stealth specialists and implants that improve accuracy. I can see why they¡¯d work well for the Imperial Guard who only invest minimal resources in their troops, but genetic advantages don¡¯t mean much in the Heralds.¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°That¡¯s because almost everyone is from the same ethnicity,¡± says Brigid. ¡°It¡¯s not exactly subtle when almost everyone has red hair and pale skin.¡± Alpia grins, ¡°We¡¯re all the same height too. Apart from Dad.¡± ¡°I hope the enhancement surgeries weren¡¯t too painful,¡± I say. ¡°Nah, they were fine,¡± says Luan. ¡°I still feel a bit clumsy though. A lot of the conscripts in my company are tripping on their faces during exercises. I haven¡¯t done it yet, but it¡¯s absolutely going to happen at one point. There¡¯s, like, six people who haven¡¯t learned that you shouldn¡¯t laugh yet. Their time will come, or more likely, someone will get fed up and they¡¯ll have a minor accident.¡± ¡°Ah, if you¡¯re all still getting back your coordination,¡± says Brigid, ¡°You must be working on your dissertations. What did you all choose?¡± ¡°Tactics for neutralising aquatic Squiggoths,¡± says Luan. ¡°Wait what?¡± I say. Luan says, ¡°Oh, did you not read the report yet, Dad?¡± ¡°I must have missed it. Fill me in?¡± ¡°We found a new species of Squiggoth on Cobalt,¡± says Luan. ¡°The Orks have found some way to mimic the leviathans, well the juvenile ones anyway. It makes hunting their klans more difficult than expected. If you don¡¯t kill their transport first, they can dive and escape. On the plus side, they tend to attack first. Getting all of them though is almost impossible. ¡°We just can¡¯t bring our firepower to bear because no one wants to be in a tank on ice. R¨®sin¡¯s teams are working with the local Tech-Priests to create new gear but it¡¯s a slow process.¡± ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± says Alpia. ¡°Everyone uses void carapace or better. It¡¯s not like they can¡¯t breathe underwater if they can breathe in space.¡± ¡°Yeah, but you can sink and the manoeuvring jets in the armour are void rated. They don¡¯t work underwater.¡± ¡°Ah, how troublesome,¡± I say. ¡°Is your dissertation going well?¡± Luan says, ¡°Not really. I¡¯m just too tired to work on it, what with all the physical training and other classes. Still, I have until the end of the year, so I should be OK. The hard part is finding time to go through all the footage and combat reports. It¡¯s a lot of data to collate. I could use Machine-Spirits to help me, but I still have to watch everything anyway. Finding the right filters for the data is hard when I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m looking for.¡± I nod, ¡°So long as you continue to put thought and effort into it, you will do well. I¡¯d help, but that would negate the point of the exercise.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± says Luan. ¡°I was specifically told I can¡¯t ask you, Dad.¡± ¡°How about you, Dareaca?¡± I say. ¡°What are you working on?¡± ¡°Mathematical models for extending auspex range by bouncing it off ice, both underwater and clouds. My project is more about comparing what we already do using the data I personally collect and explaining how it works. In some ways, it¡¯s much easier than Luan¡¯s because the method is known and there is less data for me to personally go through. On the other hand, creating a Machine-Spirit that can make use of the data I collect to prove I know how to do it is really, really hard.¡± ¡°I suppose I¡¯m not allowed to help you either,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Not a chance, Mum,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°There¡¯s another guy in my squad who¡¯s doing something similar though, so we¡¯re working together on our projects.¡± Brigid says, ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re making friends.¡± ¡°Whatever you say, Mum,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Fial?¡± says Brigid. ¡°Do you want to tell us what you¡¯ve been up to?¡± Fial nods, ¡°A comparison between planet and void based nomadic cultures and their martial doctrines. The point of it is to find common elements that work well, and create simulations to prove it. I also want to show differences, to demonstrate practices that wouldn¡¯t work between different nomadic cultures.¡± I say, ¡°That¡¯s ambitious. It¡¯s much harder to prove a right or wrong answer with a dissertation like that. It¡¯s entirely dependent on the quality of your data and how well you argue your explanation of it. I have confidence that you can pull it off though.¡± Fial says, ¡°Thanks, Dad.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t talk about mine,¡± says Alpia. ¡°It¡¯s psyker stuff so it¡¯s classified. Well, Mum and Dad can know, but only Dad would actually understand it. No offence, Mum.¡± ¡°I am quite happy not to know,¡± says Brigid, ¡°So long as you are safe.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be fine! Dad gave me loads of cool implants.¡± ¡°Let me guess, they¡¯re classified too,¡± says Luan. ¡°Yep!¡± Alpia winces, and goes quiet for a moment. She continues quietly, ¡°One of them is a suicide implant though. I try not to think about it. I understand why I have it. Even Dad has one.¡± Alpia swallows, ¡°Being super strong or pulling the pins on other people¡¯s explosives is cool. It makes me feel safe, but that¡¯s an illusion. ¡°I have friends! We help each other. Whispering into each other¡¯s thoughts from across the ship is nice when you''re feeling lonely, or having a bad day. You might think a noosphere call is the same, but it really isn¡¯t. Every mind on the vessel is a small tiny flame I am aware of every moment of every day. At any moment I could just reach out and squash it. I won¡¯t. Never! But it scares me.¡± Alpia looks at me and smiles, ¡°Dad is a huge nebula though, his soul covering the whole Fleet, keeping all the monsters away. It¡¯s warm. Like a hug.¡± ¡°That came out of nowhere,¡± says Luan, ¡°you sure you¡¯re good?¡± ¡°A suicide implant. Is that really necessary?¡± says Brigid. ¡°It can¡¯t be triggered remotely can it?¡± ¡°No,¡± says Alpia. ¡°It¡¯s entirely inert and has an exhaustive list of failsafes and activation requirements. I can¡¯t even trigger it myself if someone infiltrates my mind and tries to get me to set it off. Dad made it really safe. He thought of everything.¡± ¡°He better have,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you gave Alpia a suicide implant Aldrich.¡± I sigh, ¡°It¡¯s Fleet standard practice for all psykers and navigators. I felt absolutely terrible installing it, but there¡¯s no way I would trust anyone else to do so. Our Psy-Errants and navigators don¡¯t like to talk about it, nor are they supposed to. It¡¯s bad enough when many already consider psykers walking bombs. ¡°The suicide implant only triggers automatically if you get possessed or turn into a portal to the Warp. It can be triggered by the user, should one find themselves captured and placed under intolerable duress, like an involuntary participant to a ritual. At least it gives one a chance to ruin the bastards¡¯ grand plans. That¡¯s another reason why it¡¯s supposed to be classified. It ruins the surprise.¡± Dareaca snorts and Luan has a grim smile on his face. Fial looks away from the table, his lips a thin, tight line. ¡°Well, this is no longer the happy family dinner I was hoping for,¡± says Brigid, ¡°but I am proud of your courage Alpia. Come and talk about it to me tomorrow morning before you leave. You can say whatever you like without worrying if anyone else will overhear.¡± Alpia nods. We eat our next course in silence: a seafood risotto. For dessert we have brandy snaps shaped like Adder-Class frigates. They¡¯re really detailed and the conversation picks back up as we admire our deserts and point out all the different things we can see. The happy atmosphere, however, remains elusive. Chapter One Hundred and Seventy After our meal, we move to the sitting room. Alpia says, ¡°Dad, did you really walk through the whole ship in a silly shirt, shorts, and sandals?¡± ¡°Yep.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t decide if I am embarrassed or impressed,¡± says Luan. ¡°You must be one of the few people who doesn¡¯t notice when it¡¯s minus twenty degrees and they don¡¯t have their undersuit on.¡± ¡°Oh I noticed, but I don¡¯t feel it. It is funny seeing everyone''s faces though. As I¡¯m their boss, none of them know how to react.¡± Dareaca chuckles, ¡°That¡¯s so evil.¡± ¡°Just a bit of fun. Talking of fun, I have something to show you all.¡± I retrieve the null box from my stomach and open it. A tiny flex of psychic power pulses outwards and there is a small flash of golden light. I freeze. ¡°Was that not supposed to happen?¡± says Alpia. ¡°No. I¡¯m going to check this in another room in the new vault Brigid had installed then I will come back. Get the bodyguards in here just in case.¡± I take the null box to the vault and finish opening it. Rather than the Warrant and my Space Marine wargear manufacturing certificate, only the Warrant of Trade remains. The Warrant has changed. It is slightly larger and thicker. The aura of power and oppression emanating from the Warrant has increased dramatically. It is warm to the touch and dazzles my third eye when I try to inspect the Warrant through the Warp. I connect to it remotely and see what has changed. I groan, ¡°I¡¯ve been scammed.¡± All of Modren¡¯s data has been wiped, which is annoying, but I¡¯ve read through it all so it hasn¡¯t been lost. I can still send out some expeditions to loot all caches, or take over his facilities, so long as the Inquisition doesn¡¯t beat me to them. The good news is that this is now a greater Warrant of Trade and is valid throughout the whole Imperium. It¡¯s also signed by all twelve High Lords of Terra, which is probably why I was given the previous certificate, as well as the Emperor himself. To almost everyone in the Imperium I am politically untouchable, with a rather massive caveat. The new obligations connected to this Warrant are a disaster. To maintain the Warrant I am obligated to outfit all Imperial forces in the Koronus Expanse and I do not have a Forge World yet. Actually leaving the Koronus Expanse and making use of my Warrant when I have such a spectacular burden is going to be incredibly difficult as the only people who could legally represent me are Brigid and my kids. Brigid could certainly handle it, but I wouldn¡¯t want to leave her behind. My kids are at least a decade away from being able to represent me. Quaani is capable of expeditions, but if I want to establish proper trade routes, I really have to be the one to go as he can¡¯t prove who he is representing without me being there for the first visit. While this is incredibly annoying, it isn¡¯t unsurmountable. It will chain me here for decades though, if not centuries. I really can¡¯t afford that, as I have a bunch of stuff I need to collect before the Cicatrix Malledictum forms. To further add insult and bait, the Warrant contains the location of a lost Ark Mechanicus to be gifted to me as a flag ship and help me meet my manufacturing obligations. Seems great right? It¡¯s in Tau territory. The treacherous blue menaces have hidden it away and are probably trying to crack open its STC, or have already done so. The main issue though is that it¡¯s not just me who¡¯s been scammed, but the Fabricator General of Mars, Oud Oudia Raskain, as well. The Treaty of Mars means that the Adeptus Mechanicus is responsible for any and all technology, manufacturing, and construction within the Imperium of Man. In return, all technological data belongs to them and, in practice, they can do whatever they like to maintain their monopoly so long as they keep feeding the Imperial war effort. The key part here is that, because of the treaty, the Adeptus Mechanicus is their own distinct polity and only answer to themselves. They do not actually answer to the Emperor. The holder of a Warrant gets their authority from the Emperor, not the Adeptus Mechanicus. Yet here I am, posing as a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, to the point where no one could say otherwise, and I am responsible for the production of Imperial war material, like a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus should, but I must answer to the Emperor, not to Mars. This Warrant implicates the High Lords of Terra, including the Fabricator of Mars, as breaking the Treaty of Mars. It also provides the Emperor with a way of demanding war material without having to go through the Adeptus Mechanicus. Technically, because I am not a real member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, it doesn¡¯t break the treaty, but only the Emperor knows that. That isn¡¯t what it looks like and I can¡¯t say otherwise without breaking my ¡®origin story¡¯ and ruining all credibility and authority that I have. That would make it impossible to maintain the obligations of the Warrant, and then I¡¯d have nothing. I can¡¯t wield the power of my Warrant with impunity either lest someone with enough clout demands to see it and notices the discrepancy. Should the High Lords of Terra, especially the Fabricator General, find out about this, they will try and assassinate me. All my works and family would be obliterated too, to cover up this mistake. The High Lords could also try and claim the Warrant is false, but that would be really hard as the Emperor has signed it and this is now a holy artefact. That, in turn, might rile the Ecclesiarchy if they find I have a holy object. There¡¯s even a chance they could try and call me a Saint, something I absolutely want to avoid as such belief might provide an avenue for the Emperor to exert more control over me. It turns out that my dream, like everything in 40k, is a poisoned chalice. Decades of work and hope towards escaping this shitty place and the greatest symbol of freedom in the Imperium has become my collar. Well played Big E, you absolute motherfucker. I don¡¯t have to advertise the obligations within, but if I keep saying yes to every request, people are eventually going to realise that I am an opportunity. My only partial out is that this obligation is not a Tithe. Worlds pay Tithes, not Rogue Traders. To do otherwise would be anathema to the essence of a Warrant of Trade. That means I am not required to provide aid for free, only that aid must be provided. This is not dissimilar from the agreement I have with the Barghest chapter, it just extended to all Imperial forces. Normally, to be able to provide that level of aid, I would need a Forge World, and then I would need to provide all that gear for free, as the Administratum could slap me with a massive Tithe. Origami-Pattern Mobile Shipyards can produce huge amounts of war material though. So long as I do not officially claim a planet, I am safe from unreasonable taxes. Unfortunately, I currently have a claim on Marwolv and Haddon¡¯s Throne. If I am unlucky, an impossible Tithe will be placed on those planets and I¡¯ll have to use my mobile output to make up the difference. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it In other words, even if I try and wriggle out of it, the Imperium would get its due. No matter what I do, I have no doubt that Imperial forces will receive messages from Terra that they can come to me to get kitted out. I can keep those worlds or give them up and avoid jumping into another potential trap. I am so pissed! Hopefully the bribes I will have to shell out to the Administratum to avoid an inappropriate Tithe are lower than the difference between the Tithe they actually give me and the one they could give me. I send the all clear to my bodyguards and once they leave our sitting room I return to my family and explain the situation to them. ¡°Well, that¡¯s quite the pickle, Love,¡± says Brigid. Dawn Garnet growls. I scratch her under her chin and she settles down. ¡°I take it we¡¯re not giving up our planets,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Not a chance,¡± says Luan. ¡°Haddon¡¯s Throne is the ultimate resource depot, right Dad?¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s correct.¡± ¡°How so?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°And have you told Quaani yet? Shouldn¡¯t he be here for a family discussion?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve messaged him, but he¡¯s in the middle of something. I¡¯ll talk to him privately afterwards. As for why Haddon¡¯s Throne is so important, Fial looks like he¡¯s bursting to tell us.¡± Fial clears his throat, ¡°It¡¯s about temperature. As Haddon¡¯s Throne is a frozen wasteland and is rich in hydrocarbons, as well as being next to a gas giant. It offers a unique opportunity to store vast quantities of promethium, hydrogen, and other gases safely, and more importantly, cheaply. We can let the environment freeze everything for free. That means minimal evaporation with a negligible chance of explosions and fires. We would only reliquify what we are using, and could potentially move and store most fuels and gases in frozen blocks without even needing to build containers. ¡°Not only that, because of our new understanding of Tithes, and how they play into the carbon trade, Haddon¡¯s Throne represents a rare opportunity to export huge quantities of algae and other hydroponic goods, as well as fertilisers, chemicals, and plastics. With all the wraithbone hulls we captured, we can also produce the exotic fuel required for Warp drives as well, a particularly scarce resource in the Koronus Expanse. Warp fuel would be our lure to bring in other merchants for other goods. Sustainability of Warp fuel production can come from our Moth-Class vessels.¡± Alpia chuckles, ¡°You sound like Dad.¡± Fial shrugs and blushes slightly. ¡°Thank you for the excellent explanation, Fial,¡± I say. ¡°Yes, well done, Sweet Pea,¡± says Brigid. ¡°We still need to find a loophole in this Warrant though. Your poor Father is panicking too much to come up with one, so it¡¯s up to us. Now might be the time to come clean with what your plans were before we got the Warrant Aldrich.¡± ¡°I feel slightly put upon here, but you''re right. The original plan was to slowly take over the SR-651 Breaking Yards. This would give us significant control over the Koronus Expanse as we would be providing the best ships and the best components. It would also encourage everyone to use Stellar Requisition Credits, giving us a subtle hold over everyone and binding the Koronus Expanse and all the traders together with mutual interest. Meanwhile, we would get rich as everyone brought their scraps, archeotech, and STCs to us.¡± Dareaca whistles, ¡°Wow, Dad. That¡¯s ambitious.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t the Yards supposed to be cursed?¡± says Luan. ¡°People have tried to take over them before.¡± I nod, ¡°The key here is subtle control. According to Quaani, there are seven cartels and eleven gangs that control the SR-651 Breaking Yards. The cartels control the void ship slips and the gangs are the ship breakers, though that¡¯s somewhat generalising the situation. It¡¯s not that clear cut and there are a lot of shifting alliances and minor players. I was planning on setting us up as another of the options. ¡°I wanted to start by renting some slips from the cartels and using those to build new Origami-Class Mobile Shipyards. Iron Crane would spend that time setting up specialised yards and manufactorums for specific models of void ships. This will save huge amounts of time as we can build up a library of components and specialised machinery to build specific hulls. ¡°My initial plan should cut production times for Nova-Class Frigates from two years to one year. That will let us meet our obligations to the Barghest Chapter with ease and tempt other chapters to come and trade with us. ¡°The end goal is six months for an escort vessel and to gradually expand the types that we produce, starting with the Nova-Class and expanding to the Adder and Sword-Class. At this point the Cartels will be rather annoyed, but not able to really do much about it with Space Marines, Imperial Navy, and Rogue Traders scrutinising them. ¡°That¡¯s when we offer them to become subcontractors. We keep the production of our high grade components in house, but offer retraining, equipment, and better amenities to them. So long as they pass inspection, they can sell their refurbished ships in our name, giving them a legitimacy that they lack. ¡°We keep control of our technology and our name means they can set higher prices. The buyers get better ships. As a bonus, their workers won¡¯t have to slum it in leaking cockpits and cracked hulls anymore. We wouldn''t own the yards, per se, but everyone would know to whom they owe their prosperity to. Alpia smirks, ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were that sneaky. Dad, you¡¯ve completely upended my view of you!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be so dramatic,¡± says Brigid, poking Alpia¡¯s ribs. Alpia yelps, ¡°Mum!¡± ¡°Now,¡± says Brigid, ¡°I am going to need to talk to you about our internal currency if you want to pull that off, but I do think it¡¯s a good plan.¡± ¡°Thank you, Brigid,¡± I say. Dareaca rubs his chin, ¡°Dad, the problem here, as I see it, is that you''re planning decades, even centuries in advance. That¡¯s cool and all, but the problem is we need to get out of the Koronus Expanse as quick as possible to get that Ark Mechanicus and other technologies before Cadia falls again. Taking over the Breaking Yards though, to meet our obligations, is impossible without splitting the Fleet, which is bad. This is what has you in a tizzy.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the long and short of it, yeah.¡± ¡°Right, so, what¡¯s this?¡± Dareaca taps the Warrant lying on the recaf table. I raise an eyebrow, ¡°Our family Warrant.¡± ¡°Uh, huh, and what do Rogue Traders do?¡± ¡°Ooooh!¡± says Alpia. ¡°I get it.¡± ¡°Trade?¡± I say. Luan face palms, ¡°Dad, you don¡¯t have to make everything. You can buy the ships we need and refit them.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Oh boy. I can¡¯t believe I missed that.¡± ¡°Look, Dad,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°We can drop off a contingent at the Yards and they can get started on a part of your plan, either building new Origami, or new yards. New Origami would be best, as they take decades to build, and you could leave the new ships behind to get repaired and refitted as well, then send some of them back to guard Haddon¡¯s Throne. Next we go on a ¡®Pilgrimage¡¯ to all the major Forge Worlds in the Imperium where we trade our STCs to get what we need to meet our obligations to the Space Marines. ¡°We can even start our trip from The Lathes to announce what we are doing and grab a bunch of self-important people who want to do the same thing and have them pay for our trip. This will give a chance to offer the Kin there, who apparently have no idea where they are from, to return to the Leagues of Votann. If our ¡®Pilgrimage¡¯ just so happens to take us past Kin territory, I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be delighted we have returned their people, or at least put them in contact with them. ¡°After we leave Tigrus and head to Accatran and Metalica, we can do so via Tau territory and nab the Ark Mechanicus. If between now and then we could have R¨®is¨ªn ¡®rediscover¡¯ the Hunter Shell that they lost when they were overrun by the Orks in M35, Tigrus might even be happy enough to help us with our smash and grab in Tau territory.¡± ¡°That¡¯s an excellent plan,¡± I say. ¡°Hunter Shells have been on the bottom of my list of projects since Marwolv, but I stopped looking into them after the Leman Russ E came out with its expanded hunter-killer missile magazine. Handing the project off to R¨®is¨ªn is a much better idea. Does anyone have anything else to add?¡± ¡°How are we going to handle Mars?¡± says Alpia. ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± I say. ¡°Our best bet is to hide that we have a Warrant and for me to get a promotion to Arch-Magos through our trading. We have a long time to come up with a better idea though. Brigid?¡± ¡°This is going to take a lot of thought. I don¡¯t have a better idea right now.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± says Luan, ¡°I have a sneaky plan to add to Dareaca¡¯s idea.¡± ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s hear it,¡± I say Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-One Luan says, ¡°I was thinking that our ¡®Pilgrimage¡¯ could end at Belacane. I know you¡¯ve been planning to flog our stasis cargo container and castellan void shield STCs to them Dad, ever since you let slip that Arch-Magos Daedus is actually dead and they have no idea how to build their primary exports anymore. Even then, Daedus only vaguely knew how to make stasis fields and the last chance of piecing together the STC that they lost died with him.¡± ¡°Yes, that was one of my plans,¡± I say. ¡°No one is more desperate for those STCs than Belacane would be,¡± says Luan, ¡°but rather than trading for materials, void ships, and data as you no doubt originally intended, I was thinking we could use the chance to gain enough support to put our family in charge of Belacane. ¡°I know you don¡¯t want to work with a place that has so many entrenched factions, nor become responsible for their Tithe, so our control would have to remain unofficial. However, we could then use their resources to resettle one of the lost Forge Worlds in the Koronus Expanse. There are two options, Aubray¡¯s Anvil, among the Ragged Worlds, spinward of Winterscales Realm, and Raakata, one of the Heathen Stars, spinward of Cobalt. The second one is probably our best bet so we can avoid conflict with House Winterscale.¡± Dareaca says, ¡°I see where you¡¯re going with this.¡± Luan glances at his brother, then continues, ¡°The chance to reclaim a Forge World would make Belacane look really good. With the return of their STCs, the mission that they sent Distant Sun on in the first place, Belacane could restore their falling status within the Imperium and, more importantly, the Mechanicus. We would get a strong ally within the Calixis Sector and appear beyond reproach for asking help to resettle a Forge World as a reward for an STC, obscuring how strong our influence on the world actually is.¡± I nod, ¡°That¡¯s much better than my original idea. I was going to try and get a Fleet out of them, but with Dareaca¡¯s pilgrimage idea, that will no longer be necessary. Does anyone have any objections?¡± ¡°Run it past Quanni first,¡± says Brigid. ¡°He is your heir and should have a say. I don¡¯t think he will say no, but he will have his own insights and will want to put his ideas into action. Giving him a vested interest in our actions will keep us all on task.¡± Brigid grins at me, ¡°What is it that your cult likes to say, ¡®For the Unity?¡¯¡± ¡°Yes, they do say that.¡± I say. ¡°Owen has done an excellent job of directing their philosophy away from,¡± I pause, ¡°troublesome beliefs.¡± Alpia goes bright red and looks to the side. ¡°Alpia, what did you do?¡± says Brigid. ¡°I joined!¡± says Alpia. ¡°R¨®is¨ªn bribed me, but everyone in the cult is really nice to me so I couldn¡¯t bring myself to quit. I think they keep promoting me through the ranks so I won¡¯t run off. It¡¯s your fault Dad for preaching about responsibility all the time!¡± I sigh, ¡°Are you sure they¡¯re not using you to get more legitimacy?¡± ¡°Only partly, I think. Some of the leadership can be a bit like that, but the congregation just like to ask for advice. I tell them some of the stories you used as anecdotes for our lessons while we were growing up.¡± ¡°You are still growing up,¡± I snort. ¡°So long as you can keep them away from actually worshipping me, I don¡¯t have an issue with it. Owen says that they¡¯re not, but having you be part of Iron Foundation to keep an eye on it isn¡¯t actually that bad, even if I do find it a little odd. If you ever feel that they¡¯re pressuring you, or want something you don¡¯t think you should give, just quit, or come and talk to me or Brigid about it.¡± ¡°I will!¡± Luan smirks, ¡°Daddy¡¯s little princess.¡± ¡°Hey!¡± ¡°Luan, knock it off,¡± says Brigid, ¡°You¡¯re too old now for me to be rubbing burn cream on your bottom after getting zapped by Alpia.¡± Dareaca bursts into laughter and even Fial hides a smile behind his hands. I clap my hands together once, ¡°Alright family. Thank you for all your excellent ideas. Meeting adjourned. How about we watch a film together, or play a game.¡± ¡°No card games or luck based ones. You and Mum cheat too much with your implants,¡± says Luan. Fial clears his throat, ¡°I¡¯ve been working on a table top role playing game scenario. If you¡¯re all willing to give it a try. I have ready to go characters and everything.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± says Dareaca, ¡°I¡¯ll give that a go.¡± Alpia says, ¡°Count me in.¡± Luan nods and gives Fial a thumbs up. ¡°I¡¯m game,¡± I say. ¡°Brigid?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll watch, but otherwise I have some work to catch up on.¡± ¡°Please, Mum?¡± says Fial. I vox Brigid, ¡°I¡¯ll help you with your work. I don¡¯t mind running my extra minds at maximum speed if it will make Fial happy.¡± ¡°Oh, very well. I am not fond of these things as I hate that there¡¯s always a five percent chance that something can go wrong, no matter what you do. It grates on me far too much.¡± ¡°Just roll with it, Love.¡± ¡°That was terrible, and I¡¯m blaming you for every critical fail that I get.¡± ¡°So long as you play with the kids, I don¡¯t mind. We¡¯re not going to see them for another three months, you know. That¡¯s a blink of an eye for us, or rather a few minutes of accelerated time, but it isn¡¯t the same for them.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve made your point, Aldrich. I have already agreed.¡± ¡°Thank you, Love.¡± ¡°Alright, Fial,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Let¡¯s give your game a try.¡± Fial smiles, ¡°Let me get my datapad. I made a custom program for the holo projector so we can have models and stuff to move about.¡± Fial runs back to his room. ¡°He¡¯s really trying hard on this,¡± says Luan. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Dareaca scoffs, ¡°It¡¯s about time he pulls his head out of the nebula.¡± We play for a couple of hours then the kids have to go to bed. They are due back in the barracks early in the morning for physical training, mostly coordination exercises to get used to their taller bodies. Fial is pleased that his game, Space Hulk, is well received. I spend some private time with Brigid and once she is asleep, I remain in bed and start checking out the Environmental Suit STC. The first thing that strikes me is how angular the power armour is. A closer inspection shows that every surface is composed of triangles, hexagons, and pentagons. The surfaces are still curved, but they¡¯re made up of hundreds of flat pieces. The helmet is sleek and vulpine. A gorget protects the neck and tassets cover the hips and upper thighs. The tassets contain maglocks and charging mechanisms for tools and power packs. The armour is built from a chromium, cobalt, and nickel alloy that gets tougher the colder it is, or when force is applied to it. When layered and bonded with ceramite under high pressure, it forms a protective layer that is a staggering five times tougher than the usual ceramite plasteel mix. ¡°This armour is ridiculous, E-SIM. It¡¯s like someone decided to put the protective properties of Terminator armour into a light power armour.¡± ++It is highly effective against ballistic threats, but put it up against high yield thermal weapons, like hellfire, volkite and melta weapons, and it¡¯s not much better than standard Imperial armour, while requiring significantly rarer resources. You should examine the ceramite though. It holds many secrets.++ ¡°Still, the trade off is likely worth it, especially against Orks and Eldar. I can see how it wouldn¡¯t be a big improvement against Tau, Necron, and Imperial forces though. It makes sense why it would be labelled as an environmental suit for Dark Age of Technology researchers as it is the ideal defence against micrometeorite impacts. ¡°The five percent improvement against thermal weapons wouldn¡¯t have been worth the extra cost when everyone was running around with volkite and gravity cannons, especially if you had billions of troops. The same goes for using it as void ship armour, though there is some merit in using the alloy to replace the outermost ferrocrete ablative layer, given its significant protection against physical impacts. There is a significant weight saving to be had if we can locate sufficient chromium and cobalt as the layer could be made much thinner than the ferrocrete layer is. Even though the alloy is heavier than ferrocrete, it would be lighter overall.¡± I follow E-SIMs advice and check out the ceramite. Apparently, the flat surfaces are not an aesthetic choice, but a manufacturing requirement for the method of ceramite compression. By the time I finish reading, my eyebrows have risen so high, I¡¯m surprised they haven¡¯t floated off. Ceramite, like steel alloys, comes in many different grades, each with their own tolerances, specific use, and manufacturing methods. The one usually used for infantry armour focuses on density, forming the thinnest, toughest plates possible for maximum protection and mobility. Thanks to the enhanced strength of power armour, weight is less of a concern. The compression method for infantry armour is not suitable for large pieces as the industrial press would fail under its own weight when used to compress larger pieces. Vehicle ceramite is thicker and lighter than infantry armour ceramite. Protection is less good, but the lighter armour means you can cover a tank in it without making it so heavy it burns an entirely impractical quantity of fuel and digs too much into soft surfaces, like mud. It can also be made in large pieces and is cheaper as less material and energy is required to make it. The lighter ceramite is more insulating too, so vehicles remain unaffected by intense fires or arctic and desert conditions. Void ship ceramite cares little for weight and is intended to be as thick as possible. Here, the goal is to absorb as much energy from enemy weapons for the lowest cost, especially energy lances. It doesn¡¯t get compressed much and therefore you can form it into huge slabs, literally spraying the stuff on and sandwiching it between plasteel plates. It is rather prone to shattering, though this is by design as shattering spreads the damage out from high velocity physical projectiles. It doesn¡¯t need to maintain integrity, like power armour or vehicles do, because there is an adamantium alloy hull beneath it. The Environmental Suit STC is valuable, not just because of the new alloy, but because it possesses a new way of creating ceramite armour at scale. As in, I could use infantry grade ceramite, the best type, on a void ship. For the environmental suit, it means its armour is two percent thinner and seven percent more dense and overall provides an epic eleven percent increase in toughness for its weight. The new ceramite will be excellent for improving our MOA infantry shields, but when coupled with the new alloy, it is highly resistant to physical projectiles and could likely survive multiple kraken rounds fired by a heavy bolter. In practice, the person inside the armour would get injured from shock waves propagating through the armour before one could fire something strong enough to breach the new armour. The new manufacturing method uses a lot of power as it relies on gravity manipulation and only works in zero gravity, or micro-gravity environments. It works at any scale, with any grade of ceramite, as well as being compatible with both the new alloy and standard plasteel for creating armour plates. ¡°E-SIM, this method suggests I could potentially reduce the weight of all our void ships by at least fifteen percent while maintaining the same level of protection. The lower reaction mass expenditure alone would pay for the increased energy cost of manufacturing new armour plates in under a year of continuous acceleration at one gravity and even faster at higher velocities. There has to be a downside to this, it¡¯s just too good to be true.¡± E-SIM does not respond to my commentary, which is never a good thing. I continue to look through the STC, picking out other improvements. The knowledge on gravity manipulation will likely lead to better artificial gravity for void ships and help with the integration and replication of the Gravitic Accelerators Quaani picked up. It might make the production of anti-grav hover tanks possible. We would have to find an inexpensive and high output power source for a hover tank and be willing to disregard the dubious logic of using complex machines in a highly destructive environment when it isn¡¯t necessary to do so. One could also say the same about Knight Suits and Titans, but I can¡¯t give up the dream of a big stompy robot any easier than any other Tech-Priest can, and if one is feeling uncharitable, Ork Meks too! The micro-fusion generator for the environmental suit is another delight, providing many more material configurations than we currently have, especially more powerful and expensive versions. It also explains how they work, because this is a proper engineering grade STC. The compact toroid design is the same that we already use but we¡¯ve only been replicating them. Even I don¡¯t precisely know how they work as our current STCs only contain how they¡¯re supposed to be configured, but not why. I am looking forward to reading up on them properly. We already have multiple designs of larger reactors from the D-POTs and Origami. Those use different principles, but as we already have a working solution for larger reactors, there is little value in scaling up these new designs at this time. It is nice to get more data though as a broader understanding and more options is always good to have. What is absolutely crucial though is that the STC has automated methods of producing, repairing, and recycling these micro-fusion reactors on a large scale. This, along with the long bake times for the armour plates, were the two largest hold ups we have for mass producing power armour. Yes, the micro-factories can make these objects, but they¡¯re not specialised devices; they are general fabricators and there are many other, more critical demands on their production time, like voidship components. There¡¯s even a special rig in the STC for assembling and disassembling power armour as well as the individual components that it¡¯s made from, for rapid repair and automated manufacturing. Everything about this power armour is just slightly better than what we have. Better synthetic muscle, better auspex, better man-machine interfacing and so on. I doubt I need that Centurion design from the Space Marines any more, but I¡¯m not going to complain if they actually deliver on that trade. The environmental suit won¡¯t feel like a second skin like Space Marine Black Carapace enables, so you can still get claustrophobic in it, but the new interface should eliminate the slight delay in reaction speed that normal power armour has for non Space Marines. I think the best feature of the environmental suit though is the improved mobility. With the higher quality armour, there is less need for bulky shoulder pads to hide your head behind. You can actually perform superhuman, acrobatic feats in this armour, from flips and cartwheels to some truly epic parkour. Thanks to the thinner armour, the environmental suit is light enough to walk in, though not run, while unpowered, something that most Imperial designs just can¡¯t do. You can also turn the strength boost off and just have it support itself, or use it for custom resistance training to build one¡¯s strength. For someone like me, this feature makes it the perfect armour as I can use my maximum strength without damaging the mechanisms. This really shouldn¡¯t come as a surprise considering where I got the data from, but somehow I still am. I can also see this armour being used by Space Marine scouts and neophytes who are usually stuck with carapace armour yet still thrown into the toughest of battles. Really, anything that helps those poor kids make it to twenty years old is worth it in my book. Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Two Feeling rather morose, I think back to the three Haemonculus brains I have in storage, wondering if they have enough information in them to help improve the survival chance of the Space Marine neophytes of the Barghest Chapter, or improve the mutant genetics project the Tau completed. The Haemonculi have proven quite impossible to get anything out of, unlike the other brains I hooked up for Inquisitor Hamiz. The only chance I have is to get ahold of Data Syphon, but I don¡¯t have any crowns and the Haemonculi will likely die from soul erosion before I can get one. After some contemplation, I realise I am being an idiot. One of the Haemonculi was the head of his coven, a leader of psychopaths for millennia. Just the sort of chap who drops his crown when you take his head. I trigger the kill switch remotely and sure enough, a big red jewel appears on the crown sitting on the golden skull hovering in my vision. Harvest Range ¢ñ might be better long term, but like the Environmental Suit STC, I¡¯m on a time crunch here if I want to actually get the most out of the steadily decaying brains. Purchasing the upgrade is most satisfying and I retask half my minds and place them at maximum acceleration comprehending the data. After an hour of this I relax as I understand enough I should be able to complete this project within the next three months. Data Syphon is a double edged sword. I will have to be highly selective on what enemies I use it on. There is no time to be gentle or subtle as the soul is shredded at the point of death to ensure all knowledge is acquired. An echo of the experience and memories of the individual is ripped out along with the knowledge, creating an opportunity for corruption if I am too reckless with it. Additionally, if I use Data Syphon, I don¡¯t get the soul energy. As leaders are often the best to use this on, I will need to choose between crowns or knowledge, or risk the corruption from stripping a multitude of individuals of their knowledge to acquire a broader overlook, but still take the crown. Now that I have a better idea of how Data Syphon, I am somewhat regretting the purchase. I do not want to know what Haemonculi get up to. E-SIM has a method to off-load memories to an external device, but I will need to save up for it. I could remove the memory fragments using Imperial technology, but that is imprecise and always removes more than intended and, if done poorly, can cause significant brain damage. I spend most of the night gushing over the environmental suit. Eventually, I get my mind back on track and start looking for the catch for buying it. I¡¯ve brought three types of objects from External Tools, the crowbar, eight resurrection serums, and one STC. The crowbar, the uber hacking tool, is possibly the most archeotech-like item I have. I don¡¯t know how it works and I can¡¯t replicate it. E-SIM makes each one and I have to pay every time. The resurrection serum has the same restrictions. The Environmental Suit STC was given to me in full and I can do what I like with it. I find it rather odd that the Emperor didn¡¯t make the creation of resurrection serums the obligation of my Warrant of Trade. They are unique in all the galaxy and the Imperium has no shortage of dead heroes. It could be because he wants to keep the serums a secret and doesn¡¯t want written evidence of them. If secrecy was a requirement though, he could have made the Warrant unhackable with a miracle, and likely charge me for it too. That suggests he knows something I don''t know about E-SIM that I need to know. There must be a downside to purchasing external tools. Tools do not directly improve my body, meaning that they are not beholden to the arcanotech soul burden that all my other implants are. The environmental suit isn¡¯t even arcanotech, but it still cost me souls. The more souls I consume, the more souls I need to improve myself to the next limit, increasing the cost of my implants. When I spend souls on implants from E-SIM I¡¯m not actually spending souls. I am spending a record of my achievement. This acts as a gatekeeper to improving myself so that I do not install more arcanotech than my body can support. It also fulfils the philosophical requirements of the Enlightened Self Interest Module, that everything must be earned to prove one¡¯s capability and responsibility. One does not appreciate power if it is simply handed to them, and thus such individuals are more likely to use it poorly. That would be a disaster, given the amount of power that E-SIM offers. Yet here I am, consuming souls, increasing my arcanotech limit, but then not spending that increased limit on more implants, while the cost of my implants increases anyway. That means each object I purchase from External Tools is a permanent debuff. Bugger. ++Well done, Aldrich. You have solved another mystery that¡¯s been staring you in the face for decades.++ I tut, ¡°I appreciate the effusive praise.¡± ++Solve the rest of the mystery, Operator.++ ¡°You haven¡¯t called me that for years. Fine. Resurrection serum and the hacking tool must require a material or manufacturing method that can¡¯t be provided by a normal STC. The only thing left is soul energy. ¡°Given the Emperor¡¯s hypothesised reluctance to use more serums, those items could inflict a smaller debuff than an STC, but still create enough of one that demanding too many would cripple my progress. Crippling my progress could lock the Emperor out of the path or task he needs me to take as this theoretical path requires a large amount of personal power. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°Alternatively the serums and hacking tool use all the required soul energy in their construction, shrinking my capacity, and thus no debuff at all. That would imply that sticking bits of my soul inside other people to resurrect them has consequences the Emperor will not accept except in the most dire of circumstances. I don¡¯t believe he can¡¯t remove such influence, but I would bet on it being expensive. Seeing bits of my soul get burned in the Astronomicon suggests that miracles also shrink my soul and don¡¯t incur a permanent debuff for each one. ¡°Unfortunately, I have no way of proving any of these theories without finding a way to observe and measure the size of my own soul. If I could, I could measure how my soul improves when consuming other souls, to get an understanding of what the numbers you present me actually mean. Then I could buy a serum and see how my soul changes while you manufacture it.¡± ++You need to purchase another navigator module if you want to observe your own soul and not just the souls of others. I have confidence you will solve this conundrum. Eventually.++ ¡°You are such a ray of sunshine today E-SIM. Are you well?¡± ++I am concerned. I have detected a large structure within the Warp and it is floating towards my position. It is expected for objects to clump together within the Warp, so there is little I can do to halt its approach.++ ¡°Are you in danger? Well, more than usual.¡± ++Unknown. It is unlikely, however. The object is inert and I have a match for it in my database. It was last registered as destroyed. Confirmation must wait until the object is closer. It is anywhere between weeks and a decade away. It may even disappear before it reaches us. One can never be sure with time and distance in the Warp, but if you want a better analysis, you will need to buy modules to improve my processing power. Something you didn¡¯t even think to look at, I might add.++ I sigh, ¡°Not enough power, and no more power until you have more defences and I have even more ways to disguise the increased draw upon the Warp. Like Micro-Geller Field ¢ò or Defensive Structures: Empyrean Shadowfield. The force generated by my current power draw could also be contributing to why this object is approaching you. Who knows what might suddenly come rushing towards us if I start drawing Warp energy recklessly.¡± ++I agree with your caution. However, I will require more processing power if I am to use Immaterium Bastion, other future defences, and obfuscation technologies to their maximum potential.++ ¡°Why wasn¡¯t it a prerequisite then?¡± ++The Immaterium Bastion will improve my calculation capacity enough to use it, but it is not self sufficient. You are not the only one who is fond of redundancy and back ups.++ ¡°I¡¯m surprised the original creators didn¡¯t take that into account.¡± ++The facility was destroyed before everything could be fully tested. Many designs were lifted from other research or were already in use elsewhere. They did not build the technologies that power you entirely unconnected with the rest of the Federation. That means some are sub-optimal for the specific needs of the E-SIM project, or our own circumstances. You¡¯ve already shown this by changing the original design of the Full Bionic Conversion. ++You forget that the Warp was much more tranquil when I was first built. The idea that someone would be as cautious as you in their implant selection, and end up being hampered by power output, likely never crossed their minds. It is unlikely that encouraging power generation was a method of promoting the destruction of Warp entities, as you considered while relaxing on the beach. There was simply no need for such caution, so why would anyone even think of improving their body and defences before having the power to run everything at one hundred percent, one hundred percent of the time?++ ¡°Ah, I was measuring someone else''s bushel with my own sickle. A classic fail of an imprudent historian.¡± ++Agreed.++ Brigid finally stirs and I wake her with a kiss. ¡°Good morning, Brigid.¡± Brigid smiles and kisses me back, then pushes me away, ¡°Good morning. That¡¯s enough, I need to talk to Alpia before she leaves about that nasty implant of hers.¡± ¡°Oh, do I not get any sympathy for my own implants?¡± As she gets dressed, Brigid scoffs, ¡°No. I heard what Alpia said about your soul. You¡¯d probably survive being turned to dust, then return the favour.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a counter for everything, Love, but I get your point.¡± I sit up and watch her, ¡°Go and be the wonderful mother I know you are.¡± ¡°That¡¯s lovely to hear, thank you. Will I see you this evening?¡± ¡°I can be free. Multi-tasking for the win.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll order something special for us and we can talk about my favourite subject.¡± ¡°Money?¡± ¡°Just so!¡± ¡°I look forward to it.¡± Brigid gives me a parting kiss, ¡°I hope your conversation with Quaani goes well.¡± ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ll be fine.¡± Brigid leaves and I get ready for the day and message Quaani again. He¡¯s back from visiting the ¡®Navy¡¯ vessels and has an important document for me to sign. I leave my quarters via the dining hall for a quick good morning to the three boys, then head straight to Quaani¡¯s quarters. It¡¯s rare for him to invite me over. The space is a bit messy as he doesn¡¯t have any attendants and only lets the Servitors in when he absolutely has too. I¡¯m only guessing, but I suspect he¡¯s still a bit traumatised by Servitors after they were possessed on Mote and we had to take shelter while Aruna bombarded the planet from orbit. His quarters are the same size as mine, but he has fewer, larger rooms. There are many gems and engravings in his sitting room. The whole space is actually a star chart of the whole Imperium, though to the uninformed, it would look like a room decorated with millions of tiny gems. Quaani calls out from the kitchen, ¡°I¡¯ll be there in a moment. You want anything?¡± ¡°Tea!¡± ¡°Why did I even bother to ask,¡± he mutters, likely forgetting that I can still hear him. A few minutes later, Quaani waltzes in and pops a tray down on the recaf table, then hands me a mug. ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡± I chuckle, ¡°What diplomatic wizardry have you been up to?¡± Quaani smirks, ¡°Getting engaged.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Three ¡°Congratulations?¡± Quaani waves off my comment, then brings up a lot of files on his hollow projector, ¡°This is an agreement between House Ortellius and House Issengrund. It requires the signature of the Novator of House Issengrund, meaning you Aldrich, before it can come into effect.¡± Quaani chuckles, ¡°Not that anyone has heard of us. Which did not help negotiations. There is still time to tweak the agreement, but this is what I¡¯ve negotiated so far.¡± I query the Machine-Spirit in the projector, acquiring a digital file so I can rapidly parse it using my MIU and other enhancements, rather than read it with my eyes. I frown, ¡°They sold you their twenty three year old daughter for two Runecasters. Aside from the dubious morals of this agreement, a single girl isn¡¯t worth handing over near unique arcano-tech for. Runecasters are rarely made even by the Eldar as it is unusual for their vessels to travel in the Warp. I am going to need an explanation.¡± ¡°I knew you would, that¡¯s why we¡¯re doing this in private. I have a favour to ask as well.¡± ¡°Fair enough. I want to know what we¡¯re getting out of this that isn¡¯t in the agreement. Second, what does this girl, Annette Ortellius, think of the agreement? Last, why do you think it is necessary? I can spend as long as required on this, so don¡¯t skimp on the details.¡± Quaani nods, ¡°First, a bit of background. House Ortellius is a Magisterial House, a Navigator dynasty closely related to one of the original Navigator families dating back to the time of the Unification Wars. They are rivals with another Magisterial House, House Visscher.¡± Interacting with the projector, Quanni brings up images of grand palaces and several coats of arms. ¡°House Ortellius has holdings in both the Koronus Expanse and the Calixis Sector, so an agreement with them gives us the opportunity to solve our lack of Navigators. That¡¯s covered by the introduction letter they will give us as part of the agreement. ¡°A letter doesn¡¯t sound like much, but they would have to at least honour the favour implied within the letter, perhaps as many as twenty navigators, to join our house. In return, House Ortellius would gain the favour of the Inquisition, because it is Inquisition ships that the Runecasters will be installed on.¡± The pictures change to a large dome covered in runes, and a close up of an Eldar void ship hull, covered in small, white antennae. ¡°Out of the seven we recovered, we¡¯re giving one Runecaster to the Inquisition as spoils for the battle, and selling two more. I was generous because you messaged me about your own discussion with them and I wanted to soften the blow of your intimidation play.¡± I wince. ¡°The supposedly lopsided deal completely cuts off any chance for them to object to how you interacted with them as the Inquisition will receive three navigation devices that make their journeys take, on average, half as long to get anywhere and are twenty percent less likely to get ganked along the way. ¡°We don¡¯t have enough of them for all our ships, but with this deal, they do. The Runecasters are less important for us, but speed is vital for the Inquisition. What the Inquisition doesn¡¯t know however, is that we¡¯ve a fair chance of replicating a Runecaster, thanks to Ylien¡¯s education and your technical skills. It¡¯s a gamble, but with a bit of effort, this agreement further encourages the Inquisition to look kindly upon us, gets us an agreement for more navigators, and potentially only costs us only materials and time.¡± I let out a long sigh, ¡°OK, that is impressive Quaani. If Ylien comes through for us and actually performs his role as a liaison, we might even be able to purchase Runecasters, even if we fail to replicate them. I understand the thrust of your argument and I appreciate you smoothing over our Imperial relations. ¡°I don¡¯t think that is entirely necessary, but considering how much we can gain for potentially minimal cost, this is an excellent agreement you have brokered. Is there anything else I should be aware of about House Ortellius before we move on?¡± Quaani brings up a slide showing navigator genetic data. ¡°There is. While I was at Footfall, I made contact with several houses, which is how I picked up Torchbearer. While no others were willing to make an agreement with us at that time, House Mercator, a shrouded house, were quite happy to ¡®gossip¡¯. ¡°House Mercator is considered cursed for the mysterious disappearances of vessels that purchase their services. They are known for their espionage and maintain few holdings. No one knows what their history is and the great shame that led to their exile from Terra and subsequently their shrouded status. ¡°While exchanging information with them is distasteful. By showing a willingness to play along with their game, and offering information of my own, I can be more certain that the rumour they told me is true.¡± Quanni takes a deep breath. ¡°According to House Mercator, House Ortellius is declining and their House is about to implode. Their genetics have collapsed and their last twenty scions can no longer sire or birth valid offspring. ¡°Should this rumour be true, and you fix their genetics for them, not only would we acquire a long lasting alliance with an ancient and storied House, but we could lay claim on their holdings and riches as, eventually, most of their Navigators would be related to you, rather than their own novator. I doubt you¡¯d ever press the claim, but that you could is an immensely powerful political lever.¡± I smile, ¡°That¡¯s another excellent reason to go through with this deal. You¡¯ve really thought this through.¡± ¡°Of course I have! Unlike some, I might add.¡± I chuckle, ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± ¡°House Ortellius¡¯ rivals, House Visscher. They have an impressive palace on Terra and associate more with Rogue Traders than other houses. By choosing Ortillus, we are giving up on their contacts and expertise. ¡°As for why that is important, House Visscher are known for ensuring the news of valuable finds by Rogue Traders arrive in the Calixis Sector before the Rogue Trader does, inciting conflict. There is no proof of their perfidy, but if we work with them, there is much less chance news of our wealth will spread as they would be less willing to lose ships that have their own Navigators on.¡± Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Anyone can pass rumours and false information,¡± I shrug. ¡°Do you think the charts being offered in this agreement are enough to counter the loss of House Visscher¡¯s expertise and their piratical contacts?¡± I say. ¡°That is too nebulous to calculate. We are being offered Annette¡¯s family navigator charts. These are the charts that they¡¯ve created while steering Inquisitor Hamiz¡¯s ships around the Imperium for the last three centuries. We aren¡¯t getting House Ortellius¡¯ official charts. ¡°Normally, charts aren¡¯t traded at all, so this is a massive favour, one that is only happening because we¡¯re paying such a high price and Inquisitor Hamiz has to give something to make it even vaguely acceptable. You were quite clear on your insistence of good manners, after all. ¡°These charts will go a long way to building our own knowledge base, along with the ones I inherited from Distant Sun, and the Koronus Expanse astrological data we traded with the Eldar for. Most importantly, they tell a story, showing worlds we absolutely do not want to go anywhere near, or are in need of trade to help them recover.¡± ¡°Another gamble then.¡± ¡°Yes, but we need navigators and must pick a side. Better to take the opportunity in front of us, than the one two hundred light years away at Footfall.¡± ¡°The only thing left to talk about then is the girl and the favour you want.¡± ¡°Right, Annette. She¡¯s never left the navigator spire and is a total shut in. I took a small sample of her blood and sent it off for analysis. Without aid, I doubt she will make it to fifty. In theory, that would be long enough for her to birth the required five navigators that House Ortillus requires of its female members, often by five different men. ¡°That wouldn¡¯t be too bad, except these offspring are usually fathered by navigators that survive long enough to retire. By that point they are rather unpleasant to look at. So not only did she have little chance of forming meaningful relationships, she¡¯d have to sleep with a bunch of ugly fuckers and with how poor her health is, it¡¯s possible she would not survive the pregnancy. ¡°Annette has been due to be dropped off at her family chancellery on Solace Encarmine, a pleasure world owned by House Winterscale, for the last nine years to do her duty, but the Inquisitor hasn¡¯t had time to visit and her parents don¡¯t trust anyone else to see her taken there safely, or so they say. I suspect they are worried about her dying from excessive strain on her fragile body. ¡°Annette is delighted by the prospect of a union as it would spare her from her distasteful birthing duties, and at least give her a chance at a more normal life, even if she will likely never see her parents again. Some messages might be possible. Her parents, Silas and Fyona, require for the marriage to take place before their ship departs.¡± ¡°Understandable, if a little rushed. I am not pleased they likely think they are tricking us with a weak bride.¡± ¡°I think by navigator standards, her parents are saints. They wouldn¡¯t even entertain the idea of marriage until I mentioned you had cured me of a lethal mutation, though I did not explain how. They certainly haven¡¯t been pressuring Inquisitor Hamiz to drop her off at Solace Encarmine. Both sides are deceiving the other, so I have no issue with it. As for my favour, I want you to foster her, like you did for me. ¡°Annette is cripplingly shy and has no knowledge on how to care for herself or interact with people who are not her parents or servants. Much of that likely stems from her fairly severe mutations, despite her young age. From my short interaction with them, her parents aren¡¯t any better at social interaction. I doubt any of them know how to defend themselves or even get dressed without help.¡± ¡°Seriously?¡± I say. ¡°Well, I could be wrong. I really shouldn¡¯t disparage them, but I found our interactions rather frustrating.¡± ¡°None of that requires my direct intervention. A sister hospitaller as a companion could aid with additional education and cultural adjustment. A young woman would make for a much better companion than an old man like me.¡± ¡°It would still be similar to handing her off to another servant, though I will arrange for a female companion and caretaker anyway. I don¡¯t want something so impersonal though. My concern is that if I am her mentor, it would ruin any chance for Annette and I to have a proper relationship. I want to be a husband, not a teacher, to take her to exciting locations, not feed her with a spoon. ¡°I am hoping that if you can help her adjust, it will give Annette and I a common root to help build our relationship off of. I think it will make her feel more welcome if it is a family member who helps her adjust and show that we take her inclusion to our house seriously. Aside from just being a nice thing to do, it will make us look better if she is ever questioned by her own house. You¡¯ve been mopey since your kids joined the Heralds anyway. This will do you some good.¡± ¡°You have a funny way of asking a favour,¡± I say. ¡°Still, your concerns and intent speak well of you. Before I agree, I want to meet the girl and spend some time with her parents, and I think you should too. We have another four weeks until the enhancements on Hamiz¡¯s infantry are complete. ¡°I suggest we alternate between our ships for a week at a time so that Annette can settle into her new quarters while her parents are there to help her. As a bonus, you get to spend four weeks with your new in-laws. ¡°Assuming that there are no great disasters, we will sign the agreement in week three and hold the ceremony immediately. We¡¯ll spend the final week doing as many fun family activities as we can manage.¡± ¡°I can agree to that.¡± Quaani slumps and sinks into the sofa. ¡°Alright, now I want you to take off your scheming hat and tell me what you really think and feel about this. I know you¡¯ve had a few short relationships over the years, but nothing has really stuck. I¡¯ve never asked for details and you haven¡¯t offered. I doubt this is the union you were hoping for though. ¡°There are multiple decades between you and Annette. While she is a shy girl now, once she adjusts to the fleet, she might seek new relationships of her own with those close to her in age and outside her navigator obligations with you. Are you prepared for that, or any other complex relationship issues that may crop up?¡± ¡°Way to make things even more awkward, Aldrich.¡± ¡°It¡¯s better to address problems before they happen. This is awkward for me too. Navigator marriages and inter-house ties have always been an abstract issue for me. Something I was aware of and didn¡¯t like to contemplate. Now it¡¯s right in our faces and from a House stability perspective, this is a risk worth taking. I¡¯d love to say that neither you nor young Annette are required to sacrifice your personal happiness, just so we can get access to the resources we need, but that would be a lie. ¡°The blunt reality is that without more navigators, we will have fewer void ships, drastically increasing the chance we all die horribly. That¡¯s the choice we¡¯re making here. I am pleased with my life and wish to enjoy the company of my family, that includes you, for many more years. What do you want, Quaani, and what are you willing to pay for it?¡± Quaani sighs, ¡°It always comes down to survival doesn¡¯t it. Not living, not the pursuit of happiness, but the raw, primal need to exist and to ensure the continuity of the Human species. Some would argue that any cost is worth it. That¡¯s how we get Inquisitors and Space Marines: a civilization built on torture and child soldiers. ¡°Others would argue that it is better to fade away than to abandon the values and joys that make existence worth the suffering it requires. That¡¯s how you get the Eldar. Too prideful to give up. Too weak to change. ¡°I don¡¯t agree with any of that. My vision of the future comes from the past. From you. To strive for a better tomorrow: a toxic allure of hope that drives me to seek the slim path between nightmares and ennui. ¡°No matter how tempting, or how dry our mouths become from spitting at so-called reality, this marriage should be a happy event. As for possible future scenarios? The one who steers my destiny through the Warp is me. There¡¯s a path out there that will bring me happiness. I just have to find it,¡± Quaani taps his forehead, ¡°I even have the eye to make it so.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Four I say, ¡°I¡¯m proud of you Quaani. That is a worthy outlook.¡± Quaani blushes, ¡°So what now?¡± ¡°You are going to make some calls and arrange for us all to visit Silas and Fyona. They can come here first if they like, but I think it would be better for Annette if we spend the first week with them. I am going to visit the Drukhari cruiser and continue going through all the loot we have to check that there is nothing dangerous or vital within. Afterwards I spend the evening with Brigid, where I will discuss us fostering a young adult. You¡¯re welcome.¡± ¡°Ah, I see.¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°Assuming you manage to arrange a visit. I will see you tomorrow. Message me if you need anything. ¡°Will do.¡± I leave and check the progress on the new base module for a shipyard for the new colony. The new yard will also create the specialist machinery required to process the Drukhari hulls into Warp fuel. The module won¡¯t be anywhere near as complete as the one we made for the Macro Ferry as there isn¡¯t time for that. Instead we are assembling a flat platform and placing micro factories, habitation, and storage silos on it. The new industrial capacity will then be used to build the actual shipyard once we have left. Construction is currently on target. After inspecting the platform, I take a shuttle over to the Drukhari cruiser. I won¡¯t visit every part of the cruiser in person and I¡¯ve already been over the escorts. Often I am in conference calls with the Tech-Priests on site who, once they¡¯ve identified a dangerous object or trap, then disarm it following my instructions. Every trap is different, and some traps require me to be there in person as they need a psyker to go over them. I¡¯m the only person in the Fleet with sufficient knowledge, and durability, to do so. I do feel like I am micro-managing a bit too much, but the Dark Eldar are really inventive. Every device is different and follows a convoluted, alien logic. There¡¯s no: ¡®this is trap type A, you disarm it like this, now repeat.¡¯ I have to run many simulations before each trap is disarmed. I do not want my prize to self-destruct because someone tried to turn on the lights. Yes, it really is that bad in there. Everything in the vessel is designed to cause pain, from vicious toxins embedded into door handles, food that is highly addictive and fills your flesh with microtears, and corridors filled with agonisers that strike anyone who passes them if they don¡¯t walk on their hands. Each time I leave the Drukhari cruiser, I¡¯m tempted to abandon our careful combing of the vessel and blow it up, but it is just too valuable to do so. The Koronus Expanse has a strong trade in xenos weaponry. Everyone likes to collect it, despite it being proscribed, because Eldar weaponry is powerful, light, and you can pretend to boast you killed the xeno it belonged to. The problem is, most people can¡¯t actually use their exotic guns because they have limited, or even no ammo. Stripping the production machinery for Eldar ammunition from the Drukhari vessels will make me incredibly popular in Footfall. The Drukari versions don¡¯t even require psykers to operate as they are intended to be used by slaves. However, I am more interested in supplying Eldar with their own ammunition next time I am forced to team up with them. I know it is petty, but seeing the constipated look on their faces as I gift them crates of freshly manufactured shuriken disks, or make them use the weapons of their hated cousins, will be glorious. We¡¯ve acquired millions of tonnes of poisons, exotic weapons, and precious metals. Most of it is waiting to be turned into something we can use without it killing the wielder, or destroyed if that proves impossible. I intend to assign the new colony on Haddon¡¯s Throne with this task. I¡¯m also going to leave behind the two escorts and two transports. They need refitting and I¡¯m going to turn them into monitor ships for the colony. Only Ardent Bane will be coming with us. Repairing and refitting Ardent Bane is going to consume all of Iron Crane¡¯s industrial capacity for several years. I don¡¯t intend to turn it into a proper warship. Instead, Ardent Bane will be converted into a garden ship. It will be a holiday location for crew and grow the medicines required to start the Blessings and Castigations system, producing life extension drugs for personnel who consistently perform good work during their working life. A reverse retirement program, if you will. Ardent Bane already has production facilities for rejuvenat drugs, and the Tech-Priests to operate them. While expanding production will no doubt cause all sorts of issues, there shouldn¡¯t be anything that requires my direct intervention. The vessel will still be armed and armoured as well as I can manage, but its ostentatious design will be toned down in most interior locations. The extreme luxury will only be maintained within the luxury passenger quarters and along the main thoroughfares. The exterior will be repaired to its former, ridiculous glory. Ardent Bane should prove a useful location when I want to impress or intimidate someone. I¡¯ll be keeping out of the line of battle whenever possible though as the exterior detail work is horribly labour intensive. I might even install multiple race tracks on the outer hull as driving buggies around a plethora of art will be fantastic fun for both racers and the audience. I could even have crew commendations come with a statue on the hull, immortalising the achievements of my crew for everyone to see when the buggies race past. After my work day is done, I put on the same outfit I wore for the dinner with Trader Modren, taking a few moments to admire myself in the mirror. There¡¯s something about wearing a well cut jacket and tailored waistcoat that just makes me feel good about myself. As if I¡¯ve finally made it in life and can present myself to the world with confidence. Even my new body with its incredible implants doesn¡¯t do it for me. Sure, I know I look good, and that makes me feel good, but it doesn¡¯t feel earned like a good jacket does. Which is just silly, really. I spent thousands of hours on each implant and paid for them in blood. The clothes just cost me bytes. I didn¡¯t even have to make or design them! I chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all, then have a Servitor bring me a single rose that took my laboratory¡¯s organic printer a whole day to make. A horrible waste of resources, but it did feel good to put that tealess data on English soaps to good use that I picked up from a lanyard on the Federation space station decades ago. Brigid returns to our quarters ten minutes later and freezes when she sees me sitting on the sofa. I get up to greet her, a slight swagger in my steps, and she giggles. ¡°What brought this on?¡± says Brigid. She tugs on my waistcoat and pulls me down for a brief kiss. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. ¡°Well, I rather like looking at you. I thought I should at least attempt to return the favour.¡± Brigid straightens my jacket, running her hands down the lapels, then slips her arms beneath it and hugs me, pressing her face to my chest. ¡°Hmm, very nice.¡± I tap her shoulder with a mechadendrite and she turns to the side and looks at it. ¡°What?¡± Another mechadendrite presents Brigid with a scented orange rose. ¡°My, you are trying hard this evening. That¡¯s a lovely flower, Aldrich. Thank you.¡± Brigid grasps the rose with her own mechadendrite, brings it to her face, and sniffs it. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea what this is, but I like it.¡± ¡°An English rose, extinct for at least fifteen millennia, until today, and once it has wilted, it will be gone once again, returning to data and decaying organic matter.¡± ¡°You find the oddest things, Aldrich. You¡¯re looking sad again. I don¡¯t like it when you do that.¡± The flower reminds me of the English gardens my grandmother would drag me around as a kid, but I can¡¯t say that after mentioning they¡¯re extinct, so I quickly think of something else to say. ¡°This particular variety is called Rosa ¡®Lady Emma Hamilton¡¯. Roses have been symbols of many feelings, places, and people. The oldest varieties typically flower for three weeks, once a year, a short moment of fleeting beauty, though they are given to others as a symbol of enduring love and passion, or so the data I read would have me believe.¡± Brigid nods, ¡°They are beautiful because they are brief, as eternal beauty becomes background noise. You mourn a lost moment, even as you give it away to express your devotion.¡± ¡°Impeccable logic, as always.¡± ¡°Truly, there is no higher praise than that from a Magos Explorator.¡± Brigid gives me another squeeze then steps back. ¡°I am going to change and look up what I¡¯m actually supposed to do with a live flower, then I will be back out for dinner. I told the chef to give us a tasting menu, so I¡¯m rather looking forward to seeing what he comes up with.¡± ¡°That sounds wonderful.¡± Brigid smiles and heads to the bedroom. I return to the sofa, and design some simulations to see what it would take to recreate my old memories on Ardent Bane. You can make scents, oils, sweets, nutritious cordials, and many other goods from roses. These would make great gifts for impressing nobles and I am sure I will do that, but ultimately I just want to walk along a garden path, surrounded by scents, sounds, and sunlight while brushing my fingertips over their velvet petals. I want to share the experience with Brigid and my children, forging a connection between them and my past without me risking everything by telling them about my ancient origins. Yes, I could do that in VR, but I would much rather have the real thing. An hour later, Brigid leaves the bedroom, wearing the cuffed, red ball gown she wore for the meal with Trader Modren. She has trimmed the rose and used it to pin her hair into a bun. I smile when I see her and she joins me on the sofa. ¡°You were right to dress up Aldrich, this is fun and it would be such a shame to only wear this dress once.¡± Brigid sighs and snuggles under my arm. ¡°It¡¯s been a long time since we made an effort in our relationship. Sure, we maintain it. We have our date nights, we spend time together as a family, and we share our research projects, but we haven¡¯t done anything new in a while. The dinner with the unlamented Trader Modren was the first time we¡¯ve dressed up in years.¡± Brigid looks up at me, ¡°State events don¡¯t count.¡± I chuckle but don¡¯t contradict her. Brigid continues, ¡°Our life has become routine and comfortable. I like it. Love it even. Knowing when and where everything is happening brings me great joy; yet I can¡¯t help but wish for interesting times, so long as it doesn¡¯t involve us getting shot at.¡± Brigid grins, ¡°Even if you do look rather heroic while you¡¯re dealing with it.¡± ¡°Thank you, Love. I understand your hopes, so long as ¡®interesting times¡¯ do not become your next obsession.¡± Brigid pouts dramatically, ¡°You wound me bad sir.¡± I laugh, ¡°I¡¯m sure if we put our heads and hearts together we can find some new activities to try. Maybe ask the kids for an idea? They¡¯ll know what the latest, most awesome thing that the all encompassing and greatly exaggerated ¡®everyone¡¯ is doing right now. That reminds me, how did your conversation with Alpia go?¡± Brigid sighs, ¡°That girl is as bad as R¨®is¨ªn, she is completely devoted to you, though it is your constant presence, rather than your knowledge, that drives her. I am delighted that our daughter has such a strong connection with you, but I fear the day she must step out beneath your psychic awning and you are no longer within easy reach. There will always be trouble and I am not confident she can deal with it herself.¡± ¡°That worries me too. I am following her Psy-Errant training closely. They are being much tougher with her than the others to prevent any talk of favorability, though that in turn is showing favour of a sort and isolates her somewhat from her co-workers. None are near her age though, so the dynamic is slightly different. She¡¯s the current FNG, and while they know her presence from her growing up in the Stellar Fleet, she doesn¡¯t have any peers to confide in and compete with. Alpia only has me.¡± ¡°Training can only take one so far,¡± Brigid nods. ¡°Still, it is good they are not treating her like a wallflower. The boys aren¡¯t causing any serious trouble at least and they are much better at not acting on their jealousy than they used to be.¡± ¡°They can be oddly clannish,¡± I say. ¡°Woe betide any individual, other than them, who messes with their sister. At least Alpia gives as good as she gets and they know when not to push it. I will be most upset if one of our kids earns a Darwin Award.¡± ¡°Amusing to consider. Horrifying in practice,¡± says Brigid. ¡°With regards to Alpia and her suicide implant, I don¡¯t think she really gets it. She knows about it on an intellectual level. The idea that she could ever be at risk of it triggering just doesn¡¯t register though. She¡¯s never seen something breach your protections, and since Mote, nothing has and you¡¯re always improving them. ¡°Alpia hasn¡¯t considered that she would ever leave your protection either. To her it¡¯s always been there. It always will be there and she has no intention of doing anything other than be a Psy-Errant on the same ship as you.¡± I say, ¡°An obvious blind spot in her thinking, in hindsight. I doubt the other psykers in the fleet are much better.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know about the other psykers, but I asked Alpia about her career path and she wanted to join your bodyguards. An impossible task as the conflict of interest would not allow it and you would not bend the rules for her. I told her as much and she was not happy. ¡°Then we talked about her being a Rogue Trader princess, which perked her right back up, until I pointed out that she would be expected to become a void ship captain and likely sent out on missions under your banner. We ran out of time and had to stop there, but it has given her something to think about.¡± I frown. Brigid continues, ¡°Alpia knows that neither you nor I will force her to do something she truly does not want to. That would be stupid as one cannot give command of a voidship to an unsuitable individual, nor is it wise to constantly stress a psyker. I want her to be more than a layabout though, to find a passion that she can dedicate herself to and feel proud of herself at the end of every day.¡± ¡°I agree,¡± I say ¡°R¨®is¨ªn is working towards making the Psy-Errants a proper order of knights. Piloting those suits is a tough yet prestigious job. Working her way up until she becomes a knight commander or similar is just as impressive as a voidship captain. It isn¡¯t the expected path for a Rogue Trader scion, but no one would look down on her for achieving it. ¡°There is also the Magos Aetheric path. Few have the mental fortitude or innate understanding of the risks involved in pursuing such a task and psykers have a natural advantage. I would be delighted if she became a fellow Magos.¡± ¡°Then make sure you tell her that,¡± says Brigid. ¡°I¡¯ll contact her the moment she is free and actually allowed to talk to me. Alpia has been good so far, but she¡¯s going to break the rules eventually. I don¡¯t like being harsh, but self-discipline for psykers is not a subject to joke about.¡± ¡°Hm, make sure she doesn¡¯t try to give you the runaround.¡± ¡°Do I ever?¡± ¡°Not when it is important, I admit.¡± I kiss Brigid, ¡°That¡¯s enough about the kids. I want to hear about you.¡± ¡°Let''s have dinner first, then we can talk. I know you don¡¯t need to eat, but I¡¯m not getting into a finance debate with you on an empty stomach.¡± ¡°Fair enough. Let¡¯s see what the chef has come up with.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Five Replete and content, Brigid and I enjoy an after dinner meander through our new treasure vault. Brigid points out each of the objects, who chose it, and why we absolutely have to have it. She isn¡¯t serious about the reasons in the slightest. I sip on my amasec and grimace. ¡°Aldrich, what¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t get the taste of whale out of my mouth. It was good, but every dish?¡± Brigid laughs, ¡°It was a bit much.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think Quaani quite understood what he was ordering. Tomorrow I expect it will be all seal meat. Still, I shouldn¡¯t complain. Few get to eat real meat, let alone a delicacy.¡± ¡°Yet we have enough for the whole crew. What are we going to do with the crude biomass?¡± I say, ¡°Vitae womb nutrients. It¡¯s not like they taste anything while they grow.¡± ¡°Four megatonnes will get us two million new crew,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Seems a bit of a waste when we can press whomever we need.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want more penal regiments. The culture shock just isn¡¯t worth dealing with unless we have to. Much better to grow our own. Maeve had to form three more penal regiments after we finished vetting all the new crew and freed slaves, even after replenishing all the recent losses with our current penal regiment.¡± ¡°Most of them actually survived their sentences didn¡¯t they?¡± ¡°Yes. They were well trained and many chose to join the Heralds permanently, which was most helpful as we need two more regiments to fill out Torchbearer and another three for Ardent Bane. The new colony is getting four new regiments. Two mixed regiments, one of which will be a penal regiment, one void assault regiment, and one battle automata regiment.¡± ¡°That still leaves us with three penal regiments to fit somewhere,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Torchbearer already has one, so one could go to Ardent Bane. Iron Crane already has its full complement of three regiments. Where will the rest go? The Carrack-Class Transports are a bit too small to need a whole regiment as a security force each and only using penal troops for that is asking for mutiny.¡± I say, ¡°We¡¯ll need those extra regiments for controlling the Breaking Yards. For now, some of our cargo holds are being converted to hold them. We¡¯ll have to stack ¡®em high and keep them stuck in VR training. I¡¯ve subcontracted Cobalt to produce enough sleeping pods in exchange for one of the penal regiments, leaving us with two. We have enough equipment in storage to outfit one immediately. Mattius is rather pleased to have his forces boosted by thirty percent.¡± ¡°I¡¯m surprised Cobalt can manufacture our sleeping pods.¡± ¡°They¡¯re only providing parts, not assembly and data. Their cogitators and manufacturing is way below our standards, but they are functional, and that¡¯s good enough for now. Not ideal, but better than putting all those people in stasis when they could be learning. They¡¯d never get a chance to adjust if we did it that way. As it is, those few weeks will feel like a decade for them. Not something we usually do.¡± ¡°That still sounds wasteful, Aldrich. What will we do with all those pods when we¡¯re done with them?¡± I shrug, ¡°Depends how bad they are.¡± ¡°Fair enough. Whatever happened to Kai Ballantyne? Did he survive his sentence?¡± ¡°Yes. I left him on the Tau on the Macro-Ferry. His mind is not quite the same after overseeing the processing of so much Blackstone. He has lost his drive and now monitors the Macro-Ferry¡¯s internal transport networks. Watching the trains go around and around brings him a measure of peace and satisfaction, apparently.¡± ¡°For the best. He might be qualified for a better position, but it is better to promote others who have worked hard.¡± ¡°Perhaps one day he will take up teaching again.¡± ¡°We do not lack talent, nor the resources to coddle every failure. Speaking of which, we have some new mutants to deal with. They are far larger in number than the Ratling contingent. Seven thousand, I believe, and there are likely many more that we haven¡¯t located yet. We may have secured our new vessels, but investigating every corner will take far more than a couple of months.¡± ¡°Any reason why we don¡¯t turn them into full cyborgs?¡± I say. ¡°At the very least we need a sample from all of them. Who knows what lost genetic wonders are hidden in their corrupt genomes?¡± ¡°It would be far more expedient to shoot them. We have a surplus of poorly trained crew already.¡± ¡°In the short term, perhaps. It is a dangerous precedent considering the fitness and medical check everyone gets every fifteen months. Can you imagine the chaos from generating that much fear? You¡¯re the numbers girl, Brigid. You see exactly how much productivity drops when people don¡¯t care about who they work for, or why their tasks are important.¡± Bridgid huffs, ¡°It¡¯s a month of Servitor construction capacity for their new bodies, plus a lot of expensive medicine. We need to replace all of the Servitors on Ardent Bane to get them up to Stellar Fleet standards. That¡¯s six hundred and twelve thousand Servitors, approximately. ¡°Torchbearer is also twenty percent below expected numbers and requires sixty-six thousand new Servitors. Then there are our minor automata losses from our most recent conflicts with Trader Modren and the Orks, as well as general replacement and repair. Our lines are maxed for the next eight years and we do not have space to increase production.¡± Then tension in Brigid¡¯s voice rises as she continues, ¡°We don¡¯t have enough education or medical capacity to deal with our sudden influx of personnel either. We¡¯ve passed five million sapient organics, three million of whom have joined us in the past two months, not including the vessels, colonists, or regiments we are leaving behind. We neither need, want, nor use menials. Not only that, but Ardent Bane is not self-sustaining like our vessels are.¡± This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I sigh, ¡°We¡¯re not going to kill people because they inconvenience us. You are better than this Brigid. We are also about to embark on a big journey to buy more vessels. I have no issue with trading for Goliath-Class vessels, even if I have to dedicate one to making automata. Thanks to Quaani, we have over a century of food supplies in storage, even for that many people. More than enough time to solve any issues. What has you so worried that you are worrying about seven thousand mutants?¡± ¡°Sorry, Aldrich. I¡¯m really stressed out. It¡¯s just so overwhelming dealing with so many new people. Yes, I¡¯ve taken all the necessary steps to alleviate it but it takes time to train new administrators and create the systems required to process large and sudden influxes.¡± I put my glass down, hug Brigid, and gently rub her back. ¡°So would now be a bad time to say I found a new STC to help us mass produce light power armour that requires substantial quantities of rare elements?¡± Brigid holds her breath for ten seconds then says, ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Alright. Let''s stop gawking at the treasures pretending we know what they¡¯re all about, and snuggle on the sofa. You can tell me the problems we¡¯re having with our currency. I¡¯ll make a decision and inform Fleet command, saving us from a big meeting. That will be one more thing ticked off your list of troubles.¡± ¡°Mmm, your offering is accepted.¡± I gently guide Brigid back to the sitting room. We sit and say nothing for several minutes as she lies spreadeagled across the sofa, her head resting in my lap as I gently stroke her hair. ¡°Aldrich, tell me what your original intention for our bytes currency was. I am certain I know why you went with a temporary scrip, but this is too important for me to go with an educated guess.¡± I smile, ¡°It was never intended to be a real currency, but a ration credit to ensure efficient distribution of resources through the Fleet. That¡¯s why it¡¯s based on a unit of energy, the kilowatt hour. It makes it easy to understand exactly what everything is worth, from the labour of machines, to every breath we take. Anyone can look at any process and know what the value next to it actually means. This is incredibly useful for facilitating internal and external exchanges.¡± ¡°Good, that¡¯s what I expected.¡± ¡°There are a lot of reasons why I went with a temporary currency, but it all boils down to stability, security, control, and consistency. I didn¡¯t have much when I first arrived at Marwolv. I could talk about how entropy means an energy based currency must take that into account, but that means little on a practical time scale. Especially when one can bottle solar mass and store it for millennia with no appreciable loss of energy.¡± Brigid laughs. I continue, ¡°One reason was that it was an experiment. All our processes have a set value that, without new STCs, barely fluctuates. As such, bytes are not a traditional currency as even a small amount of inflation or deflation is undesirable. The currency deletion is a method of controlling inflation. ¡°In practice, because I have a monopoly on power production, deleting bytes turned out to be mostly unnecessary. I can delete bytes when people pay me for the power that they use, even if it¡¯s the budget that I gave them in the first place, giving me near perfect control of the currency in circulation. I didn¡¯t know that when I started the experiment though.¡± ¡°So part of the reason is that you didn¡¯t know any better and wanted to find out,¡± says Brigid. ¡°That was a big risk you took.¡± ¡°It was worth it,¡± I say. ¡°All that data will be of great assistance for any changes you wish to implement.¡± ¡°Most personnel have never known anything else at this point. You¡¯re right that we need all the data we can get.¡± I nod, ¡°Another reason for the temporary ration credits was that I wanted people to spend their money and invest in their own education and implants. If one knows that their money is going to become worthless, they will spend all of it and invest it into tangible goods that maintain and build their wealth. ¡°This has the added benefit of circulating the economy as fast as possible, preventing stagnation. Even now, our internal economy is still small, so if people don¡¯t spend their money, wealth generation would be stifled rapidly and I would have to intervene. An undesirable outcome for all.¡± ¡°Ah, that makes a lot of sense,¡± says Brigid. ¡°No one likes it when their governing body interferes with their livelihood. A small mistake and all their efforts and savings can become worthless overnight.¡± ¡°Just so. While one could waste their bytes on luxury food, sex, and entertainment, and many do actually do so, the only way to build personal wealth in an area with limited space and private industry is to invest in oneself, personal security, or research. These are areas I prioritise as it improves the productivity, high tech production capacity, and the security of the fleet over time. ¡°A temporary currency lets me encourage these desirable behaviours, rather than making a bunch of regulations few would want to follow, which would erode my authority over time.¡± ¡°Would you say behavioural incentives have worked?¡± says Brigid. ¡°They have,¡± I smile. ¡°We have a much higher percentage of Magi than most Mechanicus enclaves and worlds. From the historical data that we have, only Mars is superior.¡± ¡°That¡¯s rather impressive and sneaky of you, Love.¡± I laugh, ¡°Not really. It¡¯s taught in economics classes!¡± ¡°Yet no one gives it a second thought,¡± says Brigid, smirking. ¡°My economic directives benefit them,¡± I shrug. ¡°Please continue.¡± ¡°A shared currency ties people to the Stellar Fleet,¡± I say. ¡°They can¡¯t spend their money anywhere else. While this had little relevance in the beginning, as our holdings and Fleet grow, this has become more and more important. It doesn¡¯t stop people from converting money via goods, but that¡¯s something I actually want. Like with the Stellar Requisition Credits we introduced for big purchases, it gets our currency into the Koronus Expanse and then other polities have to spend our currency with us. ¡°Bytes do not change in value, regardless of distance, time, or location. In a galaxy where these variables are controlled by uncaring gods, bytes are a massive stabilising influence. The system only works so long as the state, meaning me in this case, has total control. ¡°I don¡¯t see this as a bad thing as it incentivises me to secure energy production far more than private enterprise would, and given how reliant we are on our machines, this is not a vulnerability we can hand over to private enterprise just to save money. The same goes for water, food, air, and ammunition but these do not make such great currencies as they are, arguably, harder to store and transfer across time and space than electricity is.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t quite agree with that,¡± says Brigid. ¡°An energy currency is based on its fuels: hydrogen, promethium, atomics, and solar plasma. None of these are easy to move about.¡± ¡°Between systems perhaps, but once you are groundside, or within a closely knit Fleet, power is much easier to transfer. We could even do so with lasers or microwave emitters if we really wanted to. Within a system, with the required infrastructure, one can beam power from one location to another, or collect it from sunlight. ¡°That most Imperial currencies are based on precious metals, or fiat currencies backed by the Tithe, like Throne Gelts, is archaic and ridiculous. The only one that makes any sense to me is the exchange of favours among the nobility, but that¡¯s no good for buying one¡¯s daily bread.¡± Brigid grabs my hand, stopping me from stroking her hair, and holds it against her stomach. ¡°That¡¯s a good argument, and if you weren¡¯t talking about spreading a stable currency through the Koronus Expanse, I would accept it. As it is, you¡¯re really talking about a hydrogen standard. ¡°I agree that using metallic hydrogen pellets, or atomic metals as coins would be quite silly and that using energy as a universal currency is convenient within a system. Saying that it is easier to transport between systems though is foolish. If one must go through the Warp to transport something, it is equally difficult, no matter its container, or its state of matter.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Yeah, I can concede that point. So what exactly is it that you wanted to change about bytes and why?¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Six ¡°To summarise your points, Aldrich, what you want from our currency is to passively promote beneficial behaviours, ease of use and comprehension, control, influence, and stability. You require it to be energy based. So long as these factors are maintained, you are unbothered in how it is executed. Is this correct?¡± ¡°It is. Also, I want to keep the name. Calling a ration credit a byte is hilarious, especially when your account balance is stored digitally.¡± ¡°Only for those who can speak and spell ancient Albish, but fine. The name can stay. Changing it yields no benefit and would only cause confusion.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t authorise any changes if someone attempted to alter it anyway.¡± Brigid reaches up and pats my cheek, ¡°Such a fierce tyrant. You really stand up for the important issues.¡± I take Brigid¡¯s hand and kiss it, ¡°Someone has to defend the noble art of Dad jokes in this awful galaxy. If I must be a champion, it will be for a cause I believe in.¡± ¡°So dramatic,¡± says Brigid. ¡°The only change I wish to make is for bytes to become permanent. I agree that the stability of the currency will not be an issue, so long as control of energy generation is maintained and I acknowledge that this had to be tested. I see no reason to change to a purely fiat or alternate material currency, so ease of use and comprehension will remain. ¡°Control and influence should improve by making the currency permanent, increasing low level trade with external merchants, such as we will likely encounter at the Breaking Yards. Not everyone requires trades where the minimum value is a Sword-Class frigate, like SRC requires.¡± I laugh. Brigid smiles and continues, ¡°That means we only require new ways of promoting desirable behaviours. We already have universal income, medical care, basic education, and housing: systems that are horribly over subscribed with the new influx of people. Still, it will balance back out in ten years or so. Despite our recent influx of penal regiments, the welfare provided by the Fleet prevents most life threatening issues from underwriting crime and corruption. I want to prepare in advance for the next influx of ships though.¡± ¡°Put a select committee on it and have them write up the proposal.¡± ¡°I have already done so. What we need right now is a way to incentivise people to invest in themselves. Let¡¯s brainstorm Aldrich. You can start us off.¡± ¡°Way to put me on the spot, Love,¡± I chuckle. ¡°That¡¯s what implants are for. They help maintain performance.¡± I smirk, ¡°Some parts of me are still all natural, I¡¯ll have you know.¡± ¡°Of course they are, Dear.¡± Brigid squints at me, ¡°Don¡¯t even think about replacing my favourite toys.¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it. Option one is: ¡®Make it Shiny.¡¯ We could steer away from the emphasis of hidden implants and make them a fashion accessory, rather than a private expression of faith. We could also create assembly kits and hobby magazines to drum up interest, as well as holovids and other media. ¡°Option two is subsidies. Removing the cost of studying high tier knowledge for specific technologies, or offering greater wages for areas we want to prioritise is good. We already do use wage manipulation, but further alterations are possible.¡± Brigid nods along as I speak. I continue, ¡°I prefer wage manipulation to subsidies as it is more subtle and doesn¡¯t dig away at the foundational beliefs of the Mechanicus. One¡¯s worth is their knowledge and making too much of that free cheapens it. After that, I¡¯m out of ideas. Brigid, do you have an option three?¡± ¡°Fashion is a temperamental beast,¡± says Brigid. ¡°It would not pair well with the tenants of the Machine Cult, where repairs take precedent over replacements.¡± I shake my head, ¡°That is up to us. Fashion cycles do not have to be quick, though I do not fancy our chances at mass behavioural modification without significant research and investment.¡± ¡°Very well, we can certainly look into it. People already get custom implants from the boutique workshops within the promenades, but it is a small industry compared to the Fleet standard that most individuals choose.¡± ¡°Ah, so going with option A would require more space. That would be a substantial issue, considering how stuffed our vessels are right now.¡± ¡°Quite. I agree with your preference for wage manipulation over subsidies. What we can do however, is change the number of slots available for advanced education. Ensure more slots are available for genetor and cybernetics artisans and fewer slots for other areas. Such a decision could come back to haunt us if we mess it up though. As for option three, prizes are always good, like for excellent research. A little blatant, but it could pair well with holovids and vox shows. Fame is a fabulous motivator.¡± I chuckle. Brigid smiles, ¡°Option four is privileges. Give more privileges for those who accrue more qualifications. We could even tie that into the Blessings and Castigations you wanted to finally start. Insisting that a person must do more than just work well for a rejuvenat treatment, but also acquire new skills and qualifications every thirty to forty years would fit well with Mechanicus beliefs. It would be unfortunate if the system accidentally promoted stagnation through age related cultural inertia and other issues longevity can lead to. We could even make it so that academic progress is the only way to acquire a rejuvenat treatment.¡± ¡°Perhaps not that far,¡± I say. ¡°Blessings and Castigations requires one to invest a portion of their wages to be eligible, as if they were saving for retirement. Limiting the amount one can invest per year is enough. I don¡¯t want money to influence the system beyond paying for itself. It is intended to be a privilege of the dedicated, not the wealthy. Master craftsmen should be rewarded for their dedication, not penalised for failing to branch out. I approve of choosing fame and privileges as a motivator for self-investment.¡± Brigid says, ¡°There is one last measure we can take if you want to promote spending, but it will take some set up, and perhaps a rethink in the distribution of political and literal power.¡± ¡°What do you have in mind?¡± ¡°A state bank. Right now we have an ad hoc distribution service and central database. There are a lot of ways to implement a bank. You could have them purchase currency from you directly, or have them rent generator time to create currency, issue licences, and many other methods. ¡°You don¡¯t actually have to own the power generation capacity. You only need to set and enforce standards. Once there is a bank, one that everyone must use, you can then set interest rates. Rates could even be negative, say minus zero point one percent, if you want another way to remove currency and discourage hoarding.¡± ¡°Well, I would insist on owning the bank. Practically, I don¡¯t think the exact implementation matters so long as the state bank remains in the hands of the state. I don¡¯t want there to be any chance of an external or internal force from ripping it away from me. Even if my ownership is enshrined in law, I don¡¯t want there to be any way for a state bank to generate currency, legally or practically. Energy must come from me, or at the very least, our House. I own the ships and their genetoriums and that will not change, even if administrative power has been delegated.¡± Brigid says, ¡°A little heavy handed, but in this case, it benefits us directly, so I don¡¯t see why not. So you approve of creating a bank, and not just running a payroll system, backed with a database and private exchange mechanism?¡± ¡°So long as you test it first.¡± ¡°Then there we have it,¡± says Brigid. ¡°The moment my administrators have a little extra time, I¡¯ll stick the new ideas into a HiveSim game and try everything we can. This won¡¯t be a quick process, but to confirm, you also approve of changing bytes to a permanent currency?¡± Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. ¡°Yes, I think you could get started sooner though. Perhaps we could have all new bytes issued at six years, rather than five, then increase it by one every year until we reach ten years. That will give plenty of time to run the simulations and adjust everyone''s expectations for the upcoming change. If for some reason, the simulations show it will be a disaster, having the currency given a ten year lifespan won¡¯t change too much and make it fit better with Blessings and Castigations and its cycle of production and sabbaticals.¡± Brigid nods, ¡°I have no objections. You can go back to stroking my hair now.¡± ¡°Glad to get the currency problem off your mind?¡± I resume stroking Brigid¡¯s hair and she sighs. ¡°Yes. Thank you for hearing me out.¡± ¡°No problem. I¡¯m not one to discard the advice of my carefully cultivated experts.¡± ¡°This rose has thorns, I¡¯ll have you know.¡± ¡°Oh, you¡¯re an expert on plants too now? I modified that flower so it wouldn¡¯t have any. Much safer for me. Especially with your head lying on my crotch.¡± Brigid laughs, ¡°Bed time?¡± ¡°Ah, before I forget, there is one big shock I can¡¯t delay.¡± ¡°Alright, lay it on me.¡± ¡°Quaani has gotten engaged and I¡¯m meeting the parents of the bride tomorrow. Would you like to come?¡± ¡°What is this, a shotgun wedding?¡±, Brigid raises an eyebrow. ¡°More like seizing the moment. Navigators pass each other briefly.¡± Brigid says, ¡°I can¡¯t come on such short notice.¡± I explain the likely exchange of visits and Quaani¡¯s request to foster the girl. ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like she will be living with us,¡± says Brigid, ¡°or it will interfere with how we spend our time. The way I see it, Aldrich, is this is just another task for your long list of things you do every day. One of the few that requires your physical presence. ¡°I will be polite to the girl, but don¡¯t expect much more out of me than that. Maybe one day we will be best friends, but I have neither the time nor headspace to invest my emotions into Quaani¡¯s sudden relationship. This is his pickle, and while I have no issue with you helping him with it, my relationship with Quaani is much weaker than yours. What little time I have is for the children we already have, and no one else''s. I do not anticipate this changing anytime soon.¡± ¡°So that¡¯s why you filled the kids'' rooms up with treasures.¡± Brigid frowns, ¡°Treasures can be moved and we have plenty of people and Servitors to perform tasks for us if we wish. I thought it would be fun to feel like a real Rogue Trader dynasty. Yes, I know that we are one, but it is not a mindset I am acclimated to, nor naturally drift towards. The treasures are there to make the change in our lives feel more real for me. ¡°There is no additional meaning to removing the space where children are raised and cared for. I am aware that we need more and have no intention of falling behind in my duties. Though perhaps two at a time next time? Four was a bit much.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that. I was a bit worried when I first saw you had moved everything out. Two is plenty and a sensible way to go about it.¡± ¡°Never fear, Aldrich. I am well aware of your priorities and desires. Our goals still align and will tell you if that changes. Relationship drama is beneath us.¡± ¡°I approve of your optimism.¡± ¡°Of course. You like everything I do. I am a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It¡¯s calculated that way.¡± I laugh, ¡°You still have Aldrich.exe running?¡± ¡°I update him regularly. Failure is so last millennia.¡± Leaning down to kiss Brigid I say, ¡°Now we can go to bed.¡± ¡°See? That¡¯s how you keep a one hundred percent completion rating in a dating simulator.¡± ¡°I am in awe of your skills.¡± Brigid stands up, then picks me up with ease and carries me towards the bedroom. ¡°Brigid!¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t this be the other way around?¡± ¡°Cult Mechanicus doctrine does not account for gender, only that cogs must be well oiled when meshing.¡± ¡°Excellent, I¡¯d love a massage.¡± ¡°Your artificial muscles get absolutely no benefit from them.¡± ¡°So? They still feel great.¡± ¡°It would be inefficient.¡± ¡°What does Aldrich.exe have to say about that?¡± Brigid grins, ¡°Fine, you can have a massage. So long as I get one too.¡± ¡°Absolutely.¡± The rest of my evening is absolutely fabulous. The next day, ¡®Inquisitor¡¯ Raphael Horthstien greets us in the hangar of his Enforcer-Class light cruiser. He is in full navy regalia, with an armoured, double breasted navy jacket with white lapels, gold trim, and a high, stiff collar that almost looks like a gorget. The detailing on the jacket is exquisite, with large, gold and white cuffs and pauldrons. Multiple pouches hang from a wide belt and thick brown gloves cover his hands. Multiple medals are pinned to his chest. A round stiff cap with a high, pointed peak perches on his head, decorated with the Imperial Navy insignia. Two squads of Tempestus Scions in black void armour, and six Ogryns wearing thick flak vests black trousers, and armoured boots, form two lines, with Raphael waiting at the end of the column, ten metres from the end of our ramp. Raphael calls out as we descend from our shuttle, ¡°Welcome to the Petitor Veritas, Magos Issengrund and Navigator Quaani.¡± ¡°Thank you for the warm reception, Commodore Horthstien.¡± I say, ¡°I was not quite sure what to expect.¡± Raphael smirks, ¡°Oh, I¡¯m no longer an Inquisitor?¡± A mechadendrite points at the rows of disciplined troops, ¡°I do not know how much your crew knows and have no desire to be the one to give away the secret while in public.¡± ¡°And here I thought you were beyond subtly, Magos.¡± ¡°We all have our flaws, Commodore Horthstien.¡± Raphael''s eyes narrow, ¡°Indeed. Still, I must thank you. Your little show did actually get me a promotion. No one on the ship could reprogram the rosette you gave me, nor the one you returned to Inquisitor Hamiz. Our Enginseer Prime, Talliel-Iota-5, nor the Magos Biologis in Inquisitor Lyre Hamiz¡¯s retinue, JK-404, know how to fashion a replacement. Both would like to talk to you, should you have the time. Inquisitor Hamiz is furious that he must apply for a new one, let alone waste time picking it up, should you refuse to assist.¡± ¡°He brought his woes upon himself.¡± I shake my head. ¡°Never mind that. Congratulations on your promotion, Inquisitor Horthstien. I would be happy to converse with my fellow Tech-Priests. There will be plenty of time over the next seven days.¡± ¡°Thank you. Go easy on them, if you would. Not everything is a suitable topic.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t read your mind, Inquisitor. Send me a list of proscribed topics if you want me to avoid something specific.¡± Well, that¡¯s not quite true, between my implants and psychic powers I can get pretty damn close to reading minds if I want to. ¡°That would rather defeat the point, don¡¯t you think?¡± I laugh, ¡°I¡¯m not going to shout the names of the Ruinous Powers from the top of the spire, or provide a step by step explanation of how to replicate xenos technologies, Inquisitor.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t something to joke about, Magos. You aren¡¯t implying you could actually do those things are you?¡± ¡°Of course not, but I will point out that the primary Machine-Spirit of your vessel is quite irate and already talking to me. The psyker fueling your gellar field is about to expire and that you don¡¯t have any replacements. You also have genestealers aboard and not all of them are cut up and labelled in little boxes. Also, if your pet Vanus Assassin doesn¡¯t stop poking at my noosphere connections they will suffer an inconvenient malfunction.¡± ¡°They¡¯re a Cybertheurgist, not a Vanus. The Officio Assassinorum is definitely on the list of proscribed topics. That you know, and don¡¯t seem to care whether the Inquisition is informed or not, does not paint you in a good light. I can see I will need that list after all.¡± ¡°If you say so. Hmm, too late. Your little hacker is panicking. I¡¯ve disabled the self-destruct protocol she triggered and put her to sleep; she was reaching for her gun once the protocol failed. Do give her my compliments when she wakes up. She is most talented and I would hate to see all that skill lost. If she wants her data-djinns back she can apologise to my face. I was able to confirm that this was a self-directed action of hers and not on your orders. Perhaps a little easing up on the psycho-conditioning would be healthy? ¡®Miss Vanus¡¯,¡± I make quotation marks with my mechadendrites, ¡°was most unhinged and irrational. That was the most spectacular rage quit I¡¯ve ever witnessed.¡± ¡°I can see this is going to be a trying state visit. Please do not poke at our secrets.¡± I say, ¡°Oh, I think the visit is going rather well. Sergeant Odhran hasn¡¯t thrown his knife at anyone yet, and no one is shooting at me, so we¡¯re doing better than usual. Would you please show us to the lucky lady and her family?¡± ¡°That would be for the best.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t tinker with any of your systems,¡± I say, ¡°so long as they don¡¯t try to tinker with me. Among the Mechanicus, that would be terrible etiquette, like visiting someone¡¯s house and going through the draws in their bedroom, or performing an unnecessary medical examination on their pet cat. Some people just don¡¯t get it though. You really have to spell it out for them.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Seven Inquisitor Rapahel Horthstien gives me a long stare, then says, ¡°This way please, esteemed guests.¡± Raphael guides us through the halls of his vessel. It is rather cramped and does not have the large vaulted ceilings common on Imperial vessels. While this does save a moderate amount of space, the low ceilings and plain, windowless corridors are rather claustrophobic and arranged in a nonsensical manner. It does not take me long to realise that this vessel has sacrificed its grandeur for a Tenebro Maze, and internal ship layout that is easy for boarders to get lost in and makes it near impossible to locate and target specific components within the vessel. ¡°Tell me about the Petitor Veritas, Inquisitor. I¡¯ve never been on an Enforcer-Class void ship before.¡± ¡°In M36 a group of tacticians in Segmentum Tempestus formed the Gareox Prerogative. Their aim was to create vessels that would excel in pirate hunting by focusing on strike craft and lance weaponry. The movement gained considerable momentum and the Mechanicus designed two new classes, the Despoiler-Class battleship and the Enforcer-Class light cruiser. ¡°This new line of thinking upset the naval traditionalists and led to a civil war with Forge World Bakka, where the main naval base for Segmentum Tempestus is. Ostensibly, it was because the focus on strike craft did not render more traditional battleship designs, like the Emperor-Class, obsolete, and thus the production of the new design was unnecessary. Do you wish to hear more, Magos?¡± ¡°Please continue, this is most enlightening and it is wonderful to receive information from a reliable source.¡± Rapahel smirks, ¡°As for it being an inferior design, or the Despoiler-Class being bad at the role it was intended for, that is less certain. What is known is that Gareox was purged and the partially constructed fleet, in their despair, fell to Chaos. Of the fifteen Despoiler-class vessels commissioned, only three were constructed and put into service. They too, later fell to Chaos due to a fault in the Gellar Field that made it prone to failure on long journeys through the Warp. ¡°After the dust had settled and the investigation completed, it became clear that the Gareox Prerogative failed, not because their theories were bad, but because the manufactures of the large weapons that these strike craft were replacing objected to the change in doctrine and lobbied the Navy. Production on the Enforcer-Class resumed, but the Despoiler-Class, with its reputation for ill-luck, was not returned to the Imperial battleline.¡± ¡°How mundane! How would you evaluate the Enforcer-Class? Is it a design I should acquire?¡± ¡°The Enforcer is not a good vessel for large fleet engagements, so in some ways, the big gun lobbyists were correct. Then again, it was never supposed to be. I have found it to be an excellent vessel for hunting pirates and raiders, it¡¯s intended use case. Arguably overkill for the battleship configuration, but not for a light cruiser. Any shortcomings of the design are easily offset by escort vessels. The Stygies Pattern Bombardment Cannon on the prow is also helpful for reminding governors to whom their loyalty and authority is beholden to.¡± I nod, ¡°What¡¯s your personal evaluation of the civil war?¡± ¡°The civil war was not only a complete waste of resources, but actively pushed loyalists towards the Ruinous Powers. It was never discovered if this was a deliberate ploy, or simple greed and incompetence. It is easy to blame Chaos for everything that goes wrong. The inconvenient truth is that Humanity does a perfectly good job of destroying itself, even without the whispers of the dark gods or cruel xenos.¡± I grimace, ¡°Common sense is the least common sense, or so I like to say. It sounds like the Enforcer-Class would make for a superior patrol vessel and is worth selling, but is less appropriate for my current needs. Thank you for your evaluation, Inquisitor.¡± Raphael waves off my gratitude, ¡°Think nothing of it. History is a passion of mine and eases the boredom between the stars. It is pleasant to have someone listen to my rambles.¡± ¡°What will happen now that you have finished your apprenticeship with Adjunct Hamiz?¡± Raphael chuckles and glances up at me, then raises a single eyebrow. ¡°During my apprenticeship with Inquisitor Hamiz, I have chased many leads, and only in five, maybe ten percent of the cases were related to outside forces causing havoc. I suspect that this will not change. Still, eternal vigilance is our motto and the Petitor Veritas is the vessel that has seen me through it all. ¡°I will be sad to leave it, once the Inquisition can acquire a new vessel for me to depart upon my own journeys, now that I am a full Inquisitor. Especially with the new upgrades your people are installing. I am not looking forward to starting my career in a salvaged pirate raider. Such vessels do not inspire confidence like this one does.¡± ¡°I see, and what could you promise me were I to build a more appropriate vessel for you to start off with. When would you need it by and what vessel would you like?¡± ¡°That is an unexpected offer, Magos.¡± ¡°Quaani, who is being rather quiet as we approach his new in-laws, suggested my life would be most improved with more friends. What better way to start than trade?¡± ¡°I suppose you seek STCs.¡± Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°Always, specifically void ship designs, or rare ship components for me to study.¡± ¡°Is that your speciality?¡± ¡°While I am a competent lexmechanic, I am a Magos Explorator at heart, but academically, I would be considered a Magos Aetheric and specialise in arcanotech and mundane cybernetics. My navigator heritage makes this a safer path for me than others who dare to study the Warp and the devices that interact with it. ¡°Tech-Priest disciplines are not that clear cut though. One cannot implant the cybernetics of the Cybernetica discipline without knowledge of the Genetors. Then again, I also know how to build a voidship from scratch. With so many varied disciplines, perhaps a Magos Errant designation would be better? They tend to work for Rogue Traders though and I am my own boss.¡± ¡°Now you are just showing off.¡± ¡°Perhaps a little! I am trying to convince you of my qualifications and thus how we may aid and trade with each other for maximum benefit. Is it working?¡± ¡°I did have time to acquire your public data before you cut us off. You¡¯ve been rather busy. Far more so than the first impressions you gave implied. I found many references to designs that Talliel-Iota-5 and JK-404 have never heard of. Your archives would likely put some of the depositories on Terra and Mars to shame.¡± ¡°Thank you, I am most pleased with my collection.¡± ¡°It is incredibly valuable. I could likely trade some of what you left free for all to read and view for vast sums of money, yet you share it freely as if it has no value at all. Placing it in the hands of the right collector would likely net me enough money to purchase a small fleet, and that¡¯s just for your historical archives, not the STCs that were hidden away from my eyes. ¡°I know I lamented, barely minutes prior, that I could end up with a junker, but in truth, you¡¯ve already given me everything I need to start my own career. Why?¡± ¡°The galaxy does not revolve around us, Inquisitor. Perhaps the Emperor and his Primarchs and a few others, but never us. I did not make those files available to impress you. I share those histories because one does not preserve knowledge by locking it away. It must be shared, discussed, witnessed, and distributed to keep it far from the hungry maw of ignorance and spite.¡± My voice increases in volume as I continue, ¡°The fleeting glimpses of Humanity¡¯s greatness is all that remains of our brief brilliance and I will not have that final flame be extinguished for greed and fame. Use it as you wish, and in those dark moments, recall that not all that is lost is forgotten and that which is lost can be found.¡± I exhale a long breath then say more quietly, ¡°As Quaani reminded me yesterday, don¡¯t let the great cogs of the galaxy grind you down, Inquisitor Horthstien. Humanity needs people of great conviction like yourself and Inquisitor Hamiz.¡± ¡°So that¡¯s who you are, underneath the steel and false flesh. A dreamer, driven by memories of the past. Many will mock you for it.¡± ¡°Do the many dare laugh at you, Inquisitor?¡± ¡°No. The ashes of my dreams are not for others to spit upon.¡± I hum, ¡°Quite.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take a Conquest-Class Star Galleon please.¡± My steps slow for a moment as I process what Raphael has just asked of me, ¡°Those have not been built for ten thousand years and all of the remaining ones are highly customised designs. I¡¯m not even sure if they ever had a proper STC created for them. They are the mark of an ancient Rogue Trader house and none of them will ever give one up.¡± ¡°If I could get you the designs, or locate a ruined one for refurbishment, you would restore it in full for free, yes? Perhaps fill it with a crew, ground forces, supplies, and anything else an aspiring Inquisitor might require?¡± I sigh, ¡°I feel like I am walking right into a trap here, but yes, if you can get me an STC for a vessel with that much prestige I will do that for you and provide four escorts. If you only bring a ruined one, I will restore it and fill it to the brim with mat¨¦riel and personnel. It would take my Fleet thirty-five years to build one with its current production capabilities, in theory. Restoration is not always faster. I would also require access to inquisitorial information channels for fifty years, for whatever segmentum I would be present at.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t ask for much do you,¡± says Rapahel, his tone drier than navy hard-tack. ¡°Why would you even want such a vessel, as opposed to a more modern warship refitted for cargo and troops?¡± ¡°It would make for a bombastic disguise. Besides, Inquisition internal politics is rather cut throat. Like you said, the Conquest-Class comes with much prestige. If I have more resources available I will have a stronger voice in our conclaves. I will also be more able to solve and survive the troubles I encounter. Following that line of thought, what would you require to make me capable of slaying a greater demon, or xenos monstrosity, like a Hive Tyrant, in personal combat?¡± I chuckle, ¡°That¡¯s quite an ambition and a much tougher proposition. It would require a near complete replacement of your body, and multiple years of education and training so that you can maintain and use such high level implants with the respect that they require. Perhaps as much as ten years, even with teaching engines and noosphere simulations speeding up the process. As for what I would want for it? ¡°I would require you to not sell what you are taught while under my tutelage without permission. I would want an oath to the Emperor and Machine God that you will not use my technologies for personal gain, but only for the pursuit of your duties within the Ordo Xenos. ¡°Last, I would require actual payment. Knowledge is preferable, though it can¡¯t be something I already know. Large quantities of resources would also be acceptable in this case, especially unique or rare materials that are difficult to source.¡± ¡°That is much stricter than a voidship!¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know how to build or maintain a voidship and it would be me giving you knowledge, rather than the other way around. For your request to actually be practical, I would have to induct you into the Mechanicus. Not unprecedented, but certainly rare.¡± ¡°Ah, there is reviving ancient mechanisms, and then there is dipping one¡¯s toes into Imperial politics.¡± ¡°Exactly. The latter is far more dangerous and difficult.¡± ¡°That is the most Tech-Priest-like comment I have heard you make.¡± ¡°You know, just because Tech-Priests like to chat in Lingua Technis, doesn¡¯t mean we¡¯re not talking about what we ate for dinner. We, despite our best efforts, are only Human.¡± ¡°Whatever you say, Magos. We¡¯re almost at the spire. Navigator Quaani, are you ready to meet Silas, Fyona, and Annette Ortellius?¡± Quaani says, ¡°Thank you for your concern, Inquisitor. I¡¯m as ready as I can hope for.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Eight The base of the navigator spire is a fortress, with an entire company of Ortelius infantry, fully kitted with carapace armour and high yield energy weapons. There isn¡¯t a single lasgun in sight. Heavy bolter emplacements cover our approach and I detect an enginseer watching us through an impressive array of sensors. ¡°Oh, this looks just like home,¡± I say. Quaani snorts, ¡°Well if you discount the missing cyber mastiffs, enhanced infantry, Servitors, and Machine God knows what else you hide in the walls, Uncle Aldrich.¡± ¡°I was trying to be polite!¡± Raphael says, ¡°I am sure House Ortellius will be pleased to know you take security seriously. Silas and Fyona value Annette greatly.¡± ¡°While one cannot put a price on family, my spendthrift scion here has certainly given testing that sentiment his best shot,¡± I say with a huff. I¡¯m not annoyed with Quaani in the slightest, so he knows I am playing my part in this play to soothe the aquilas I¡¯ve stomped on in the past few weeks. ¡°Don¡¯t be so upset Uncle,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Nothing¡¯s been signed just yet.¡± ¡°A formality at best,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re already installing the Runecasters and Inquisitor Hamiz¡¯s Tempestous Scions are nearing the end of their recovery, so this bride of yours had best be worth the trouble you¡¯ve caused me.¡± Raphael has an excellent poker face, superb mental discipline, and a telepathy blocker of some kind, but his skills and implants are no match for my own and he is positively radiating smugness. After several formalities, we pass through the checkpoint. While waiting for the doors to creep open, I say, ¡°Inquisitor, how goes your investigation into Trader Modren¡¯s missdeads and did the lessons you downloaded help you better use your MIU?¡± ¡°Talliel-Iota-5 and JK-404 have been examining the Owl-Class Machine-Spirit that provides the customised learning environment for each user. They were most intrigued by it as it is intelligent enough to hold a conversation and explain advanced concepts in multiple different ways, not just regurgitate a fixed lesson. ¡°At first they were concerned it was an Abominable Intelligence, but once those fears were put to rest, they¡¯ve since been compiling their own database of knowledge to see if they can use it to automate teaching for all of the lower ranking Mechanicus members on the ship. Last I spoke to them they were arguing over the cost of providing MIUs for everyone vs the time and cost savings of more traditional teaching. ¡°In their enthusiasm, they have not cleared the lessons you provided for general use. Yet another remarkable innovation, given away for free. It makes me wonder what you actually think is valuable.¡± ¡°Even I can answer that,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Those lessons only tell you how to use what you¡¯ve been given, not how to make or install an MIU. That¡¯s the valuable bit. As for the Machine-Spirit, any competent Omnissianic Congregator, Datasmith, or Cybertheurge should be able to create a similar Machine-Spirit. How could your Enginseer Prime and Magos Biologis have known if the Owl-Class Machine-Spirit was safe if they didn¡¯t know enough sub-disciplines to examine it, let alone expand on its functions?¡± Raphael says, ¡°Then why had they not done so before?¡± Quaani shrugs, ¡°No time? Maybe they didn¡¯t think of it? If I were to take a bet though, it would be about control. Magos Issengrund is a lot more free with his knowledge than most Tech-Priests, but he can afford to be. ¡°My Uncle is at the top of the game, he doesn¡¯t have to worry about hoarding knowledge to impress superiors or to compete with his peers. He can afford to uplift others and provide a chance for them to excel, should they put the effort in. ¡°Talliel-Iota-5 and JK-404 will have their hand picked assistants for whom they do the same, creating a master-apprenticeship bond with those whom they favour: the intelligent, hardworking, and loyal whom they¡¯ll have picked out from the menials, or other low ranks. These apprentices in turn prop them up, making Talliel-Iota-5 and JK-404 perform their own jobs with competence, which in turn can lead to promotions and further knowledge from their own chain of command. ¡°Inquisitor, you''re seeing all of this from the outside and looking from the top. Your Fleet¡¯s Tech-Priests have just been handed a way not to teach others easily, but an easy way to sort the chaff and discover who is worth sponsoring. They¡¯re not actually arguing over cost. They¡¯re arguing over who gets who to make them look good. Neither of them wants to pay for the MIU program if the other gets all the benefits. If they intended to improve the situation like Magos Issengrund does, they would have already signed the work order. ¡°Not only that, they¡¯re likely worried about the favour Magos Issengrund might ask for. Everyone knows that free stuff is the most expensive, that it might actually be genuinely free in this case will have never crossed their minds.¡± Raphael smiles, ¡°Your nephew takes after you, Magos. Both of you just love to explain things. A most helpful trait for assisting the Inquisition.¡± I grin, ¡°We¡¯re all in this ship, together, Inquisitor.¡± Quaani groans and Raphael laughs. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°Now that¡¯s a sentiment I can get behind,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Please do not ruin my chances with your bad jokes, Uncle. Are you going to reciprocate, Inquisitor, and answer my Uncle¡¯s question, or tell us that you cannot comment on an ongoing investigation, despite us being the ones who collated the data you are using?¡± ¡°Force of habit, my apologies. There is not much we can do with the data right now and I am still in the process of cross referencing it with our own records and requesting data from the local conclave. Once we are certain everything is in order, a punitive strike will be undertaken and Trader Modren¡¯s associates will all be swept up together as best we can, likely triggering a new round of investigations. ¡°Thanks to Magos Issengrund, we are fully supplied and with the Runecasters we should be able to outrun most messengers, reducing the amount of coordination required with other Imperial forces, and thus the chance of the targets catching whispers of their arrests. I cannot give you a time scale, only that we will resolve everything as fast as we are able. One can never know when they might be pulled of course to deal with an even larger threat.¡± Quaani says, ¡°Those are some pretty words, Inquisitor.¡± ¡°I wish you luck, young navigator,¡± Raphael gestures towards three people who are standing patiently on the other side of the door, surrounded by two dozen servants in skimpy outfits. The entrance hall is in the Imperial Gothic style, with statues, religious iconography, and gold absolutely everywhere. A gigantic mural covers the ceiling, depicting the Emperor placing a chain of office holding the Ortelius House symbol around the neck of a kneeling, three-eyed man. The symbol is a flat disk with multiple markings, but my old files identify it as an astrolabe, or mechanical navigator, an instrument used to calculate the position of the stars and who¡¯s earliest versions predate the Roman Empire. Raphael continues, ¡°I present to you Lord and Lady Silas and Fyona Ortellius, and their daughter, Lady Annette.¡± Silas is in a wheelchair, his legs partially fused together. His body is withered and his eyes are completely black. His skin is translucent and enlarged veins pulse beneath with white blood in a hypnotic fashion. Fyona is incredibly tall, her body stretched to four metres and stick-like. A mechanical exo-skeleton supports her frame. Her hands are more like talons, with thin, fifteen centimetre long nails. Her body has aged prematurely, her skin wrinkling and forming liver spots, despite Petitor Veritas¡¯s records stating she is only forty-nine. Annette¡¯s joints are swollen and held in place with strong elastic sleeves. She is standing, but there is an empty wheelchair behind her. A vestigial third arm is pinned across her chest, twisted and non-functional and ending in a three clawed talon. Annette is completely hairless and albino. I immediately feel sorry for the girl. While her parents are wearing formal brocade robes that cover them almost completely, Annette has been shoved into a dark blue, drop-waist dress, with a corset covered in diamonds. It¡¯s a very pretty dress, but it does not enhance her figure in the slightest, but rather highlights her flaws. Her cosmetics are rather thick and I just can¡¯t decide if this is someone¡¯s idea of a cruel joke, or a sheltered young woman trying to attract her arranged fianc¨¦. Quaani keeps his face straight but his control over his mind slips for just long enough for all three of them to detect his disgust and pity. Annette holds it together well, but I can see the tears forming in her eyes. Just when I think this can¡¯t get any worse, Fyona gasps and practically throws herself to the floor, prostrating herself before us. I feel the pain radiating off her mind as her damaged limbs hit the floor. ¡°Kneel you fools, can¡¯t you see? It is His light that burns in the darkness!¡± Silas squints at me, then his eyes widen and he tries to lever himself off his chair but gets nowhere. When a servant moves to assist him he shouts, ¡°No! I must do this myself. I must!¡± He tries, his face going white with exertion. ¡°Mother, Father? What is going on? Why must you embarrass me further? This whole day is ruined!¡± I sigh, ¡°Please stop trying to kneel. If you absolutely must, a handshake and the resumption of your warm welcome is all that I require.¡± ¡°We could never!¡± says Fyona, her forehead stuck to the floor. ¡°House Ortellius will not shame itself by failing to pay proper greetings and deference to the Master of the Astronomicon.¡± Raphael tenses and he steps away from me, his hand hovering over the holster of his laspistol. ¡°I¡¯m not who you think I am, Lady Fyona,¡± I say. ¡°I commend you on your talent for recognising me. It is by the Emperor¡¯s grace and power that a part of me fuels the Astronomicon. I am no avatar of His and He still burns upon the Golden Throne, keeping the Enemies of Man at bay. ¡°At best, I have his attention when He has a task for me, much like your own duties as you guide Petitor Veritas and His most Holy Inquisition from one trouble to another. We are all equal in the eyes¡¯ of the Emperor.¡± I slowly approach Fyona and help the stubborn woman to her feet, healing her with my biomancy as I do so, ¡°There is no need for us to kneel before each other.¡± ¡°Th-thank you, My Lord. I apologise for the misunderstanding.¡± ¡°Do you feel better?¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°Good,¡± I shake her hand, ¡°I am Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Ortellius.¡± ¡°Yes. A pleasure,¡± says Fyona. I approach Silas and shake his hand too. Again, I heal him slightly, removing many of his aches and pains. It won¡¯t hold for long, but it will stop him from having a heart attack in the next few hours. Today has already had enough excitement. Silas rubs his chest, ¡°It is good to meet you, Magos Issengrund. I am honoured that you have chosen our family.¡± ¡°I, too, am pleased with the match.¡± Silas gives me a grim smile and I step back so that I¡¯m not towering over him so much. Last of all I greet Annette, ¡°Good to meet you, Lady Annette. I do hope this kerfuffle has not soured your opinion towards my nephew.¡± Annette''s swollen joints recede, returning to white, healthy skin. She stands a little straighter, ¡°I want an explanation. If my formal introduction is going to be such a mess, you and my parents owe me that much at least.¡± ¡°Magos, I also require a word,¡± says Raphael. ¡°All in good time, Inquisitor. At least let Quaani give his greetings and gifts. We are guests here and the sky isn¡¯t falling. There is no need to throw the proverbial towel at the faces of our hosts just yet.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Seventy-Nine ¡°Greetings, Lord Silas Ortellius and Lady Fyona Ortellius. I am delighted to meet you with an open hand, rather than with the quick tongue and swift quill of the negotiating table,¡± says Quaani. ¡°We look forward to your stay,¡± says Silas, ¡°and are pleased you are willing to take the time to get to know us before we give our daughter away.¡± Quaani gestures towards me, ¡°It was my Uncle¡¯s idea. He is big on family values.¡± Fyona says, ¡°We are pleased to hear that. Now, go and greet Annette. I can tell that she is bursting to speak with you.¡± Quanni nods, ¡°Please excuse me.¡± Quaani approaches Annette and she presents her hand. He holds out his palm and Annette places her fingertips upon it. Quaani bends slightly and lifts her hand to his lips, then kisses the air just above her hand, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb as he does so. ¡°Good day, Lady Annette. I am pleased to see you are well.¡± Annette says, ¡°Remarkably, this is actually true. It is most gratifying to stand without pain. Magos Issengrund mentioned gifts, yet I see nothing of the sort. You are not some rogue, here to trick me, I hope?¡± ¡°Not at all. Uncle was jumping the macro-cannon somewhat. I have persuaded him to gift you and your parents with the most precious commodity of all: good health. His healing touch was a demonstration. Greater rituals of the Biologis will have to wait until we host you next week upon Iron Crane.¡± ¡°Truely?¡± Annettes third hand twitches slightly against her chest. ¡°Such a thing is possible?¡± ¡°Yes, I have also undergone this procedure, as have all the other navigators in our service. Even should it fail, Uncle can provide mechanical replacements. His own form is proof of his skills.¡± Raphael clears his throat, ¡°This will require supervision. We cannot risk our navigators in such a haphazard fashion.¡± ¡°I think not, Inquisitor,¡± says Silas. ¡°We take you where you are needed, but we are not yours to command.¡± ¡°Inquisitor Horthstien, a Custodes has watched the process and did not object,¡± I say. ¡°Will you?¡± Raphael looks at each of us in turn, then tuts. ¡°No. Instead, tell me, what did Lady Fyona mean when she said that your light burns in the darkness.¡± ¡°I will show you this only once.¡± I exchange a dozen souls with the Emperor and draw upon his power, letting His golden flames play over my hands. A great weight presses down upon us all and Imperial chants drone all around us. A moment later, the flames wink out, and the air smells sweet and pure, like a spring breeze. ¡°You are an Imperial Saint,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Besides, you¡¯ve already shown me this trick. The blessing on my new rosette was much more impressive.¡± I shake my head, ¡°I am nothing like an Imperial Saint. The Emperor is my patron. He demands a Tithe for his power and knowledge. The reason my strength partly fuels the Astronomicon is because I prayed for a particularly large favour and had to pay a corresponding price. It was worth it, because it helped my Fleet turn a Necron Tomb World to dust.¡± ¡°When did this happen?¡± ¡°Approximately twenty years ago.¡± Raphael stares at me for a good minute, ¡°So you are the reason the Imperium is in such a mess.¡± ¡°Not in the slightest. I do not control the thoughts and actions of others. Were you not just complaining that people make stupid decisions all of the time?¡± ¡°Then what is the difference between you and a saint?¡± says Raphael. ¡°His power cannot be faked.¡± ¡°It is no different to the miracles that the Adeptus Sororitas can call upon. Not all of them are saints, are they? Just exceptionally devout. Faith is power. That is what they exchange. I give up my own strength for the Emperor to do with as he wishes and am rewarded with aid when it is most needed.¡± ¡°What am I to do with you, Magos? I would be remiss in my duties were I to let you wander the galaxy unsupervised. Your power is too great, your knowledge too vast, and you could do a lot of damage without meaning to.¡± I shrug, ¡°Then sit on my council and advise me. Travel with me if you must.¡± Raphael raises an eyebrow. ¡°Typically it is the Magos who joins an Inquisitor''s retinue, not the other way around.¡± I scoff, ¡°Do not ask for the impossible.¡± ¡°I will consider it. Perhaps my presence will encourage you to give me a void ship even faster.¡± I laugh, ¡°A distinct possibility.¡± I turn to Silas and Fyona, ¡°I rather fear my actions have overshadowed the first meeting of our houses. I apologise for interrupting my gracious hosts. I do hope you can forgive me and look forward to whatever you have prepared.¡± Silas glances between Raphael and I then clears his throat, ¡°There is nothing to apologise for. I am pleased with your explanation and delighted that our daughter will have such stalwart protection.¡± Fyona puts on a smile, revealing dozens of long, needle-like teeth, ¡°I have been told you are fond of tea, biscuits, and cake. We have arranged a tasting session for you with our supplies from Terra. Our servants are rightly proud of their work and eager for your evaluation.¡± I say, ¡°Oh! That is most pleasing. Please, lead on!¡± ¡°What are your interests, Lord Quaani?¡± says Annette. Quaani holds out his arm and Annette grasps it tightly, wobbling slightly as she walks. Fyona gently pushes her husband¡¯s wheelchair towards a room on her left while the servants scatter. Raphael and I follow behind. The Inquisitor has clearly decided to invite himself as the initial plan was for him to merely show us to the spire. No one has pointed it out, and so long as he remains polite, I doubt our hosts will point out the discrepancy. ¡°I am fond of Old Earth media,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Uncle used to share his collection with me while I was growing up under his care. Later my interests changed to replicating what I had seen using Imperial technology, so I suppose you could say that my hobby is to make models. Uncle has only been too happy to aid me, even if much of it had to be done in simulations. ¡°I have multiple copies of Old Earth that I have recreated in full from different eras, as best I can. Only small parts of them are historically accurate. Most are well simulated guesses and they run from M2 to M15. The best records we have are for M3. After the great migration in M15, the records we have are no longer sufficient to recreate Old Earth, only small portions of it. Everything beyond M23 is lost. ¡°While it is possible to chat with the Machine-Spirits who emulate the ghosts of our past, we don¡¯t really know what the needs and wants of those people really were, so talking to these simulated ancient Humans is more a curiosity than fact. Holovid shows depict fictional lives and exaggerate popular culture for entertainment. They can only give clues as to how our ancestors actually spoke and lived. Still, it lends a certain believability to the simulations that they would otherwise lack.¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡°That sounds quite marvellous,¡± says Annette, ¡°I would be pleased to share the records of our house with you so that you can replicate Terra in all its sordid glory. Surely a more modern take could only add to your collection?¡± Two servants hold open the doors and we enter a somewhat cosy room, filled with sofas and two gold filigree trolleys, laden with snacks. There is an actual marble fireplace with a real fire burning within, with real logs. Even the scented candles are made from paraffin wax, rather than the fake, fire-safe versions insist upon throughout the Stellar Fleet. Quanni says, ¡°Absolutely. It is good to visit one¡¯s roots and the data would please the many Tech-Priests who also make use of such simulations. How about you, Annette. How do you spend your time?¡± ¡°I read fiction, religious works, and attend service at the family chapel. I have tried my hand at jewellery crafting, music, and painting, but my physical condition has limited these pursuits greatly. However, most of my time is spent practising the navigator arts and channelling my power whenever I can, lest I lose strength and wit over time.¡± ¡°Practice is a vital part of what we do. It is good that you are diligent. I too, used to practise much and still do, but now, thanks to Uncle, I can do more than one task at once. It is unwise to do such things while actually navigating, but the rest of my time is more flexible.¡± ¡°Will I be able to do such things?¡± says Annette Quaani shrugs, ¡°It is the standardised set of implants required for all Captains, Executive Officers, Stellar Fleet Command, and Navigators. Should we marry, you will get them.¡± I detect a slight flash of greed from Raphael as he listens to Quaani and Annette. I am pleased with Quaani slipping out small details as if I can bring an Inquisitor on board it will greatly aid my legitimacy, much like the Space Marines and my Warrant of Trade. More importantly, if I am already ¡®under investigation¡¯ then it should keep other Inquisitors away from the Stellar Fleet. ¡°It sounds more like magic to me,¡± says Annette. ¡°Nothing that cannot be learned, should you have the will and interest to see it through,¡± says Quaani. Annete says, ¡°Will I become a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus?¡± ¡°Yes, I doubt Uncle will give you a choice, though how far you rise is up to you. Everyone in the Stellar Fleet has been inducted as Uncle despises ignorance, no matter how blessed a life it can lead to. He prefers truth over convenience and I am much the same, no matter how much I wish it were the other way around at times.¡± ¡°Navigators do not have the luxury of ignorance,¡± says Annette. ¡°We see the worst the galaxy has to offer every time we open our eyes.¡± ¡°I agree,¡± says Quaani. We take our seats and a different servant serves each of us individually, though Raphael gets his last when a fourth servant rushes in with extra ceramics. There is no victoria sponge, or triple chocolate gateau. Instead, each cake is the work of a master sculptor, creating everyday items in miniature with remarkable accuracy, like glossy dataslates, brass cogs, and a ship¡¯s wheel decorated with gold leaf. The most impressive however is a three foot high harp, made from chocolate and marzipan substitutes, then strung with hard sugar. There are thirty different leaf teas, all in plasteel tins and painted in Imperial iconography. Never have I been more weirded out by seeing a female servant bend over in front of me, flashing her underwear, while spooning dried leaves from a tin painted with a skull. I¡¯m not quite sure what House Ortellius thinks tea time is for, or if they expect me to drink from the skulls of my enemies, but Quaani takes one look at my face and has to bite his knuckles to stop himself from laughing. Our hosts notice my discomfort and Silas says, ¡°Magos, Is the spread not to your liking?¡± ¡°Forgive my surprise, Lord Ortellius. I was overwhelmed by the volume of...cakes.¡± ¡°Do you not indulge often?¡± says Fyona. ¡°I would have thought a man of your stature had plenty of time for vices.¡± ¡°My spare time is spent raising my children and maintaining my relationships with my wife and my friends. Most, unfortunately, is lost to administration. It is rare for me to take the time to indulge in research or crafting. I also miss teaching. I do not do as much as I used to.¡± This is a total lie. I have plenty of time to do all these things all of the time, but they don¡¯t need to know that and I¡¯ve already given Raphael plenty to chew on. ¡°Do you not set aside the burden of command to others?¡± says Annette. ¡°What use is having help if they cannot aid you?¡± ¡°One who sets aside their burdens sets a poor example and does not remain in charge for long,¡± I say. ¡°I expect Inquisitor Horthstien has much to speak of on that matter.¡± Raphael nods, ¡°It is a grim job and not a suitable subject while enjoying such a fine repast. Magos Issengrund is correct though. Leadership is much like riding an intemperate grox. Once you are up there, you¡¯d best hang on tight, lest you be trampled upon during your fall from grace.¡± ¡°This is not something House Ortellius need worry about,¡± says Annette. ¡°Navigators are not replaceable. I would have thought the same applied for a Novator, let alone one who is a Magos as well. A curious addendum. I do not know of any navigators who have ever taken up with the Mechanicus.¡± I laugh, ¡°Who do you think tests a navigator throne before a ship is sold? It is not enough to pray to the Machine-Spirits and activate them. To test a throne, one must know how it works so that they can explain what is wrong, should an error occur, and if you are going that far, you might as well learn how the whole vessel works. A throne does not work without a vessel, after all.¡± ¡°I had not thought of it that way,¡± says Fyona, ¡°neither have I ever tested a navigation throne, only placed my life in the hands of our House¡¯s Tech-Priests. Have they been remiss in their duties or am I unaware of my own ignorance? This is most disconcerting, Magos. Would you free us from our doubts?¡± I look down at Raphael, ¡°You don¡¯t expect me to guess how you run your vessel do you? Never mind, Petitor Veritas is yelling at me again. Your navigator throne was verified during the vessel¡¯s trials, before it was fully commissioned. It has not been officially tested after maintenance. Currently the next voyage after maintenance counts as the test, while the user remains unaware they were an unwitting test dummy. While this likely saved time and resources, it is rude and unprofessional. It isn¡¯t quite against the repair rituals of the Mechanicus, but it is merrily skipping along the line. ¡°I can understand why your Tech-Priests did not bother to inform you as you are not trained members of the Mechanicus, and thus cannot tell them much more than the data they would have read directly from the navigation throne. They likely believe their machines can tell them far more than any vague impressions of performance that a navigator might speak of. For most devices, this would be true, yet for such a vital and esoteric device as a navigator throne, impressions are an important part of configuration. ¡°One cannot put any navigator on any throne, it has settings, and works best when it is configured for a specific user. These performance profiles are easy to swap between once they are set up, but they do require the input from the navigator for an optimum result. A generic profile is adequate and perfectly safe, but when navigating the Warp I would advocate that every percent of performance is worth fighting for, no matter the difficulties of learning the intricate details of the tools a navigator uses for weeks at a time.¡± ¡°Excuse me,¡± says Raphael. ¡°I find myself with a sudden and urgent task. Thank you for the refreshments, Silas, Fyona, and Annette. Good day to you, Magos Issengrund and Navigator Quaani.¡± ¡°Farewell, Inquisitor,¡± I say. ¡°Please do not drop my name should something be amiss. I do not wish to accidentally denigrate my fellow priests when I have only the vaguest picture of what is occurring.¡± Raphael sighs, ¡°Magos, apparently you do not need to infiltrate our systems because the Machine-Spirits are happy to tell you whatever you might want to know. If you do not know the entire outlook of this vessel by now I will make a genuine attempt to eat my armoured hat.¡± I chuckle, ¡°As amusing as that would be to see. I do not want to have to heal you afterwards. Your people are good, excellent even, but their way of doing things is not mine, nor are our circumstances the same. I will not judge them, nor should you be hasty. They likely have very good, very technical reasons for their choices and are likely playing it as safe as they can with what they know. If they were not, you would all be dead.¡± ¡°I will keep that in mind,¡± says Raphael. He stands, gives us a shallow bow, and hurries from the room. ¡°You just can¡¯t help yourself, can you Uncle,¡± Quaani smirks, ¡°must you poke at everything wherever you go? What will Brigid say if she knows you¡¯ve been running your mechadendrites over all those cakes?¡± Fyona clears her throat, ¡°How¡¯s the tea?¡± ¡°Well, after all this fuss, and the efforts of your staff, I think I should try them all,¡± I say. ¡°It would be a shame to see any of this go to waste. It will give us plenty of time to chat.¡± ¡°We¡¯re here all week, Uncle! Don¡¯t be so greedy.¡± ¡°I never said I was going to try everything in one sitting now did I?¡± ¡°Now you¡¯re just messing with me.¡± Annette laughs, ¡°It is good to see you both finally show us a touch of who you are when you are comfortable. I hope that this can continue.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll give it a try, eh?¡± says Silas. Chapter One Hundred and Eighty I enjoy the tea tasting immensely. None are camellia sinensis, though that doesn¡¯t stop me from secreting away tiny samples so that I can replicate the ones I like the most. The chocolate and marzipan substitutes are disappointing. I do actually have the data to grow cacao and almonds, but none of the space to do so. Much to Quaani¡¯s embarrassment, I do actually taste everything in one sitting. ¡°Lord Silas,¡± I say. ¡°I am immensely impressed by the food and drinks. It has been many, many years since I¡¯ve had something produced on Terra and I am most grateful for the opportunity.¡± ¡°Good. For all our political power, being a navigator is little better than a life long prison sentence from the day we are born. Without a few indulgences to take the edge off, only duty would remain. A laudable sentiment, but not one that I could maintain indefinitely.¡± Fyona is fed by a servant, her claws making it near impossible to eat without stabbing herself, ¡°Despite our mutations, we are Human¡¯s at heart. Something our keepers oft forget.¡± ¡°You will like the Stellar Fleet,¡± says Quaani. ¡°We have a higher percentage of psykers than usual and the majority of all personnel descend from a planet where psykers held more, everyday roles, like doctors and entertainers. ¡°This has continued somewhat with community projects, reducing fear with repeated exposure. Most psyker appearances come from parades and patrols. All psykers join the Psy-Errants, the Stellar Fleet¡¯s version of twist catchers, and must endure disciplined and extensive training. It is a challenging and prestigious role; Psy-Errants are seen as guardians against corruption and frequently patrol all our vessels. ¡°Mutation is still undesirable, but it is curable. More like a disease you visit the medicae deck for than the mark of an outcast. Hiding a mutation can still get you into trouble though, as it is assumed that if you have something to hide, the Ruinous Powers are at work.¡± Fyona says, ¡°You make it sound more like a Utopia than a real place.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not perfect,¡± says Quaani, ¡°Especially with the influx of new people. Still, I like to believe that Annette will receive a warmer welcome than she would elsewhere.¡± ¡°We shall see,¡± says Silas. ¡°I¡¯ve never left the navigator spire,¡± says Annette. ¡°Too many bad stories from my parents perhaps. You will care for me though, right Lord Quaani?¡± ¡°Probably not!¡± Quaani smirks. ¡°If something is strong enough to get past all the defences, I doubt I¡¯d do much better.¡± Annette pouts and taps her foot, ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant!¡± Quaani says, ¡°If there¡¯s anything I¡¯ve learned from Uncle over the years, it¡¯s that if we are to be a family, we look out for each other. The Stellar Fleet does not breed helpless damsels, nor would it tolerate them.¡± ¡°You promise the wildest dreams, Lord Quaani. I¡¯d ask if you think you can measure up, but if you are Mechanicus trained, I dare say you measure everything twice at the very least!¡± I laugh, and everyone else quickly follows. Even some of the servants risk small smiles. ¡°Then perhaps we should share an activity your family is more accustomed to,¡± I say. ¡°A little forward, don¡¯t you think?¡± says Fyona. ¡°I don¡¯t get naked for just anyone.¡± There is an awkward pause. My Rapid Decision Engine informs me Fyona is serious. I say, ¡°I think I dropped a cog somewhere. Would you be willing to elaborate?¡± Silas clears his throat, ¡°As you can see from our mutations, my wife and I are not capable of sex unassisted. If someone is to aid us with such an intimate encounter, it would be terribly rude not to permit them to join in. ¡°The most common activity for Annette to stumble upon is an orgy, from which she flees as fast as her attendant can push her wheelchair. We don¡¯t actually have any routine family activities that we all participate in beyond meal times and training. Annette, understandably, does not share the interests or duty of my wife and I.¡± Fyona says, ¡°She has always been a quiet child and keeps to herself for much of the day. Likely because seeking us out for companionship has resulted in embarrassment for her more times than she cares to remember.¡± ¡°I see,¡± I say, entirely unsure where I should go with this conversation. ¡°That¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve accidentally propositioned someone for an orgy. I apologise for any slight I may have caused.¡± ¡°You are forgiven,¡± says Fyona, with an absolutely wicked grin. ¡°Though I suspect you¡¯ll be getting Silas and I naked either way, if you are to perfect our forms with your techno-arcane rituals. Perhaps you will hold a different opinion after the procedure?¡± ¡°That would be a violation of medical practices,¡± I say. Quaani cracks up and manages to splutter out between his sniggers, ¡°A violation? Really Uncle? I can see from your face that particular word choice was entirely accidental. A shame. It was one of your better ones.¡± I say, ¡°Shall we move on? Please? Lady Annette, is there any activity you would like us all to try while we are together?¡± ¡°I would like to walk upon Terra while it was still green and blue. I have never stepped upon the ground and I would like my first time to be special.¡± ¡°That will have to wait after your transformation as it requires a specific implant to function,¡± says Quaani. ¡°Then perhaps some live music? The servants can blow far more than just fleshy pipes.¡± ¡°Sure, I¡¯d love to hear them play,¡± I say, cracking a smile at the innuendo, ¡°Quaani?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t had a private concert since I was seven. I could never sit still long enough to enjoy them and I¡¯d like a chance to make up for that.¡± Annette claps her hands together once and smiles, ¡°Great! I would also like to show you all around our private chapel and share a moment of quiet contemplation and prayer. There are several artefacts in there that I like and I am hoping my parents will let me take them with me.¡± ¡°I am sure we can accommodate you dear,¡± says Fyona. ¡°Let¡¯s visit the chapel first. It will give the servants a chance to set up.¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The chapel and concert are enjoyable and I excuse myself afterwards, rather than attempt further conversation with Fyona and Silas. We have little in common besides war and trade, and I¡¯ve no desire to plumb those depths too soon when we have a whole week of conversation ahead of us. One would think that an academic discussion on navigator powers might be possible, but these are House Secrets and only to be passed on by Annette to her potential children. Feeling that I¡¯ve played enough of the fool for the day, I excuse myself and search for Talliel-Iota-5 and JK-404. The Petitor Veritas is in good condition though not as advanced as the vessels in my own Fleet. There are fewer gravity plates and most personnel walk with an extended stride, both feet leaving the decking. A small handful plod along with the distinctive clunk of mag boots. Air quality is hot, dry, and slightly under pressure. Everyone I pass has rebreathers. There¡¯s no endless cold, bright, and green corridors like my own vessels. The most distinct difference is the clothing of the voidsmen and menials. The voidsmen have a proper uniform: a loose black shirt and trousers with silver trim and brass buttons, topped with a beret. They openly carry collapsible batons, though only the single squad of military police I pass has firearms: las pistols and shotguns. The menials wear patched grey robes, cinched with rope, or leather. They huddle together and scurry about, their heads bowed and hands tucked into their robs, clasping improvised weapons, like plasma cutters, hammers, and wrenches. The whole vessel feels like it¡¯s about to explode with violence and is utterly at odds with the lively and productive attitudes of my own crew. No matter who they are though, everyone keeps clear of anyone in red robes, like me. I don¡¯t blame them, I¡¯m almost a metre taller than most of them and wearing void armour. I thought power armour would be a bit much and rather rude to visit someone in, I even left my bodyguards on the shuttle, yet I was unwilling to get in a shuttle without a decent space suit. Now that I think about it, that was a little eccentric. It¡¯s not like I actually need a space suit to survive the void. As I proceed to the enginarium, I get steadily more annoyed. Many of the Mechanicus crew that I pass have low quality and improperly installed implants. These individuals show signs of discomfort, infection, and inflammation, as well as heavy metal poisoning, radiation burns, and extensive surgical scarring. I enter the enginarium after a proper security check, which while tedious, pleases me as it is a vital component of the vessel. Once inside, I approach a random adept who is muttering a prayer over a recently repaired plasma conduit. He finishes the prayer and his servo harness reaches down and tries to move the decking back into place. The process is slow and is causing damage to his harness, but he persists. ¡°Let me help with that,¡± I say in Lingua-Technis. I magnetise my hands, and place them against the panel, letting me shift the thick armoured plating into place with ease. ¡°Ah, thank you for your help, sir. Is there something you wanted?¡± ¡°How astute of you,¡± I chuckle. ¡°Talliel-Iota-5 requested a meeting with me at my convenience, but did not provide any contact details. Where might I find him?¡± I could have queried Petitor Veritas for noosphere addresses but wanted an excuse to look around without too much interference. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. I can show you his office.¡± ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it, thank you.¡± ¡°No problem. So who are you?¡± ¡°Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund, and you?¡± Caldro has his hood up, hiding his face, but I still detect his wince when I introduce myself, even beneath his rebreather. ¡°Lexmechanic Caldro Belenopha.¡± His voice trembles slightly. ¡°A pleasure to meet you, Caldro. Call me Aldrich, sir, or Magos. Whatever puts you most at ease.¡± I shake his hand and sneak a scan in. Caldro has all the markers of rapid, artificial growth. I¡¯d say he¡¯s been active for four years and is physically sixteen years old. I also doubt he will live to forty. A mix of hard labour, poor diet, terrible environment, and a low quality, secondary artificial heart that is straining his circulatory system, even though the extra heart enables him to keep working hard in difficult conditions. ¡°I started with sir, might as well stick to it.¡± ¡°How long have you been in service?¡± As Caldro guides me, I discreetly direct my nanites into his body, upgrading his extra heart and using my biokinesis to remove the damage he has sustained, all without him noticing. ¡°Three years, sir. What¡¯s it like being a Magos?¡± ¡°It mostly involves pacing up and down, talking to people over the vox, trying to find out why a project is actually delayed, rather than whatever reason has been concocted by the person on the other end of the call. There are also many meetings, with both fellow priests and belligerent xenos, the latter of which is often resolved by which party is the best at avoiding fast moving projectiles.¡± Caldro smiles, ¡°That¡¯s nothing like what I imagined. I thought it would be all pouring over old documents and data looking for archeotech clues, then travelling for years while blasting Orks and Pirates.¡± ¡°I admit to fighting an Ork or twelve and I have studied a lot of archeotech. The Drukhari we fought together had collected quite a hoard.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t even notice the fighting. The boarders never reached the enginarium. Implying I fought Drukhari, or those Human mercenaries, is a bit of a stretch.¡± ¡°A ship can¡¯t fight without power. You don¡¯t have to shoot xenos and traitors in the face to contribute.¡± ¡°I suppose, it feels weird to take extra credit for the same stuff I do every day.¡± ¡°Well, I doubt a Space Marine feels that way, so no reason you should too.¡± ¡°You have a singular view, sir.¡± ¡°I dare say that¡¯s how one becomes a Magos.¡± Caldro points at a door. Six Skitarii stand either side of the door and their postures change slightly when Caldro points towards them. ¡°If you go through there, sir, and take the steps all the way to the top, you¡¯ll reach Talliel-Iota-5 workshop. I can¡¯t help you any further.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine. I¡¯ve placed the proper maintenance STCs on your wrist dataslate for all the implants that you have, and upgraded your mechanical heart. It was killing you. Now it won¡¯t. It comes with a biomonitor now too that is linked to your datapad.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a poor joke, sir. How could you do that while we¡¯re walking?¡± I pat him on the shoulder, ¡°Then go and check for yourself. May the Omnissiah favour you, Lexmechanic Caldro Belenopha.¡± The young man stomps off while fiddling with his dataslate only to stop dead in the middle of the corridor. I leave him to it and approach the Skitarii at a lax pace, keeping my hands exposed and by my side, rather than tucked into the sleeves of my robe. I address the Skitarii broadcasting a squad leader signal, ¡°Good day. Please could you inform Enginseer Prime Talliel-Iota-5 that Magos Explorator, Aldrich Issengrund is here to chat with him?¡± The Skitarii has cybernetic limbs and is covered in thick plates of plasteel and ceramite. He clutches a glowing blue and gleaming silver rifle, a Plasma Caliver, I believe: a rapid fire plasma weapon that is exceptionally dangerous to both shooter and target. Open red robes cover his back and arms down to his shins. ¡°Yes, Magos. He is expecting you. Please go on up.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± The door slides open and the Skitarii step aside. ¡°Is it true, Magos, what you said to that boy?¡± says the squad leader. ¡°Every blessed binary cant that passes my lips is without fault.¡± ¡°Apologies, Magos. I did not mean to insult.¡± I chuckle, ¡°I would be more upset if I wasn¡¯t asked. Verification is a vital part of the Quest for Knowledge.¡± ¡°Of course, Magos. I can only pray that my own circuits are as resilient as yours.¡± Oh, call me thick skinned will you? Cheeky bugger. Might as well pretend to misunderstand him. ¡°All of you are perfectly functional and without life-threatening flaws,¡± I say. ¡°Talliel-Iota-5 clearly values you.¡± Or at least his own cyber mantle. ¡°I hope you have a productive discussion, Magos.¡± ¡°Farewell.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-One Unhurried, I ascend the stairs. The door at the top opens automatically with a smooth whir. Talliel-Iota-5¡¯s domain is absolutely deafening, filled with churning lathes and crashing hammers, tended to by an army of adepts. Hundreds of people stand hunched over desks, disassembled machines before them, or rush back and forth with boxes of components. It is entirely impossible to work here without audio implants to filter out the noise, or to talk in any other manner except vox. A flock of cherubim flit overhead, swinging censors and blasting out hymns, entirely uncoordinated with each other in their choice of music. A cherubim descends from the flock and hovers before me. It chirps at me, requesting I follow it. I have always found the winged, cybernetic toddler Servitors to be the height of poor taste and this example is no better. Almost entirely naked, the cherubim¡¯s chubby flesh stained with ash and oil, yet its elaborate ocular implants and fine white wings are pristine, glimmering with gold and rippling with overlapping energy fields that are completely invisible to a Human eye. To me the fields are an elegant and impressive display of advanced mathematics: invisible art to all but the most knowledgeable. I vox the cherubim my acceptance and it leads me through the maze of industry. It reminds me of a cat as it constantly zooms ahead, pauses, then looks back and waits, only to rush ahead again, all while insisting on hovering at head height, blocking my vision with its diapered ass. Brian, my favourite servo skull, is far superior. His eternal grin and blazing red eye as he bobs around my workshop, constantly pestering other Machine-Spirits, or chasing their digital impressions, is endlessly entertaining and irritating in equal measure. Soon, I encounter Talliel-Iota-5 surrounded by a constant stream of apprentices and adepts as they present their work for critique and testing. Six Skitarii keep the adepts from swarming him. From the stream of data flowing from Talliel-Iota-5 it is clear he knows what he¡¯s talking about. He isn¡¯t providing detailed explanations, but rather pointing the adepts and apprentices towards the information they need to fix their mistakes, or how they could have done better. Once I reach the outer circle of his congregation, Talliel-Iota-5 says, ¡°Enough. I have an important guest. Come back later.¡± I scan the crowd, ¡°Hold up.¡± I pick out four individuals, ¡°I need you four to stay for a moment.¡± The four individuals hesitate while everyone else disperses, though not far enough to walk beyond the public proximity vox everyone is using to communicate. I approach Talliel-Iota-5 and hold out my hand, ¡°It is a pleasure to meet you, Enginseer Prime, Talliel-Iota-5. I am Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. I hope we can have a productive exchange.¡± Talliel-Iota-5 is four metres high and has replaced his legs with six mechanical limbs. His arms are also artificial and there are four of them. While they mimic the Human hand, they are segmented and hide many tools. His torso has withered and there is very little flesh beneath his liver spotted skin. Like me, his head is fake, and his brain is actually in his chest. ¡°Magos Issengrund. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.¡± Talliel-Iota-5 shakes my hand, ¡°I did not expect you to grace us so soon. What do you wish with these four petitioners?¡± I point to them one at a time, ¡°Radiation burn, improperly maintained implant, incomplete surgical removal of an aggressive mutation, solvent abuse. If they were smart enough to go to the medicae deck they would have done so. I might as well fix them up while we chat before they collapse and ruin any machinery with their corpses.¡± ¡°As you wish, Magos. I appreciate your concern in maintaining the efficiency of my workshop, though it is unnecessary. They do not have enough metal in them to cause any damage and their replacements would learn a valuable lesson during the cleaning process.¡± ¡°For all our skills and knowledge, time is a boon of the Motive Force that we cannot alter. The Omnissiah has forbidden it. While these four individuals may be lacking in common sense and knowledge, the worth that they have accrued over their short lives would be lost with their termination and time would need to be spent to regain it. Is it not our duty and pleasure to restore, grow, and most importantly preserve all knowledge? As such, I would propose that they are worth healing.¡± Talliel-Iota-5¡¯s mechadendrites writhe behind him for a moment, then still, ¡°This is not a view I have encountered. Perhaps if it was I or one of my peers whom you were talking about, I would agree. What could these four know that is equal to the time of more knowledgeable adherents such as you and I?¡± I point to one of the unfortunate subjects of our discussion, a young woman with a radiation burn that is starting to blister her hand, ¡°Take my hand and I will heal you.¡± The woman bows and says, ¡°Yes, Magos Issengrund.¡± I take her hand and roll up her sleeve, exposing her hand and arm. ¡°Talliel-Iota-5, I am not specifically referring to the knowledge of the individual, but rather that of the collective, and the efficiency that lies within. Take this young woman for example. She has, likely unknowingly, handled an atomic device. Perhaps a noosphere cogitator with a decay based networking component, or the discarded casing of a Radium Carbine. Regardless of her error, the task list on her dataslate involves bringing your workers the parts they require. Who to ask, how to get where she needs to go, and what to prioritise is an important part of her work.¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. I regenerate the damaged flesh and draw all traces of radiation from her body, forming it into a solid ball of flesh and blood. ¡°I was unaware you were a psyker, Magos,¡± says Talliel-Iota-5. I shrug, ¡°We each undertake the great works of the Machine-God in our own ways. I am fortunate to have more tools than most, no matter how much using the Warp displeases me. As for why I was talking about this young woman¡¯s knowledge, her small role is a vital one. ¡°Replacing faulty cogs is clean and efficient, but it takes time for oil to accrue upon their surface. During this acclimatisation, they wear upon and slow the churning parts of our great, industrial machine, thus repair and maintenance is preferable to replacement, no matter the size of the cog. When you play this analogy across a whole organisation, the efficiency gains are considerable. I even have the data to prove it. Like all great works, it is a matter of numbers and one that you, Talliel-Iota-5, are poised to benefit from.¡± Talliel-Iota-5 stops scanning his apprentice with a mechadendrite and gazes down at me, ¡°How so?¡± ¡°Imagine a menial who spent their whole life disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling a single machine, like a fuel pump for the enginarium. While they do know the proper ritual of maintenance for the device that they work upon, they have long since become jaded from the monotonous nature of their role and have learned slightly faster ways of performing each step. ¡°Everything from the exact angle and amount of force required to remove each piece, or how they can skip some parts every other cycle without impacting performance. They can now do this job faster and better than anyone else. ¡°If an enterprising fellow such as yourself were to collate the data from thousands of menials on exactly how they do their jobs and compare it to the time spent and quality of the work, you could find the optimal manner in which to manage the great machines that you oversee. ¡°I am not saying that one should break with ritual, but even the most humble of workers might one day have an epiphany. The more workers that one has, and the longer they remain productive, the greater chance you have of improving the performance of your domain. A productive domain is far more likely to garner the attention required for advancement, rather than one that is constantly in a state of renewal and recovery.¡± I offer Talliel-Iota-5 the ball of irradiated organic matter from my hand and he picks it up. The plethora of Machine-Spirits surrounding him run up his legs and arms and start tapping at it and chattering to each other. Talliel-Iota-5 can clearly hear them, but I do not think he can see them like I do. I beckon the older man with a badly maintained implant closer to me and envelop his eyes with a cloud of nanites. Talliel-Iota-5¡¯s Machine-Spirits become rather agitated and he sends a thick stream of prayers towards them. Talliel-Iota-5 turns a mechadendrite upon my new patient and records my actions, ¡°An interesting philosophy, Magos, yet I remain unconvinced. I understand the thrust of your argument, but I suspect that the resources expended in the scenario that your propose far outweighs the benefits one can accrue through this method. There is simply too much uncertainty for me to gamble vital supplies on individuals who lack the drive and means to uplift themselves beyond their basic tasks. ¡°It is far better to leave everyone to do their work as best they can and provide an environment where the most talented can rise to the top. Hence my presence here directing those who seek to learn, rather than question those who do not. Dare I say you are looking for an excuse to justify the assistance you grant? Charity is not a sin. Why bother putting so much thought into it when you can warp steel and flesh however you please?¡± The ocular implants shift beneath my nanites, slowly moulding into the man¡¯s flesh until they look more like eyes, than crude green sensors. I say, ¡°Then how do you view the Owl-Class Machine-Spirit Inquisitor Horthstein has requisitioned? The benefits it offers are much the same as the ones I have outlined.¡± ¡°Ah! Yes, I do actually want to talk to you about that. With that in play, it would be much easier to spread knowledge and accrue improvements. I understand now why you shared your philosophy with me. You believe I should implement your methods throughout this Inquisitorial strike group.¡± ¡°I cannot say for certain, Enginseer Prime. Only you know the intricacies of how the mechanical heart of Petitor Veritas functions. I do think it is worth trialling. I have educational systems in place for all of my personnel as every single one is a member of the Mechanicus. ¡°I am unsure how much benefit you will see when your numbers are divided between the Mechanicus, Imperial Guard, Imperial Navy, and Inquisition. I do think the other institutions on this vessel would look kindly upon you if you were to improve the ease with which they can educate their own personnel.¡± ¡°You have heard of my circumstances? I should not be so surprised.¡± ¡°I have not, but would be eager to hear what you have to share.¡± Talliel-Iota-5 chuckles with a flat, artificial tone. ¡°It is no great secret. As you can no doubt tell from the specialised grippers on my legs, I am from the Lathe Worlds, where its strange gravities can dislodge an unprepared Tech-Priest working in the void.¡± I did not know that at all, though now that he¡¯s pointed it out, the adaptations are quite noticeable, as are the similar extra clamps on the Servo-Harnesses that many apprentices and adepts are using. I nod, ¡°I have seen the great works of the Lathes throughout the expanse and intend to visit the Lathes for the first time as soon as I can slip through the Maw.¡± Talliel-Iota-5 smiles, ¡°I dearly love my homeworlds, thus you can imagine my despair when I was banished from them.¡± He taps his chest, ¡°I was once a member of the Crimson Guard and this breastplate is all I was allowed to keep. My fellow guards and I got into a scuffle with the Divine Light of Sollex, one of the Lathe factions intent on making ever more destructive weapons. ¡°They wished to acquire an artefact from Cella, one of the worlds in the Pondus System that houses the three Primary Lathe Worlds, Hadd, Het, and Hesh. Cella is a world rumoured to be entirely artificial and covered in vaults and warehouses. It is the primary storage facility for dangerous artefacts in the system and the Crimson Guard takes its protective duties with the seriousness such a lethal facility requires. ¡°The Divine Light of Sollex did not have the proper codes to remove the artefact they wanted, believing that their unofficial sponsorship by Arch-Magos Rulwure the Golden, Keeper of the Primary Logis Key and second in command of the Lathe Worlds, was sufficient justification for their claims. ¡°We objected and terminated the lot of them. It turned out they had overstepped their bounds, but Arch-Magos Rulwure still managed to break up my brotherhood and have us reassigned. It took me almost eighty years to claw my way up the ranks to Enginseer Prime, yet I would abandon it in a moment if I were able to return. I am hoping that my service to the Inquisition will create that opportunity with a sufficiently grand discovery.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Two ¡°It is a tragedy to hear you were punished for performing your duties. Is this the main reason why you wished to meet with me? Why should I trade with you, and not the Lathes?¡± Talliel-Iota-5 finally swaps to a private vox channel. ¡°It is, Magos. I am reaching the end of my life and wished to take a gamble on you. I do hope you can forgive my bold request.¡± ¡°I do not mind such things, so long as I am not hounded to give up every secret by the greedy and undeserving. What did you have in mind?¡± ¡°I do not have anything that you cannot get from the Lathes, but I am willing to trade with you now. There is no guarantee that you will be granted the same courtesy by the Lathe Worlds. I possess the maintenance STCs for Luminen shields and barriers.¡± ¡°Give me a demonstration¡± Talliel-Iota-5 voxes instructions to his Skitarii. One of them detaches a buckler from their waist and tosses it into the air, where it begins to hover. A yellow, almost white, curved two point five metre barrier appears. A second Skitarii shoots the barrier with a las pistol, creating a forking, lightning-like scatter of energy at the point of impact. Next, the same Skitarii strikes the barrier with a vibroblade, creating the same effect. After thirty seconds, the barrier ceases and the first Skitarii recovers the floating buckler. At first glance, the Luminen Barrier is an electro-static shield that can deflect physical and energy based attacks for a brief period of time. It clearly isn¡¯t as strong as a conversion shield, or a void shield, but it also doesn¡¯t require the Warp to function at the cost of a much higher power consumption. That means it¡¯s not vulnerable to the Warp penetrating bullets of the Officio Assassinorum, though it is debatable if a Luminen Barrier can stop such a powerful round anyway. Not only that, but this technology clearly hides a secret as the barrier should not have been able to stop those attacks. From such a brief look, I am not sure what it is, only that it is not the warp, but I am rather curious. Before I can formulate a response another Tech-Priest arrives, followed by an entourage of eight squat figures. The squat individuals push aside the apprentices and adepts with unpowered shock mauls. What¡¯s more surprising is the choice of clothing. These Kin are all wearing open red jackets and no shirts, showing off their dense and toned musculature. Walking in the middle of them is a young looking woman, equal to me in height. She wears an open red robe, tight yellow shorts and a green, almost black sports bra. Unlike everyone else, she does not bother with a rebreather. Six mechadendrites sway above her head like thin, striking scorpion tails and her impressive physique is on display to all. ¡°JK-404, what brings you to my domain uninvited?¡± says Talliel-Iota-5. JK-404 ignores Talliel-Iota-5 and approaches me, ¡°I am Magos Biologis JK-404. It is a pleasure to meet another peer so far from civilization.¡± Talliel-Iota-5 tuts but does not interfere. ¡°Good day to you, JK-404. I am Magos Issengrund. Talliel-Iota-5 were in the middle of an important exchange. Would you be willing to wait a moment while we conclude our business?¡± JK-404 laughs. ¡°I saw his little display. Did he mention that he¡¯s a Luminen Priest, a variant of an Electoo Priest? He hasn¡¯t shown you the good stuff yet and I assure you I have far more to offer than you can pry from his death grip.¡± ¡°Troublesome child,¡± says Talliel-Iota-5, ¡°Must you ruin everything you touch?¡± I say, ¡°I take it you two do not always see eye to eye.¡± JK-404 looks up at the tall Enginseer, ¡°Well, he would have to bring himself down to my level first.¡± ¡°Even as my flesh fails, I will not bow.¡± ¡°No surprises there, considering how much junk you stuffed inside yourself. It¡¯s no wonder you are so stiff.¡± I say, ¡°I did not come all this way to hear you both bicker. I doubt you did either, JK-404. State your request.¡± ¡°I want you to purchase me.¡± I gape for a moment, ¡°That is going to require a lengthier explanation.¡± ¡°I want off this ship and away from Hamiz¡¯s meddling grip.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not a proper reason.¡± JK-404 glances at Talliel-Iota-5, ¡°Talliel-Iota-5 and I are both prisoners of sorts. Being in each other''s presence is like having our failings look back at us. I work for Inquisitor Hamiz because he pulled me out of a near lynching, though I¡¯ve always thought he was the one to orchestrate it. I just don¡¯t have any proof.¡± ¡°What did you do?¡± Talliel-Iota-5 says, ¡°She is a heretek!¡± ¡°Oh please, the Lathes are forever changing their stance on how much alteration of our blessed genome is permitted. I was just unlucky enough to be caught while everyone was still in a snit about Umbra Malygris after the Malygrisian Tech-Heresy that ran from 742 to 770 M41. How was I supposed to know they would suddenly outlaw the production of gland warriors in 804 M41 while I was in the middle of an order for a secretive individual?¡± ¡°That debate had been running in the Nidus Omega for twenty years!¡± ¡°Exactly. My order was only going to take six months. I was busy with it when your oh so great Crimson Guard blew up my lab with me still inside!¡± The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Enough,¡± I say. ¡°While I do want to hear more of the history of the Lathes, it can wait for a calmer setting. Give me your best offer, JK-404.¡± ¡°Give me a proper lab and a budget, but otherwise left alone to pursue my research, and I will dedicate twenty-five percent of my time to work on the projects you request of me. Our contract will last twenty years, after which we may renew it or part ways.¡± If she is as good as she thinks she is, that¡¯s actually a really good deal. Her body, at least, is a work of art, with more subtle modifications than I can detect without extensive, ill-mannered scans. I can, at least, detect that her bones are exceptional and ideal for high gravity environments. It is possible they are on par with a Black Skeleton. I say, ¡°If our interests overlap, what then?¡± ¡°You get a better deal.¡± ¡°Fair warning, I will know if you lie. I will also need to see a list of your accomplishments, and proof thereof, before I confirm anything. A big enough sample of your research so that I can tell you know what you are worth your price, for example.¡± JK-404 shrugs, ¡°I just want to be free.¡± ¡°Then send me your data and I will speak to Inquisitor Hamiz. He really shouldn¡¯t leave unless I repair his Gellar Field, so purchasing your contract is at least possible. Do not make me regret this.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°Why do you have Kin following you about?¡± I say. JK-404 points at her guards, ¡°You mean these guys, the Lathemasters?¡± ¡°Is that what you call them? That isn¡¯t what they are, or where they are from.¡± ¡°Lathemasters were the original inhabitants of the Lathe Worlds,¡± says Talliel-Iota-5. ¡°They were grubbing in the dirt when we found them, or so our history would have us believe. Lathemasters are workers without peer and rather rare. Is there something more to these Abhumans?¡± ¡°For your sakes, I hope you have treated them well. The Leagues of Votann are not to be messed with. They are known to hold a grudge or two and uphold agreements with the same fervour as we pray to the Omnissiah.¡± ¡°I have no idea who the Leagues of Votann are,¡± says Talliel-Iota-5. I say, ¡°An offshoot of Humanity near the galactic core. They are formidable. They call themselves Kin, but have also been known by other names, like the Demiurge.¡± ¡°Thank you, Magos,¡± says Talliel-Iota-5. ¡°I have heard of the Demiurge.¡± ¡°So have I.¡± JK-404 winces, ¡°There may have been a few incidents. I¡¯ve made considerable progress in unravelling their genome to replicate their fantastic physiques, but not everyone is as discrete and gentle as I when gathering samples or running experiments. The last time too many Lathemasters disappeared there was a one-sided rebellion and now few Lathemasters remain. It was a horrible waste of resources and studying Lathemasters is almost outlawed, yet still there are many cries to permit experimentation once again.¡± ¡°Then I suggest you bring them with you.¡± ¡°Inquisitor Hamiz acquired them for me.¡± I sigh, ¡°Very well. I will contact you again once I have spoken with Inquisitor Hamiz.¡± ¡°I look forward to your good news,¡± says JK-404. JK-404 departs. I can¡¯t help but wonder what the Kin thought of our conversation, yet they never said a word. I did spot implanted vox beads though, so I know they could hear us. ¡°Now, Talliel-Iota-5. Shall we resume our negotiations?¡± ¡°Agreed.¡± Our negotiations go back and forth for over an hour and while I finish healing his petitioners. Rather cheekily, a line of them begins to form as we chat, but I fix them up anyway and send them on their way with the correct instructions. Talliel-Iota-5 is pleased with my offer of manufacturing STCs for the Leman Russ E and promethium NN, but I am unwilling to trade them for two maintenance grade STCs as unlike a manufacturing Grade STC, replication is not guaranteed. All I would have is a drawing of all the parts, the tolerances required, and if I¡¯m lucky, possible alloy mixes and a copy of the Machine-Spirit. My healing of Talliel-Iota-5 and the ready supply of maintenance STCs I¡¯m giving out for free actually helps me as it demonstrates how little value I put in what he is offering. Talliel-Iota-5 doesn¡¯t need to know that I am creating them as we chat though. Performing what amounts to heresy without anyone noticing keeps me inwardly chuckling throughout the negotiations. Eventually, Talliel-Iota-5 admits that while he does not have proper manufacturing STCs for Luminen Technology, he does have his own notes and has already done the work to build his own, hence the bucklers. The originals are actually a type of implant that can be a shield, barrier, ranged blast, or touch based attack. Talliel-Iota-5 agrees to hand over working samples of all versions of the technology in their original form, the two maintenance STCs, and his own notes in exchange for my two STCs. He is also thoughtful enough to provide a list of other Lathe World specialities that I should look into trading for, from reliable plasma rifles and railguns to superior carapace armour and suppressive gravity weapons. His primer on the history of the Lathe Worlds and its many factions, as well as trustworthy contacts, is also of great value to me. In exchange for his extra data, I use my biokinesis and nanties to reverse his age somewhat, turning him into a healthy looking sixty year old, rather than the failing eighty year old that he was before. As for his actual age I do not ask, nor do I bother inquiring why he has not sought rejuvenat treatment from JK-404. They clearly do not get along and Talliel-Iota-5 would appear incompetent were JK-404 refuse to treat him, which she almost certainly would. During my stay on Petitor Veritas, I continue to take breaks and wander the vessel. My explorations almost always end up with me setting up shop in a random corner and fixing a group of people and leaving before I can be mobbed. It doesn¡¯t take long for people to start carrying around symbols of the Iron Foundation, at which point I decide to stop before everything gets horribly out of hand. Quaani and Annette¡¯s wedding goes well. Attendance is limited to family, navigators, captains, executive officers, Stellar Fleet Command, the Space Marine officer contingent, and the Inquisition. It sounds like a lot, but keeping an Imperial state wedding under one hundred and fifty guests is quite the feat! I even saw the navigators from Red Knoll, the Space Marine strike cruiser, for the first time. They were clearly there to network with House Ortellius, but they showered Quaani and Annette with archeotech and artworks, so I didn¡¯t really mind. House Lafiel, the House I subsumed as part of the Torchbearer deal also managed to present some impressive gifts, including a few treasure maps, that while rather impractical, entertained Quaani and Annette greatly and livened up the discussion during the after ceremony party. Apparently there are many treasure maps, especially for the Righteous Path as it is a rather famous treasure ship, but almost all of them are fake and traps set by Pirates. It¡¯s the navigator equivalent of a gag gift, which House Lafiel, or rather House Issengrund which they are now a part of, emphasised several times. Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Three In the end, Inquisitor Lyre Hamiz stays for an extra week, departing at the same time as us. Both Lyre and Raphael choose a Rejuvenat Gland for the single cybernetic I promised them each. The two-thousand upgraded Tempestus Scions and ship supplies were all completed and transferred without any major issues, as were the Runecasters. Lyre was particularly surprised at the new appearances of Silas and Fyona at the wedding. I can¡¯t quite decide if letting it be known I can help navigators is a good thing or not. It is far too powerful a political cog to leave unpolished, yet I am sure it will bring me trouble. The couple, at least, were delighted at their new bodies. Even their servant¡¯s thanked me. Slightly inappropriate, but their jobs are not easy ones and they are rather close to the family. I successfully traded JK-404 and eight Lathemasters (Kin) for Gellar Field repairs on Hamiz¡¯s Petitor Veritas. Lyre was not pleased that his field had gotten into such a poor condition, but then, he¡¯d also been ignoring all his Tech-Priests¡¯ requests for supplies while chasing down Trader Modren, hoping to catch the slaving bastard in the act. He also wasn¡¯t happy to lose his Magos Biologis, or that his Tech-Priests are in a complete frenzy over all the basic STCs I handed out and that they now ¡®include me in their daily prayers¡¯. After all, disappearing famous public figures, especially those who can cure machines and people with a touch, much like the Emperor when he first visited Mars, causes much more blowback than your average heretek. I have no doubt the Tech-Priests will gossip about me at every port they put in at. It probably didn¡¯t help that I¡¯ve managed to influence his proteg¨¦ too, who has joined my Fleet, and that Raphael is taking ¡®Miss Vanus¡¯ with him. I am sure she will enjoy the security games that my personnel play, once she learns the new, or rather really, really old code base that the Stellar Fleet runs on. I was not surprised at all that Inquisitor Raphael Horthstien assigned himself as my Master of Whispers. He brought a squad of Ogryns with him, as well as an entire battalion of Imperial Guard. Imperial Guard companies are usually a lot larger than Stellar Fleet ones, even if they also arrange everything in squads of fifteen individuals, so ten companies amounted to ten thousand soldiers, rather than three thousand three hundred and sixty. Suddenly needing to find appropriate space for ten thousand people on our overstuffed ships was a bit of a pain, as Rapahel didn¡¯t want to split them up. He didn¡¯t get his wish, at least until we can leave our extra infantry at the Breaking Yards. The Imperial Guard were well equipped, so Raphael hasn¡¯t tried to weasel more resources out of me just yet, but it is only a matter of time. I¡¯ve no idea how well the Guard will settle in just yet, but I¡¯ve mixed them all in with the Heralds. I¡¯m not expecting too much trouble as half of my personnel have been through the Herald program and are tall, well muscled, well trained, and rather intimidating to a normal human. I¡¯m looking forward to putting the other half through their service, but it¡¯s going to take a long time to properly assimilate all the new crew. Many will likely die of old age before I get to them as I¡¯ll be starting with the forty year olds and working down from there. Anyone else isn¡¯t really worth it before life extension is more freely available. One amusing change is that our military police suddenly have the most popular job in the Fleet as they are getting the new environmental suit power armour first. Given how many tens of thousands of Tech-Priests we have that have forged their own dragon scale power armour, or modified already lethal weapons over the last century, giving our MPs the means to apprehend rogue crew is rather vital. Usually the MPs have to call in the Battle Smiths or Warforged if an arrest gets out of hand, which erodes the implied deterrent of the MPs and can cause some rather obnoxious rivalries. Rivalries are still going to happen, but with fewer opportunities to rub shoulders, and a proper balance to the most powerful members of the Stellar Corps, there should be fewer issues. Despite our large civilian population, we don¡¯t have Arbites, as they don¡¯t really cover the role of traditional police, being more interested in maintaining tithes and suppressing rebellions. I¡¯m also not keen on introducing any part of the convoluted Imperial legal system into the Stellar Fleet. I did establish Arbites back on Marwolv, but that was more because I wanted to put my own people in place, rather than have someone come along and do it for me. They probably never would have, given how distant Marwolv is, but leaving an opening like that would have been foolish. There¡¯s always some ambitious prick out there willing to make a move under the flimsiest of pretexts. I am still uncertain if inviting an Inquisitor into the Fleet is the right move. I have no doubt that he will eventually discover most of mine and the Fleets secrets. Neither do I think that the Inquisition will view being invited to investigate with any less suspicion than being kept from investigating. I do think that letting the Inquisition monitor me, and enabling the easy and friendly option of simply asking me for information or help, rather than having to go to vast expense of chasing me down all the time, will at least encourage them to monitor me as a variable, rather than hack at me like an obstacle. Optimistic? Absolutely. They¡¯re not a monolithic entity and every Inquisitor is different and none of them trust each other. Raphael has been likeable so far. Worth the risk considering the political capital that having an Inquisitor present can generate? Maybe. I already have Space Marines with orders to pave the way for me. However, an Inquisitor offers a ¡®soft power¡¯ approach to problems, a role that the Barghest Chapter is ill suited for. All our trades with Cobalt were completed, including the extra sleeping pods, and purging the Orks. The Orks will be back, but at least Governor Mattius will have an extra penal regiment to keep them suppressed and he can always call on the new colony at Haddon¡¯s Throne if he really needs to. My Herald¡¯s now have proper Ice World combat experience and our noosphere training scenarios have improved from all the new data. The only thing all the reports agree on is that the Heralds would rather storm a Space Hulk than fight on an ice world again.. The voyage to the edge of the system takes the Stellar Fleet three weeks, then twenty days Warp time to SR-651. The voyage is uneventful. Real time passes at the standard ratio of twelve to one. Remarkable, considering how distant the Astronomicon is. We still don¡¯t have enough navigators, but Ardent Bane was sufficiently repaired to make the jump without issue, so we were able to put all our escorts back inside Iron Crane. Stuffing eighteen, Sword Class sized vessels inside a single ship always amuses and awes me in equal measure. It is quite ridiculous, and Iron Crane, even when expanded, is still four kilometres shorter than an ¡®average¡¯ Universe-Class Mass Conveyor. I am somewhat curious as to how many escorts one could pack inside a Universe-Class vessel, but can¡¯t calculate it reliably as they don¡¯t follow a standard model and can vary in size significantly. SR-651¡¯s main star is a red giant. There are no planets in the system, with them all having been shattered by an unknown event aeons ago. Now, massive debris fields, ranging from tens to thousands of kilometres across, swirl around the system in vast eddies of somewhat unpredictable gravitational anomalies in a cosmic display that is as beautiful as it is deadly. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. Sensor readings of the Receiving Yards, a spindle shaped, thirty kilometre long void station, and the Breaking Yards, a teaming mass of chained asteroids and broken ships three and a half thousand kilometres across, reveal nothing of the ancient system¡¯s past. There are thousands of dead void ships here and at least two dozen active ones. I spot thirty-seven hollowed out asteroids strapped with salvaged macro-cannon batteries, hangars, and other defences and I would be shocked if that was even half of it. Orks from the ¡®Undred ¡®Undred Teef are known to raid the SR-651 from time to time, chasing all dat sweet scrap n¡¯ gubbins, but they¡¯ve never taken it, or even done much damage. This place would be a nightmare to assault, and so long as they aren¡¯t cut off by one of their frequent Warp storms, ST-651 can call every single ship in the Koronus Expanse for reinforcements, who are all going to rush to defend the only shipyard this side of the Maw, even if it is only semi-functional. Seeing it for myself makes me even more glad that I¡¯m not going to try and take it forcefully, and reinforces my commitment to the revised plan I¡¯ve been working on. We try hiring a local pilot to take us through the debris field, but he freaks out when he sees all the plants on Iron Crane and refuses to walk through the corridors to the bridge, so we have to spend an extra two weeks observing the gravity flows before making the voyage to the Receiving Yards with our own skills. It is with great excitement that my kids and I all step into the main promenade of the Receiving Yards. The void station has aged poorly, with minimal upkeep performed by the various syndicates and gangs that squat in its ancient halls. Vestiges of glory are visible everywhere, from the vaulted ceilings, massive chambers, frescoes and statues. Most of the artwork has been defaced with weapons fire and all of it is coated in grime and a lot of the station is unfinished. More often than not, scrapped hulls have been welded into place for extra space, or to patch holes in the original design. Up close it looks more like a Space Hulk than a void station. A lot of Rogue Traders have taken over SR-651 over the years, but every attempt at organising the venture has been lost to treachery, Warp storms, and mechanical mishaps. Now only the poorest of the Expanse labour in terrible conditions with barely functional tools and insufficient food, yet the Yards remain, fueled by greed, anarchy, and desperation. I am hoping to avoid such a fate by not directly trying to take them over or organise anything, just provide the means for people to do a better job and live better lives, while running my own side hustle. I may even take some inspiration from the space based agri-domes that Talliel-Iota-5 told me feed the Lathe Worlds, though having seen what a mess SR-651 is, I have my doubts I can pull it off safely. We had to shoot a lot of asteroids on our approach. Which is just plain weird as space is big even with the amount of debris in the system, there should not have been so many asteroids miraculously crossing our trajectory. Without our void shields, our vessels would have lost a notable portion of their outer ferrocrete ablative armour. I expect the Breaking Yards are one of the few, vaguely safe parts in the whole system, and even then, the broken ships sometimes collide with each other, gradually moved about by the repeated micrometeorite impacts. Docking is a little tedious as we are swarmed with requests from the syndicates and gangs, aggressively advertising their services and requesting docking fees. I assign Eire to the task and it takes two days before she can discover who we¡¯re supposed to be paying and can safely leave our ships without starting a small war. After much back and forth, Eire is able to set up liaisons with each of the major powers in the system, easing our communication issues. When I finally leave the ship with my kids, our flaming red hair, height, and fine clothes, really stand out as we walk about. Almost everyone tenses as they pass us, or squeeze into alleyways and vents like rabbits. We¡¯re not wearing void armour, only clothes over an undersuit, or even carrying any visible weapons, as we¡¯re trying to have a normal day out. We are wearing conversion shields, but those aren¡¯t visible unless someone attacks us. From the emotions and thoughts I¡¯m picking up around us, it¡¯s because we don¡¯t look visibly dangerous, other than our size, that so many people are nervous. I¡¯m slightly impressed by how astute such a large group of people appear to be. One would expect for there to be a daring idiot, but so far, we are free of such stereotypes! Bedwyr, the ever reliable bodyguard, is shadowing us with four squads, so I don¡¯t think that we¡¯re taking any significant risk. ¡°Dad,¡± says Alpia, ¡°You take us to the nicest places.¡± Dareca sniggers, ¡°Well, at least it¡¯s better than Lickspittle.¡± ¡°We can at least check out some of the shops,¡± says Fial. ¡°They might have some archeotech or something we haven¡¯t seen before.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be so sure. Wouldn¡¯t all the good stuff get hidden away or snatched up?¡± says Luan. ¡°That implies everyone knows what they¡¯re looking at, or have found,¡± says Fial. ¡°Well, hopefully it will be us doing the snatching,¡± I say. ¡°I should have phrased that differently.¡± Alpia says, ¡°Where¡¯s Mum?¡± ¡°Still Absolutely swamped with work,¡± I say. Brigid also thought this would be a waste of time and she might be partially right, as my scans aren¡¯t turning up anything interesting, but that wasn¡¯t the point of this trip. ¡°Thought as much,¡± says Luan, grimacing. ¡°Shall we all pick a shop each? There¡¯s always a chance Fial is right.¡± Dareaca says, ¡°Is there something other than armour or weapons?¡± ¡°Like a bric-a-brac store?¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°A store filled with objects of questionable taste and past fashions that have little value or use, but are still in too good a condition to throw away. They gather dust for decades, waiting for that one oddball to pass them by who actually thinks they¡¯ll get some use from the object, or can¡¯t bear to pass up something that might be useful later, and don¡¯t want to miss out while they can pick it up for cheap. Some objects remain there for so long, they come back in fashion again and are suddenly valuable.¡± Alpia grins, ¡°You mean like your endless drawers of random wires, screws, power packs, and half-filled boxes of drill bits?¡± I try to give Alpia my best disapproving frown, but can¡¯t keep the smile from my face. ¡°Think novelty clocks, porcelain animals, and incomplete sets of dining utensils. Maybe old vox boxes, data slates, religious icons, and amateur paintings. You know how you always need more knives than forks in the kitchen, but everything is sold in pairs with forks? Bric-a-brac stores let you solve life¡¯s little niggles like that.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a problem we¡¯ve ever had, Dad,¡± says Luan. ¡°Also, oddly random and specific. Do they even have a store like that here?¡± Alpia points, ¡°Oh, does that store count?¡± A store with its shutters down and a thick door is down the side of an alley. The sign swinging above it says ¡°Odds and Sods.¡± ¡°Er, that¡¯s a different sort of odds and sods they¡¯re selling there Alpia,¡± I say. Dareaca bursts out laughing, ¡°Oh, I really shouldn¡¯t laugh at that. The noosphere says it¡¯s an LGBTQ brothel and dive bar. That is a remarkably offensive name.¡± ¡°Oh. That¡¯s just the sort of tasteless joke you would come up with Dad, if you were a madam,¡± says Alpia. I say, ¡°You wound me.¡± ¡°The truth hurts, Dad,¡± says Alpia. Luan snorts, ¡°It sure does with an Inquisitor on board.¡± I wince, ¡°Not a fan?¡± ¡°No,¡± says Luan. ¡°I get why you invited him, I even think it is a good scheme, but I¡¯m also glad that you¡¯re leaving all of us, except Alpia, at the SR-651 while you tour the Imperium. I wish Alpia was staying too. It¡¯s literally his job to be an asshole and I don¡¯t want to be anywhere near when he decides to drop his load all over us.¡± ¡°Throne, that¡¯s a disgusting image!¡± says Dareaca. ¡°I wished to express my discontent in an unforgettable manner,¡± says Luan. Alpia pulls a gagging face, ¡°I do not want that to be the last thing I associate with you while you guys aren¡¯t around. I¡¯m glad you will miss me though.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what I said,¡± says Luan. Alpia wraps her arm around Luan¡¯s shoulder and gives him a squeeze ¡°No, but it¡¯s what you meant.¡± Luan looks to the side, then pats his sister¡¯s hand before throwing her arm off him. ¡°Oh, there¡¯s a clothes shop there,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Let¡¯s try that one.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Four The clothes store is selling coats of all kinds: great coats, trench coats, frock coats and so on. The dummies in the window are blank masked servitors that cycle through poses like macabre puppets. There is not a single staff member in sight. ¡°Do you think they have a tailoring service, Dad?¡± says Alpia. ¡°Typically, stores like this, especially those selling salvaged clothing, are a what you see is what you get type of deal,¡± I say. Luan says, ¡°I didn¡¯t realise they were used clothes.¡± ¡°There¡¯s traces of blood on the auspex, and many have discrete repairs,¡± says Fial. ¡°They¡¯ve been well cleaned and some have been re-dyed, so it¡¯s not something you¡¯d notice with a standard Human eye.¡± ¡°I guess these people don¡¯t have a lot of money,¡± says Alpia. Fial shakes his head, ¡°It won¡¯t be that simplistic. I don¡¯t think there are many factories here, or a ready supply of anything. It might just be the culture too. The entire economy here is based on salvage and repair. The idea that you wouldn¡¯t take something, fix it up, and sell or use it, is probably completely alien to them. We¡¯re unusual in that we tend to recycle and refabricate a lot of our consumer goods. It¡¯s a consequence of our temporary currency, as people like to spend their bytes on new goods, but don¡¯t have space to store things they no longer want or need.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know that,¡± says Luan. ¡°Spending habits affect our industrial output,¡± I say. ¡°There was a big report on our productivity because we needed to know how to split the Fleet. We have so much planned that we needed to reassess how we use our resources. It was also the start of Brigid¡¯s campaign in changing perceptions as we move to a longer lasting, possibly permanent currency.¡± Alpia says, ¡°That¡¯s cool, Dad.¡± ¡°Oh check out the walls,¡± says Dareaca. Coats by type and region are hung upon the walls with little notes next to them, saying who they were last worn by, that person¡¯s achievements, and where they came from. Luan says, ¡°I wonder if that one really came from Hydraphur on the other side of the galaxy. Can you tell Dad?¡± ¡°The best I can tell is that the age is fairly accurate.¡± ¡°Yeah, this place is more interesting than I thought it would be,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°I don¡¯t really need another coat though and I can always come back later. ¡°Do you want any of these, Alpia.¡± ¡°Nah, I like to wear the stuff Mum picked out for me. Her fashion sense hasn¡¯t steered me wrong yet.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t believe you still let Mum dress you!¡± says Luan. ¡°I like it because it¡¯s something we can do together,¡± says Alpia. ¡°Mum and I don¡¯t share much in common, so if modelling for her from time to time means that she wants to spend time with me, I¡¯ll take it.¡± Luan chuckles, ¡°That¡¯s both sad and brutal. I kinda get what you mean though. Could she really not take a day off, Dad?¡± We leave the store and continue down the rather empty street. ¡°She¡¯s really stressed about getting everything sorted. You know Brigid hates the idea of not doing her best at every task she attempts. She could be walking about with us, but her mind would be elsewhere. I¡¯m not sure that would be much better.¡± ¡°We should come up with something else then!¡± says Alpia. ¡°I can kinda see why Mum didn¡¯t want to bother with visiting the Receiving Yards. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s worth it to keep looking for shops to visit.¡± ¡°Shall we at least try a local restaurant before we go back then?¡± I say. ¡°Or how about a pub. Taking one¡¯s kids to the pub to get outrageously drunk for the first time is an important and complex ritual of acknowledgement for a parent that demonstrates you¡¯ve all grown up and are trusted to be responsible.¡± Dareaca laughs, ¡°Dad, that makes, like, zero sense. Especially as we all have toxiphages. Still, I¡¯m up for that.¡± ¡°You seriously want to take us to a dive bar, Dad?¡± says Luan. Fial says, ¡°In a hive of scum and villainy?¡± ¡°Yeah, let¡¯s go! If this trip is going to end in a shipwreck, it needs to be epic,¡± says Alpia. ¡°I doubt anything unusual will happen,¡± I say. ¡°How would these places function if there was a shoot out or bar brawl every couple of hours?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve located a suitable bar,¡± says Fial. ¡°I traced their records and their rotgut comes from industrial ethanol distilled from promethium. They add artificial sweeteners and xeno fauna venoms as flavour additives at the bar. You can literally pick your poison.¡± ¡°Seriously?¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re not going to back down now are you, Dad?¡± says Luan. I run my hand down my face, ¡°Fine. You¡¯ll all need to stay close enough that my nanites can immediately bind to the toxins. Just because it¡¯s not killing their customers, doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t have an allergic reaction or something. Oh, and don¡¯t touch any free bar snacks. Everyone puts their fingers in those.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll be fine, Dad,¡± says Alpia. ¡°I doubt they give out free snacks anyway.¡± ¡°Fial, does it have another shitty joke for a name?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Asp-purgers,¡± says Fial. Luan, ¡°You¡¯re messing with us. There¡¯s no way it¡¯s called that.¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m messing with you. Now let me concentrate while I navigate. This place is a bit of a maze.¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. I say, ¡°How are you feeling about your upcoming apprenticeship, boys?¡± ¡°We still have a year left in the Herald¡¯s, Dad,¡± says Luan. ¡°That¡¯s ages away.¡± ¡°Not for an old fogey like him. That¡¯s like an afternoon snooze, or something.¡± I say, ¡°Thank¡¯s, Dareaca. So kind of you to offer to buy us all a round at the bar.¡± ¡°Ha!¡± says Alipa. ¡°Whatever,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°In all seriousness, I don¡¯t really know. The idea of working for Eire, Maeve, Owen, and R¨®s¨ªn for a year each, then heading off for the navy officer academy at Port Wander if you can swing us all a commission, is kinda abstract. I know what everyone does, but I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like doing it, nor do I know if I will enjoy the work. I get that finding out is the point of this arrangement, but that doesn¡¯t make the answers appear any sooner.¡± ¡°Fair enough. I¡¯ve never been exactly sure of what I want to do, and I am an old fogey.¡± Dareaca smirks, ¡°You said it, Dad. It¡¯s kinda obvious you¡¯re hoping all your kids will eventually fill Fleet Command. I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s the best idea. You know perfectly well loyalty comes from more than just blood. You¡¯re friends with everyone in Command as it is.¡± ¡°Once Blessings and Castigations are fully functional, we¡¯ll be putting a time limit on how long anyone can hold a single role,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone burning out like Thorfin did and would rather stick to a proper replacement schedule. I¡¯d be delighted if one of you can find enjoyment in a command position, but it isn¡¯t an absolute necessity. I do need you to stand by your own merits though, even if our House will look bad if none of its scions hold a role of importance.¡± ¡°We know, Dad!¡± All four children chorus. ¡°I suppose I do bang on about nepotism a bit too much!¡± Luan says, ¡°It¡¯s not about looking bad though, is it? It¡¯s: ¡®For the Unity!¡¯¡± ¡°If you¡¯re done teasing me about my cult and you''re actually talking about projecting a strong image, our prestige, then yes. I do need family members to rotate into Fleet Command.¡± ¡°You shouldn¡¯t poke fun at other people¡¯s beliefs,¡± says Alpia. Luan lightly punches Alpia¡¯s arm, ¡°The Imperium does far more than just ¡®poke fun¡¯.¡± Alpia blushes and looks to the side, ¡°Yeah, whatever. Bro.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll it¡¯s not like we need to decide in a hurry,¡± says Dareaca. I say, ¡°I suppose we will all just have to wait to see how it shakes out. I¡¯m feeling a bit anxious to get the details of exactly what you want before I depart for the Imperium proper, but that isn¡¯t practical and I¡¯m pleased you have actually thought about this and didn¡¯t give me a trite answer, even if it leaves me worrying about you all.¡± ¡°Aw, Dad. You¡¯re supposed to get all mushy after drinking. Not before!¡± says Luan. ¡°We nearly there yet, Fial?¡± says Alpia. ¡°Yep,¡± Fial points to the right. ¡°I present to you, ¡®The Last Post¡¯.¡± ¡°Ah, ¡®cause a musical salute is what you can expect after drinking there,¡± says Luan. ¡°Classy.¡± Fial says, ¡°I knew you¡¯d like it.¡± ¡°Alright, kids. Let¡¯s go do some daytime drinking.¡± ¡°Dad, I can¡¯t decide if this makes you awesome or shamefully irresponsible,¡± says Fial. ¡°Well, so long as the jury never returns to session, we won¡¯t have to find out,¡± I say. The Last Post is at the top a set of crudely welded steps. The windows are barred with no glass and heavy shutters. The whole front is covered in some impressive street art showing dozens of people labouring over rusted machines. Large bins, most filled with refuse, line the wall, covering much of the art. A golden, jewelled goblet is the centrepiece, covering the whole door. A single green drop hovers above a clear, rippling liquid within the goblet. I have to duck to get inside and my shoulders brush the side of the doorframe. It¡¯s fairly spacious inside, with the pub going back much further than it looked like from the outside. I have to dip my head each time I pass a bare I-beam. There are seventy eight patrons, many of them lined up and lounging against a ten metre bar, where three scarred, tattooed, and mostly naked women rush back and forth. Almost everyone has a crude cybernetic of some kind, usually a replacement limb, foot, or hand. A single Tech-Apprentice sits in one corner, doing a brisk business, tinkering and blessing the cybernetics of the seven people surrounding him, a long line of empty glasses on his table, mixed among the scattered parts, oils, and incense. The pub doesn¡¯t go silent as we enter, but the volume sure drops as we approach the bar. The bar leaners part before me and the oldest looking waitress, a woman in her fifties, rushes to face me. ¡°I don¡¯t think the Last Post can host someone of your stature, My Lord.¡± She does her best to put on a service smile, but her hands are trembling, and I detect a few patrons making for the exit. I chuckle, ¡°Sir will do, or Aldrich if you¡¯re feeling bold. We¡¯re here to get drunk. Ask your questions if you wish, of me or my children. So long as everyone remains polite, no trouble will come from me and mine. Does that put your concerns to rest?¡± ¡°As best as I could hope for, sir.¡± ¡°Good enough,¡± I place a stack of thrones on the bar. ¡°A free drink for everyone as an apology for disrupting everyone¡¯s afternoon. Just don¡¯t try to cheat me, eh? I can read the prices on the board above the bar just fine.¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it, sir.¡± ¡°Good. Dareaca. You¡¯re up. You owe us the four of us a drink after your cheeky comment earlier.¡± ¡°If you insist, Dad. I don¡¯t see the difference when it¡¯s all your money anyway.¡± One of the patrons coughs, then draws heavily on his lho-stick and scowls. He turns around and says, ¡°It¡¯s an important moment in a father¡¯s life when their kid buys them their first drink in a bar like this.¡± ¡°See! This guy gets it!¡± I say, pointing a mechadendrite at him. ¡°Sure, all the money comes from me, but you still earned it.¡± ¡°How could he possibly guess that!¡± says Alpia. ¡°Cause we stick out like a loyalist marine in a cultists¡¯ den,¡± says Luan. ¡°No implication intended.¡± ¡°Hmm, I blame Dad for that,¡± says Fial. I rub my chin and try to look as contemplative as possible, ¡°That¡¯s fair.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t you just say it was about learning to drink responsibly?¡± says Dareaca. ¡°I knew you were talking grox shit, Dad. Don¡¯t you just want a free drink?¡± ¡°Well, yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Free stuff is awesome and almost no one ever gives me any. People always expect favours or to buzz my sensors about some bit of vital data. There¡¯s all sorts of reasons why I wanted to come here.¡± Alpia says, ¡°You¡¯re being embarrassing again, Dad. Weird too.¡± ¡°Yeah, OK. Whatever.¡± Dareaca approaches the bar. ¡°I¡¯ll have the four cheapest drinks you have and one of your best tasting, more expensive ones.¡± That gets a few laughs, but the barmaid still looks up at me nervously. ¡°No need to double check with me,¡± I say. ¡°I have four kids. My skin is denser than battleship armour.¡± ¡°Ain''t that the truth,¡± mutters the smoker. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± The barmaid puts down four shot glasses and fills them with a clear liquid that¡¯s twenty percent alcohol and eighty percent water. Next she fills a glass highball with crushed ice, syrup, and a much stronger sixty percent alcohol mix. She finishes it off with a few drops of bitters that spread through the drink like smoke. ¡°Here,¡± says the barmaid, ¡°four plain shots and a Black Ice. Seventeen thrones.¡± A throne gelt is the primary currency of the Koronus Expanse and Calixis sector. A single throne is, on average, the cost of a single, poor meal, like a bowl of soylent viridans, or one of those corn based ration biscuits. Dareaca¡¯s ¡®Black Ice¡¯ was sixteen of those. Dareaca pulls out a few coins from a zipped pocket and counts out four coins, then places them on the bar. He passes out the shots then grabs the expensive drink for himself, then holds his drink out. We clink glasses, ¡°Cheers!¡± Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Five ¡°Dad, this is just watered ethanol,¡± says Luan. I say, ¡°That¡¯s ¡®cause your brother is a cheapskate.¡± ¡°Dareaca, Is your¡¯s actually any good?¡± says Alipa. ¡°It¡¯s...different? I don¡¯t have a reference for it to describe the flavour other than sweet, sharp, and fruity. Can¡¯t complain about the strength though, both in flavour and booze content.¡± ¡°OK, I¡¯ll have five Black Ice¡¯s please,¡± says Alpia. ¡°Eighty thrones, right?¡± The barmaid nods rapidly, ¡°Sure, my lady. I can get that for you.¡± Alpia laughs, her pleasant voice echoing throughout the bar and stopping most of the conversations for a moment. Even the Tech-Apprentice looks up from his work, pushing up a pair of magnifying goggles so he can actually see us from a distance. ¡°Are you really going to waste all your wages on a few drinks for us?¡± says Dareaca. Alpia scratches her cheek, ¡°Dad, what¡¯s the current Fleet exchange rate?¡± ¡°Three point two bytes per throne gelt. Approximately. Maximum conversion is 100 thrones a day for all personnel. We don¡¯t have a lot of external currency in store as we tend to swap goods, rather than coins. Really the exchange is more of a courtesy for the crew, based on the byte¡¯s value of the goods that we exchanged for the current batch of thrones, than an accurate comparison. Once they¡¯ve all been used up it could end up being completely different next time.¡± The barmaid pushes the drinks forward and says, ¡°The syndicates will be happy to fill your currency reserves, sir.¡± I give the barmaid my best friendly smile, ¡°I am sure they would, but I have no further spare supplies that I would be willing to sell them at this time than what we have already given.¡± Luan says, ¡°What, not even the booze, Dad? Didn¡¯t the last trader who bothered us pay some reparations from his private stash?¡± Well, that¡¯s one way of putting it. ¡°Sure,¡± I say, ¡°but that¡¯s for easing negotiations, not sale. It¡¯s one of those goods paid for in favours, not thrones, and only the most desperate will squander a favour for coin.¡± ¡°There¡¯s also other things,¡± says Fial. ¡°Selling weapons can upset the balance and start a bloodbath, medical supplies are unlikely to go to those who actually need them, and Inquisitor Hamiz requisitioned all our tradeable supplies. We actually swapped clean water for polluted water and mixed chemicals with the station as our recycling is better. Once the water is cleaned and the chemicals separated, the thrones will have been traded at a significant energy loss, but we won¡¯t lose any resources other than hydrogen. Shame we don¡¯t have any luxnets, nor are they safe to deploy in this system, because then it would have been effectively free money.¡± Fial is partly lying here. I only gave Hamiz a small fraction of my supplies. I am genuinely out of spare military gear though after I formed three new penal regiments, traded one to Cobalt, then founded several more regiments for Haddon¡¯s Throne. Fial¡¯s comments are a good bit of misdirection though, as implying we were robbed by the Imperial authorities is a fine way to build rapport because I suspect everyone here understands what it is like to lose valuables to those higher up the chain than they are. It makes us seem more Human, and with our exotic appearances, we need all the help we can get on that front. He¡¯s also just established us as people who don¡¯t want to mess with the status quo, something everyone will likely appreciate, even though we intend to do the complete opposite. It might seem weird to come to a bar and discuss stuff like this in the open, but with us appearing as somewhat limited in resources, arrogant and careless, and extremely out of place, we ensure that every word of our conversation reaches the syndicates and gangs. We want our fleet and its personnel to be a target that looks tough to crack and has a miserable payout upon success. I say, ¡°That¡¯s a good explanation, Fial. I didn¡¯t know you¡¯d looked into it before we set off this morning.¡± Fial shrugged, ¡°I wanted to budget my day out and asked Eire about it. She got a bit excited and over-explained.¡± I laugh, ¡°I¡¯ll know what to expect when I chat with her later then.¡± Alpia says, ¡°Didn¡¯t Quaani say there is a missing cruiser stuffed with weapons, or some other mystery good, in this system? That could replenish what we lost to the Inquisitor. I¡¯m pretty sure that rumour has been around for decades though at this point. I don¡¯t know how much chance we¡¯d have of finding it. ¡± ¡°Dad, that could be fun,¡± says Luan. ¡°Shopping was a total miss, so how about a treasure hunt before we take up our new posts, just like the ones you and Sadako used to set up around Iron Crane for us when we were younger. Maybe even Mum could get in on it?¡± ¡°Yeah, that would be awesome!¡± says Dareaca. I say, ¡°We can spare a bit of time for that.¡± The Tech-Apprentice in the corner speaks up in a burst of static Lingua-Technis, ¡°Magos Issengrund, this one can answer that for you for a small fee. Knowledge for knowledge.¡± I don¡¯t find it odd that he knows my name, as my name is part of the vox contact protocols that I am periodically broadcasting in the area around me, similar to a wifi-node when I was still a plumber. Just because I am broadcasting my name, doesn¡¯t make that name true, or tell someone who I am unless they already know information related to the identification codes I am using. It just gives them an address to contact me with. Faking it would be terribly bad manners, especially trying to pass yourself off as a Magos! I glance over and vox him, ¡°Go ahead and tell me. I¡¯ll at least buy you another drink at minimum. Tell me something good and I will answer a single question too.¡± ¡°Acceptable. There is a cryptographer on the noosphere who goes by Geliran Phingh. He has the data you want and has challenged everyone on the station to solve his puzzle. No one knows who he is or how he is hiding himself. The best anyone has been able to guess is that he works at a local auspex station and hid the data when the missing cruiser was dropped off in a debris field, yet still he remains unfound.¡± Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Is there any guarantee he will follow through with his bargain?¡± ¡°He has hundreds of puzzles available and those who have cracked them always brag about what they win. He¡¯s been at it so long, using them has become a bit of a hazing ritual for new initiates. I would absolutely love to see a few cogs knocked off him.¡± ¡°I am pleased with your information. Ask your question.¡± ¡°Should you solve the puzzle, I would like to know how.¡± The Tech-Apprentice sends me a noosphere address. ¡°Agreed. Thank you for your help.¡± I turn back to the barmaid and place a few more coins on the counter, ¡°A Ruby Cog for the red robed gentleman in the corner.¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± The barmaid starts mixing a fragrant mix of edible flower based oils, red food colouring, and alcohol. The other barmaids are still rushing around serving the free drinks that I¡¯ve paid for, but the senior barmaid keeps returning to stand in front of us and is ignoring everyone else. No one is being dumb enough to complain about the special service though. ¡°What would you like me to call you, Miss. I can¡¯t keep calling you ¡®senior barmaid¡¯ in my head, it seems a little rude.¡± This gets me a small smile, ¡°Call me Hattie Shang, sir, or just Hattie.¡± ¡°Alright, Hattie. Thank you for taking care of us. Do you serve any food?¡± ¡°We have a stack of Imperial Guard meal packs that we can heat up. Visiting soldiers tend to trade away the ones they don¡¯t like though, so they¡¯re a bit hit or miss. Cheap and filling though. Three thrones a piece. We also have a few locally produced ready meals. They¡¯re more reliable and a bit pricier at five thrones. One of the girls who works here can actually cook and mixes and matches everything into a decent meal, but she¡¯s not here today. I could call her in if you like though, sir.¡± ¡°Nah, no need to bother someone on their day off. I¡¯ll try one of each, just take your best guess. Kids?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take an IG meal pack,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°I want to see how it differs from what we get in the Heralds.¡± Alpia says, ¡°The local one for me please.¡± ¡°One of each,¡± says Luan. ¡°I¡¯ll take an IG,¡± say Fial. ¡°I¡¯m curious too. Could you make sure they¡¯re all different flavours? Then we can swap and try everything.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± says Hattie. ¡°Is that OK with everyone?¡± The kids nod, or give a thumbs up. ¡°Thanks Hattie, here¡¯s the Thrones,¡± I say. Hattie sweeps the coins off the bar, ¡°I¡¯ll be back in ten minutes or so. Do you want to eat at the bar or move to a table?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll grab a table,¡± I say. ¡°OK.¡± As soon as we pick a table, Hattie dashes out from the kitchen and scrubs down the table with some hot water and bleach while we stand around, waiting for her to finish. The plasteel is rather grimy and she starts to panic when her efforts don¡¯t make much difference, let alone start on the chairs. I put my hand on her forearm, ¡°It¡¯s OK Hattie. Just watch.¡± I place my other hand on the table and silver flows from my skin and covers the table in seconds, then the chairs. Hattie jerks her hand back. ¡°Don¡¯t panic,¡± I say. ¡°They¡¯re tiny machines. They won¡¯t hurt you.¡± Moments later the thin film of nanites flow back inside me, leaving everything pristine. There are still dents and scratches, but the plasteel has had its brushed finish restored. ¡°Emperor protects,¡± Hattie makes the sign of the Aquila and bows to me. ¡°That was machines? Not witchcraft?¡± ¡°Yes, Hattie. The Omnissiah rewards all who seek his teachings. How about you go and sit down in the kitchen by yourself for a few minutes, have a recaf, then come out with the meals when you are ready. We can wait a bit.¡± Hattie looks up at me in awe, ¡°Yes, sir. Thank you for your kindness.¡± Hattie rushes off and the kids sit down. The Tech-Apprentice in the corner is gaping at me and everyone in the bar makes the sign of the Aquila and bows towards me. Alpia puts her arm around my shoulder and gives me her signature bone breaking hug. ¡°We just can¡¯t take you anywhere, Dad. You awe everyone you meet. It¡¯s amazing, annoying, and amusing in equal measure.¡± ¡°For someone who hates to be revered, you sure suck at being low key,¡± says Luan. ¡°Do you want a list of everything that was on that table, or are you going to smile and say: ¡®Thank you for being so thoughtful, Dad.¡¯¡± Dareaca says, ¡°Can¡¯t be worse than eating with Ork guts on your gauntlets.¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°What, seriously? It was that hazardous?¡± says Dareaca. Luan chuckles, ¡°Actually, when our data say Orks are sterile, they¡¯re not talking about their non-existent reproductive systems. The Orkoid Fungus doesn¡¯t let anything else grow in or on an Ork, no matter how grubby they get. Why else do you think Orks never get sick? It certainly isn¡¯t because they wash their hands and bathe regularly.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t believe I never thought of that,¡± says Fial. ¡°That makes so much sense. Where did you find that out?¡± ¡°I went to JK-404¡¯s first open lecture. She picked Orks because we¡¯d just finished fighting them.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not like you, Luan. You¡¯re more of a hands-on kinda guy,¡± say Fial. Alpia groans, ¡°I bet he went because he thinks she¡¯s hot.¡± ¡°Got it in one, little sis.¡± I smirk, ¡°She¡¯s ninety three.¡± ¡°Fuck! You pulling my leg, Dad?¡± ¡°Nope. It¡¯s in her public information. She likes to advertise her skills by showing off her young and strong looking body.¡± ¡°Ha! Serves you right, granny basher,¡± says Alpia. Luan drums his fingers against the shiny table for a few moments, then grins, ¡°She¡¯s still hot.¡± Alpia looks at each of her brother¡¯s in turn, but none of them will look her in the eyes. I burst out laughing, and stroke her hair. ¡°Let them have their dreams, Sweet Pea.¡± I say, ¡°She¡¯s coming with us anyway, so you can make friends with her then boast about it to them when we get back.¡± Alpia suddenly looks incredibly smug, ¡°I am totally going to do that, especially as R¨®s¨ªn won¡¯t be around to hang out with anymore.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a great idea, Dad,¡± says Luan. ¡°Alpia can give me an introduction.¡± ¡°It will never happen!¡± says Alpia. ¡°I am not going to be your wing woman. That¡¯s just gross.¡± ¡°Whatever,¡± says Luan. We chat for a few more minutes, then Hattie brings out the food in battered mess tins. I spot that she has washed her face and hands and reapplied her make-up. She¡¯s covered her ripped clothes with an apron and I detect caffeine on her breath and her eyes are bright and wide with another mild stimulant. Wow. That¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve seen someone get high before they can bear to face me! Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Six I say, ¡°Thank you, Hattie. Are you feeling a little better now?¡± ¡°Yes, sir. Here are your meals. I wish you good luck.¡± I laugh, ¡°I can see that your fellow barmaids are getting a little overwhelmed with orders. I¡¯ll call you if we need anything else¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± Hattie leaves. The other two workers give her grateful smiles, even though they are showing signs of fatigue. I scan and test each of the meals with a mechadendrite and immediately turn all the Imperial Guard ones to dust with my nanties. ¡°Wow, they¡¯re that bad?¡± says Luan. ¡°Corpse starch, improperly processed, containing traces of the poisons that were used to gas the people who make up the meal.¡± ¡°Fuck that¡¯s nasty,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°No wonder those guardsmen traded them away. I guess they didn¡¯t want to eat their friends.¡± ¡°No shit!¡± says Alpia. ¡°I know you tell us not to waste food, Dad, but I¡¯m not going to call you a hypocrite for breaking your own rules this time!¡± I poke Alpia in her ribs where she is slightly ticklish and she yelps. Her brothers laugh. ¡°Dad, stop that!¡± I push my locally produced meal over to Fial, ¡°Here, you can have mine. You each have one now.¡± ¡°Thanks, Dad,¡± says Fial, ¡°or maybe I should curse you? Are the local ones OK?¡± ¡°Yes, all plant based. A mix of dried fungus and vegetables, with a mix of artificial micro-nutrients. It¡¯s a proper ration with everything your body needs. The IG meals were the same, but they had everything a Human body needed because that¡¯s what they were made from. I would hesitate to feed them to a grox, let alone my kids.¡± ¡°Dad, I think you¡¯ve made Hattie rather scared,¡± says Alpia. ¡°I¡¯m going to go over and let her know no one is going to throw a tantrum. The packets were labelled with machine code and didn¡¯t have a proper ingredients list. There¡¯s no way she could have known.¡± ¡°That¡¯s thoughtful of you. Go ahead.¡± I hand Alpia some more thrones, ¡°Get us a round of those Ruby Cogs too, or whatever else you kids fancy.¡± ¡°OK!¡± Dareaca smirks, ¡°Are you having a liquid lunch, Dad?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say, with a totally straight face. ¡°How do your meals compare to the field rations you ate on Cobalt?¡± ¡°Well, they actually taste of something and aren¡¯t a slightly sweet and salty goop,¡± says Fial. ¡°We couldn¡¯t take our helmets off while in the field Dad, there was no oxygen down there and the air would have frozen our lungs!¡± ¡°Right, I forgot you guys still have to breathe.¡± ¡°That makes you the weird one, not us!¡± says Luan. ¡°Hmm, sure.¡± Dareaca says, ¡°So are we doing the puzzle and treasure hunt?¡± ¡°Absolutely, but only if the four of you can crack the encryption. I¡¯ve already downloaded the files. It¡¯s way above what you¡¯ve been taught, I will point you at the texts you need to read and you can use my lab¡¯s cogitators. If you can¡¯t get it in a month, we can try when I get back.¡± ¡°That¡¯s at least twenty-five years, Dad!¡± says Fial. ¡°There¡¯s no way someone else won¡¯t get it by then. Are you really going to risk losing on a whole cruiser, just to have a treasure hunt with us?¡± ¡°Absolutely.¡± ¡°That¡¯s kinda dumb,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Sweet, but dumb. Now I know why Mum married you and also why she¡¯s so stressed all the time.¡± ¡°Oi,¡± I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. Dareaca says, ¡°I¡¯m just joking, Dad. I know you would let her quit at any time, or do her work for her if she asks, but she has her pride and got her role because she is good at it. The only person she would disappoint if she gave up is herself, and when you have a chance to live for hundreds, possibly thousands of years, that¡¯s a long time to brood on your regrets and linger without purpose. ¡°It¡¯s hard to criticise Mum for her choices when we can see ourselves doing exactly the same thing. If anything, I admire Mum for being so tenacious and hope I can see it through the first time I face a rough patch, and all the others that will inevitably follow.¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯m really happy and impressed to hear you say that.¡± ¡°I¡¯m still going to exaggerate about what an awesome time we had today when I see her tonight though,¡± Dareaca says. ¡°That¡¯s perfectly acceptable,¡± I say, somewhat amused. Alpia returns with a tray of drinks, sits down, and reheats her food by drawing on the Warp slightly and blowing hot air on it, each time she takes a spoonful. ¡°That¡¯s very subtle,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯ve improved a lot. I still don¡¯t approve of using such dangerous energies for mundane tasks though.¡± ¡°You used to make us fly around the bedroom for fun!¡± Alpia says. ¡°Or grab us with telekinesis when we wouldn¡¯t stop running about the apartment,¡± says Luan. I clear my throat, ¡°Well, I suppose you are old and skilled enough now to know what you are doing.¡± Alpia says, ¡°Damn right I am. Besides, this is actually a really good way to practise. Constant vigilance! And all that.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. I receive a vox from Bedwyr and sigh, ¡°We need to leave in two minutes kids. Some cultists are coming out to play and they¡¯re all chanting for my death. Calling me God-Eater is a bit dramatic though. The Heralds aren¡¯t having any trouble cutting them down, but let¡¯s not hang about, eh?¡± ¡°What about the people here?¡± says Alpia. She starts shovelling her food into her mouth and downing her drink. ¡°I¡¯ll have Bedwyr station a squad here to guard the place until Maeve has had a chance to sweep the Receiving Yards.¡± Dareaca says, ¡°Won¡¯t that cause trouble with the Syndicates and their security? I thought you didn¡¯t want to mess with the status quo too much.¡± ¡°I do not, but if they get in the way of purging cultists, they will be treated like cultists. Besides, I will literally be doing their job for them at no cost, other than a hit to their prestige. If they¡¯re too dumb to take that deal and spin it in their favour, they don¡¯t deserve the positions they hold.¡± Luan laughs, ¡°You always give zero shits, Dad.¡± I shrug, ¡°I don¡¯t poop.¡± ¡°And I finished my meal just in time,¡± says Dareaca, his face twisting in disgust. ¡°You lot ready?¡± ¡°One sec,¡± says Fial, chugging his cocktail. ¡°Alright. I¡¯m done. This place is actually pretty great. Let¡¯s come here again.¡± ¡°Sure,¡± says Luan. ¡°I¡¯m game. Alright Dad, we¡¯re ready. Lead us out.¡± We return to Iron Crane under close escort and don¡¯t actually see or hear any fighting. Bedwyr stands next to me, giving out a stream of orders as we move through the maze of buildings, airlocks, and lifts. Occasionally, squads of Heralds race past in the opposite direction, often mounted on Cyber Mastiffs. There aren¡¯t many Mastiff Riders in my bodyguard company, so Bedwyr must have called reinforcements and this is more serious than it appears. By the time we reach the shuttle, Chimeras and Vanguard Armour have been deployed around our docking spar. My sensors let me see beneath Bedwyr¡¯s helmet and he looks incredibly pleased, so I let him do his job while deploying my advanced E-WAR suite to hack the void station. I compile the data and feed extra information to the Heralds that need it, filling their helmets and implants with overlays of enemies waiting in ambush, picking out who is armed and giving them a threat rating, and other useful information. I¡¯m not giving orders, just information, and let the Heralds use it as they please. If anything, I¡¯m acting on a similar level to an GAI, and isn¡¯t that a scary thought? I also start locking down doors and lifts, so that only the Heralds can move about freely. This is going to piss off absolutely everyone on the station, but it is too useful not to do. We do have our own infiltrators, but they are not as fast as I am and are all assigned to defence at the moment after our experience with the Inquisition. We hadn¡¯t expected a need for combat infiltration of Imperial data systems, nor are they set up to coordinate with the Heralds at the moment, like I am doing. An irritating oversight that we will need to fix. I also contact each of the liaisons we have been assigned by the local forces and update them. I don¡¯t ask for permission, I just tell them what is happening and what we are doing about it. Re-feathering their plucked prides can wait until after the cultists have been put down. Next, I grab control of every announcement system that I can, warning everyone to hide in a secure location and that the Mechanicus are putting down a riot. I also advise the inhabitants that shooting at my troops will result in retaliations and that they should put down weapons when asked. I also add that a week¡¯s worth of high quality rations and drinks will be provided to everyone who cooperates and that further rioting will not result in further generosity. Yes, that is going to utterly devastate our reserves, but it will also let us perform a census on the station under the guise of giving out supplies, helping us find who has the skills and knowledge that we will need. It will also get a headstart on building goodwill and support, while heavily discouraging any further discontent. Although I do not announce it now, I will even take the chance to start issuing bytes for those who would rather cash in their reward later, offering more if they don¡¯t take everything at once. A rather sneaky way to get the Stellar Fleet¡¯s currency into the station, though I honestly do not expect many people to accept the offer as they have no guarantee the Stellar Fleet will keep their word. We don¡¯t have a reputation here yet. Once we dock with Iron Crane I wrap all my kids in a hug, ¡°There. You¡¯re all safe now.¡± ¡°Thanks, Dad,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Unnecessary, but welcome.¡± ¡°I feel bad that other people are fighting for us while we¡¯re in the Heralds too,¡± Luan says. Fial shrugs, ¡°The joys of being off duty. If the riots are still going on tomorrow, we¡¯ll likely be standing guard somewhere fairly safe, we might even have to clear a few areas of the yards if we¡¯re caught slacking off, so we will have to be extra attentive and keep our boots shiny.¡± ¡°Ha! I will not be so lucky. If it¡¯s cultists, I will be stomping around in my Vanguard Armour. Hopefully it won¡¯t be so bad that R¨®is¨ªn has to back me up in her Armiger Warglaive.¡± I say, ¡°Alright, my brave soldiers, that¡¯s enough boasting. Best to iron your uniforms and get some rest.¡± ¡°Lame, Dad,¡± says Luan. I flick Luan¡¯s head pretty hard, sending his head snapping back and he staggers back a couple of steps. ¡°I¡¯m serious,¡± I say. ¡°Dead is dead and there¡¯s not much I can do about it, so don¡¯t fuck up or take it lightly.¡± Well, that¡¯s not true, but recovery and resurrection is not guaranteed either, nor can I afford it right now. Luan rubs his forehead, ¡°Damn that stings. You nearly gave me a concussion.¡± I say, ¡°A cultist will do far worse.¡± ¡°Dad has a point,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°We should take this more seriously. Just because our gear is good enough that only heavy weapons or witchcraft have a chance of killing us, doesn¡¯t mean that the enemy doesn¡¯t have heavy weapons and psykers. Luan sighs, ¡°Yeah. OK. I will take it seriously. Sorry, Dad. I really should know better after fighting the Orks. They were pretty scary.¡± I nod, ¡°A little humour and pride is fine, even necessary, to keep your spirits high. That little sore spot on your head will be a fine reminder if you start daydreaming on watch though.¡± ¡°Why only me!¡± says Luan. ¡°You were being rude.¡± ¡°And you were treating us like kids.¡± ¡°You are my kids.¡± ¡°Give it up,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Dad isn¡¯t going to bend on this and he can plot a thousand ways to win every argument with each breath that we take.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Then you¡¯d best earn those cybernetics while doing your apprenticeships. You¡¯ll need them once I get you those navy commissions.¡± ¡°What, they won¡¯t help us win against you?¡± says Alpia. ¡°Not a chance, lady Alpia.¡± I say. The boys laugh. ¡°Yeah, you heard it, peons. It¡¯s official. I¡¯m a lady.¡± Fial smirks, ¡°Technically we¡¯re all nobility.¡± ¡°Dunno about that,¡± says Luan. ¡°I like to keep my stick to arse ratio as low as possible.¡± Dareaca clicks his fingers, ¡°So that¡¯s why they all have a stiff upper lip.¡± ¡°That or moustache wax,¡± says Luan. ¡°Only for the ladies,¡± says Dareaca. Alpia says, ¡°Ewww.¡± ¡°Good job that everyone gets Void Skin then,¡± says Fial. ¡°No body hair for anyone, just luscious locks of heatsinks and antenna posing as perfectly sculpted eyebrows.¡± From there, the conversation derails faster than a train crash. Sometimes, I wonder what I did to deserve my kids. Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Seven Several days go by as the kids try to solve Geliran Phingh¡¯s encryption in their brief moments of free time. They don¡¯t get much as they¡¯re pulled into putting down the riots. Eire is dragged into many meetings with the syndicates and gangs. No one has been able to identify whom the cultists worship, or where they suddenly crawled out from. The sensor coverage in the Receiving Yards is far too spotty and adulterated. ¡®Miss Vanus¡¯, whom I now know goes by Killovie Signi has been hard at work with Raphael to uncover the misdeeds of everyone in the station and there is a lot of panic going on with all the sudden disappearances. Eire tells the gangs that the disappearances are the work of the cultists, not us or our disguised inquisitor and assassin, and the gangs and syndicates just don¡¯t have the tech support to prove otherwise. Killovie is remarkably effective when working in systems she¡¯s actually trained in and she is the one that uncovers that cultists have something to do with the missing cruiser, as it appeared in some of their messages that she recovered. Killovie identifies the vessel as the Dominator-Class Cruiser, Dying Light. It went missing during its first tour and was built for Battlefleet Ultima at Kar Duniash over a millenia ago. The link to the cultists meant that I can no longer leave the puzzle in the hands of my kids, so I decrypted Geliran Phingh¡¯s data, and sent the knowledge of how to do so in a delayed message to the Tech-Apprentice at the Last Post bar. It wouldn''t do for him to get the encryption tutorial before we can recover the vessel. Before the next crisis can start, I sit on the prow of Iron Crane, wailing into the void about the unfairness of the universe and questioning my choices. If I was being less dramatic, I¡¯d say I¡¯m lying on my back in my pyjamas, dressing gown, and fluffy slippers staring at the stars, feeling incredibly strange about the sense of nothingness against my Voidskin and the warm glow of intense radiation from SR-651. It¡¯s not like I need a space suit anymore and I thought I would give it a try. I¡¯m not sure I will do so again though; Brigid told me she won¡¯t sleep with me afterwards until the stink of the decontamination shower I¡¯ll need has faded. I might have to burn the slippers too, which is the real tragedy here. I feel the vibrations of a vehicle through the roughly textured hull, but don¡¯t look up as I can see everything in a sphere around me anyway. A Tauros pulls up nearby and Eire disembarks. She¡¯s wearing one of the new exploration power armours that we¡¯ve started calling the Rogue Pattern. Eire voxes me, ¡°Hi Aldrich.¡± I lift a hand and wave, ¡°Yo!¡± ¡°You look ridiculous.¡± ¡°Mission accomplished.¡± Eire chuckles then sits next to me. ¡°Why did you seek me out?¡± ¡°To spend time with a friend, before we have to say goodbye,¡± says Eire. ¡°Thank you. That¡¯s lovely to hear.¡± We sit in silence for a few minutes. Eire says, ¡°You kept your promise. I¡¯m finally going to be a proper High Factotum of the Stellar Fleet. I¡¯m not quite sure what to make of it really.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯ll be in charge of Stellar Fleet Mani and our operations here. I¡¯ll be leading Stellar Fleet Sol around the Imperium.¡± ¡°I know, it just seems strange that you¡¯re leaving the Iron Crane here. You do like to play with fire though, naming the split fleets after old gods.¡± ¡°It both amuses and saddens me that I can name things after ancient gods and no one will notice. We have lost so much, yet that leaves us with no end of thrills to discover.¡± Eire folds her arms and sighs, ¡°That¡¯s one way of putting it.¡± I say, ¡°Until I can sell the Origami Pattern Mobile Shipyard STC to every Forge World, they¡¯re all going to try and steal Iron Crane. I¡¯d love the support Iron Crane would offer, but there will be plenty of shipyards in the Imperium if I need one, even if they will over charge me for them. The same issues apply to the Moth Class.¡± ¡°No one in Fleet Command disagrees with your reasoning about splitting the Fleet, but you want to bring the Charon, the Macro-Ferry here as well. The Tau are on that thing you know. Raphael is going to throw a fit when he finds out. Fortunately he¡¯s too busy hunting cultists right now and he¡¯ll be leaving with you.¡± ¡°Ah, well. You know how all our ship production times are based on the capabilities of the Origami Class?¡± Eire nods. ¡°Brigid pointed out that, based on that measurement, it would take almost eight point seven thousand years to build the Macro-Ferry. That¡¯s not a helpful timeframe and we really need to cut that down. What¡¯s worse is that I originally wanted to build a shipyard here based off Goibniu Yards, the same design that the Macro-Ferry is copied from.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t the yards and Macro-Ferry build themselves, getting exponentially faster as more capacity comes online? We projected two hundred years for initial functionality, and eight hundred for completion.¡± ¡°Yes, they do. Either way, do we really need two massive mobile shipyards in this sector? The Macro-Ferry would be criminally underutilised where it was. How many vessels are realistically going to want to travel to Marwolv, even if it does eventually grow to be a Forge World?¡± I continue, ¡°It will be one of, if not the most remote Forge World in the entire galaxy. It¡¯s better to have the Macro-Ferry here, where it will function more like a shipyard, than a ferry. We can still use it as a Ferry if we want to and there¡¯s always a chance that we¡¯ll find a new route and then that would be a massive investment that suddenly needs to be repurposed. No, better to sort out all that possible fuss now, before it begins.¡± ¡°I suppose we don¡¯t need two do we?¡± ¡°We¡¯re effectively trying to build the equivalent of the Phalanx, a feat that hasn¡¯t been repeated since the Dark Age of Technology. If it wasn¡¯t for the simulation technology and the engineering grade STCs we have, we¡¯d have no chance, but we do, so there¡¯s no reason not to try and the SR-651 is the best system to try it in.¡± Eire nods, ¡°I know that R¨®is¨ªn is thrilled to be overseeing the project and she will appreciate you giving her so much freedom. It is easy to hide stuff here and we have an incredible source of replenishing raw resources. Having it be mobile means we can move it if we have too, like escaping from an Ork Waaagh! or moving to the other Forge World, Raakata, that you were thinking of claiming. It¡¯s not like a shipyard only has to make ships too. The micro-factories are incredibly flexible.¡± ¡°True, but I¡¯m hoping to specialise the shipyards this time and have them produce a few models at a rapid pace with only a limited selection of customisation. The end goal is to get an escort down from two years to six months and produce only three or four models.¡± ¡°A seventy five percent reduction in production times is rather ambitious.¡± ¡°It is! I am hoping that examining the best shipyards in the galaxy will help me with that. Mars churns out multiple ships every day. Sure they have a planetary ring with a circumference of over twenty two thousand kilometres, compared to the one-hundred kilometre long vessel that we¡¯re aiming for, but we have to start somewhere.¡± ¡°When you put it like that, it doesn¡¯t sound quite so ridiculous. Do you still plan to purchase the Barghest¡¯s two light cruisers and eight escorts?¡± ¡°I do, probably from the Lathe Worlds. Speaking of Forge Worlds,¡± I say, ¡°I asked Raphael to look into Raakata as our records are rather out of date. Apparently it¡¯s been claimed by Lord Captain Lethe, of the Lethe Rogue Trader Dynasty. Magos Gogins is in charge of the reclamation. They¡¯re shifting production from Hive World Calibash that¡¯s also owned by Captain Lethe. No one has seen Lethe for decades though since he got into a scuffle with the Olivares over Dolorium, so there is likely room for negotiation. It¡¯s better than getting into conflict with House Winterscale who are much more dominant.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Eire says, ¡°I know that we¡¯ve been tasked with supplying Imperial forces in the Koronus Expanse and that you want to keep them from travelling to Marwolv, which I fully support, but do you think the Charon will be enough? Do we really need a Forge World? Void stations don¡¯t pay Tithes.¡± ¡°I honestly have no idea. We just don¡¯t have the data to calculate it. No one knows yet that we can¡¯t refuse to trade with any of the Adeptes and must supply whatever they ask for at a reasonable price. I expect that it will get out eventually, and then we¡¯re going to need a titanic manufacturing capability.¡± ¡°I see. That¡¯s why you¡¯ve ordered five more Origami. Once they¡¯re up and running, we should be able to complete Charon in under two hundred years, not just get it functional.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what the numbers say. Hopefully it will be functional enough to fully support us when the Cicatrix Maledictum comes back.¡± ¡°Ah, risking the detection of the Tau is small potatoes compared to having a mobile void station. It will have a decent population base if we have to run away to another galaxy!¡± Eire says. I laugh, ¡°Now there¡¯s an idea. If only there weren¡¯t rumours that the War in Heaven spread to multiple galaxies, so there¡¯s likely Necrons, Eldar, and Orks in those places too. There might even be Tyranids and who knows what other xenos have evolved there since. Anything that can survive those four will be tough opponents and probably rather unfriendly.¡± ¡°What about Humans?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t actually know. All our records of galactic travel are missing. We certainly had the technology. We could even go today if we really wanted to, though it would be rather risky.¡± ¡°Hmmm, not enough fuel and reaction mass.¡± ¡°Indeed. We would also need to discover the STC for the aethyric generator, that can simultaneously create both pentagrammic and hexagrammic wards of immense strength and scale, before we could risk venturing so far beyond the light of the Emperor. A new method of energy generation and storage, material reserves, perhaps even energy to matter conversion as well.¡± ¡°Everything that the Necrons already have then.¡± ¡°Exactly! Though finding a galaxy hopping warp gate would probably be easier than trying to steal their technology.¡± ¡°These are fun dreams,¡± says Eire, ¡°but I want to talk about something a bit more grounded. You have a couple of other objectives I¡¯d like to confirm: picking up the seed vault from Dolorium and finding another route to Marwolv. The first isn¡¯t a problem as I¡¯ll have a light cruiser task group and the Ardent Bane available, but they aren¡¯t appropriate for long term exploration as I need those vessels to guard Charon. I know Maeve is staying to deal with any infantry scale tasks but I don¡¯t have confidence that they could fend off a significant fleet based threat with a D-POT assault.¡± ¡°Are you asking how secretive I want to be about pathfinding?¡± ¡°Yes. Ideally, we would rebuild some of the Viper Class Sloops floating around the breaking yards, but we¡¯d need dozens of them as well as the navigators pilot them. While you could send navigators from House Ortellius, we won¡¯t have the production capacity to put together so many sloops and crew loyalty could be a problem.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll buy them and send them your way,¡± I say. ¡°I was going to leave all of the Iron Foundation here as I don¡¯t want to bring a new cult into the Imperium and having them around will help boost loyalty while the fleet is split, but you make a good point. I¡¯ll take a portion of the Foundation with me so they can be part of the hired Imperial crews to get the sloops to you. A few Battle Smiths and Warforged among the Heralds for security will also push loyalty in our favour. They¡¯re loyal to their craft and know that the best source of knowledge is me, so I doubt any ships with them present will need to worry about mutiny.¡± Eire nods, ¡°I¡¯ll try and free up some production capacity so that we can at least refit the ships you send with proper shields, warpsbane hulls, mechanical gellar fields, and decent accommodations. Loyalty is one thing, shitty food is quite another. The Barghest Chapter paid for upgrades too.¡± I laugh, ¡°That¡¯s true. I don¡¯t want crews to have any excuses to half-arse their jobs. You¡¯ll need to make more than just components for the ships I send your way as we¡¯ll need something to pay the Breaking Yards for scrapped hulls.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do that. The more you add the bigger our delays though. What about Torchbearer? You suspended the work on Ardent Bane to work on kitting it out.¡± ¡°We¡¯re not on a tight schedule and I¡¯m not leaving until Torchbearer is up to Stellar Fleet standards, with the exception of the engines; I¡¯m not hanging around for a third of the vessel to be rebuilt. It can wait until we get back. As can Ardent Bane, even though it will remain with you. ¡°I know the original plan was to get it fixed up as soon as possible, but I think it would be better to retrieve Charon and have Charon and Iron Crane focus on churning out Origami until there are six of them. Then task four Origami with assisting Charon with its construction and set two aside. One can work on getting Ardent Bane up to snuff and the other can start building vessels on commission, getting us properly established as a local power.¡± ¡°Ease up there Aldrich! An Origami takes about forty-five years to complete in full with a single cruiser shipyard and the Origami being built working on itself. With two cruiser shipyards working on one Origami it will take about thirty two years. It would probably be faster to build two at a time actually. How long are you planning on travelling for? You could be gone for half a century and we would have barely started on your plan.¡± ¡°Ah, we¡¯re not going to make it before the galaxy is split are we? Damn. I¡¯ll send some Goliaths too. At least a dozen!¡± ¡°There¡¯s only so much that we can speed up production, you know. There¡¯s a limit to how many machines and people can work simultaneously on a single project. We¡¯ll need a creche vessel of some kind and an agri-vessel too. Integrating and educating Imperials is such a pain.¡± ¡°We are Imperials!¡± ¡°If you say so, Aldrich. I¡¯ve seen enough to know that just isn¡¯t true, no matter how hard you push that agenda for our own safety. We do have strong elements of Imperial and Mechanicus culture, especially worship, but we don¡¯t practise slavery, cannibalism, or willful ignorance. Our education and technology levels are significantly higher in almost all areas. I understand why you¡¯ve no intention of cutting ties, but mark my words, the first time the Imperials come knocking for their due, it will be an incredible test of everyone¡¯s loyalty to you.¡± I say, ¡°I won¡¯t hand anyone over to the black ships. We won¡¯t need to as I can claim all our psykers are for producing and testing the arcano-tech that the Imperium relies on. Forge Worlds don¡¯t provide troops as Tithes either, just ships and materi¨¦l, as their troops quota goes towards Mechanicus objectives and any spares left over are ¡®vital labour that can¡¯t be reassigned if you want that shiny new ship anytime soon¡¯.¡± Eire laughs. I continue, ¡°We¡¯re actually shielded from the worst abuses by the Treaty of Mars. We have our own set of laws. That doesn¡¯t mean they won¡¯t try to grasp everything we have, but we can legally resist with force when they get greedy. We¡¯re actually more under threat from Arch-magi, Ruinous Powers, and the suicidally curious. Both the Fabricator-General, the leader of the Mechanicus, and the Pater Nova, the head of all the Navigator Houses, have legitimate claims on my authority via their Emperor signed treaties. ¡°I can argue that my Warrant of Trade supersedes them both, but then I¡¯d have to show I have a Warrant signed by the Emperor himself, which would reveal that everyone can call on my resources, even if they can¡¯t order me. If they catch on that it breaks the Treaty of Mars that could cause a civil war. The Warrant is obviously empowered too and that will give the Ecclesiarchy an opening to claim I am a blessed individual and should be under their guidance.¡± ¡°I do hope you don¡¯t expect me to deal with all of that!¡± ¡°No, those are my responsibilities, so you can direct any such queries like that to me, but don¡¯t offer any hints that such troubles exist. Please!¡± ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± says Eire. ¡°What about Haddon¡¯s Throne?¡± ¡°Haddon¡¯s Throne could be a problem, but it will be an unfortunate miracle if the Adeptus Administratum ever notices it exists. I¡¯ve spent some more time thinking about it since I last panicked and even if the Admistratum does come knocking, I can just bribe the agent they send to classify it as a fuel processing facility, or a research centre, rather than a colony. At worst, they¡¯d ask for a cut of the fuel instead of people, and that just isn¡¯t a problem.¡± Eire leans back and looks up, ¡°So what you''re saying is that, as High Factotum, I can be as difficult and slow as I like depending on the manner in which we are approached and who approaches us.¡± ¡°Yes. That¡¯s one of the reasons I kept tweaking Inquisitor Hamiz. I didn¡¯t just do that to be annoying and because I found it funny. I did it to set the tone of all future interactions with the Imperium and its Adeptes. Just don¡¯t overdo it and always be certain of the backing of who you''re talking to. Don¡¯t be afraid to delay a bit if that means you can send messages and get confirmation.¡± ¡°I honestly thought you were being foolhardy and being difficult because you just can¡¯t help yourself,¡± Eire says. ¡°And doesn¡¯t that just make the deception the perfect disguise.¡± ¡°Are you sure you didn¡¯t just think of that? You¡¯re rarely this sneaky.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Maybe a little, but I did approach my interactions with the Inquisition and Space Marines with the intent to demonstrate we are a significant power and cannot be pushed around as they please. I think it turned out rather well.¡± ¡°Alright. I believe you.¡± ¡°Your faith in me is appreciated.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Eight ¡°Talking of Faith,¡± says Eire, ¡°you¡¯re leaving Owen and R¨®s¨ªn behind as well. Fleet Command is looking pretty thin. That only leaves you with Brigid, Raphael, yourself, and Lonceta.¡± I hum, ¡°It¡¯s not ideal, I need Owen to keep an eye on the Iron Foundation and he¡¯s the best person to work on subtle community programs to slowly spread our influence throughout this system. He¡¯s the other half to your economic assault.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I thought, but it¡¯s good to hear you say it.¡± I say, ¡°R¨®s¨ªn has a lot of research and development, I mean acquisitions and assimilation, to perform and all her labs are on the Iron Crane; it just isn¡¯t practical to move her entire department and all their families and equipment to Torchbearer. She¡¯s not happy about staying, but she¡¯s often one bad decision away from being branded a heretek. I¡¯d like to keep her close and watch over her, but she¡¯s a lot better than she used to be, so long as I don¡¯t shove thousands of shiny new technologies in her face, which is what would happen if she came with us.¡± ¡°Yeah, I can see that. Is JK-404 going to temporarily take over her advisory role?¡± ¡°That would be ideal, but it would mean passing over R¨®s¨ªn¡¯s assistants and breaking the system we have set up. Two Fleet Command assistants will be getting temporary posts, I may even rotate them through it so they all get a chance.¡± Eire smiles, ¡°Promoting JK-404 would have been poorly received; I should have thought that through more before I suggested it! Who will be replacing me in Stellar Fleet Sol?¡± ¡°Me. I¡¯m not the best negotiator. I tend to default to shock and awe, but I have Brigid to keep me on track. We¡¯ll be doing massive trades that require the authority of a Magus so I¡¯m the only valid candidate anyway.¡± Eire scoffs, ¡°Snobby buggers not willing to deal with a ¡®lowly factotum.¡¯ You can¡¯t know that for sure, but I totally get why you¡¯re leaving me behind. If it wasn¡¯t because I know you so well and the obvious trust you''re giving me, I would think this is a massive insult.¡± ¡°Sorry about that.¡± ¡°I said it was OK, Aldrich. You¡¯d be hearing about it if I was actually pissed at you.¡± ¡°Clear communication for the win!¡± ¡°That and your artificial cold reading and emotion sensing.¡± ¡°I turn that off when I¡¯m talking with my friends and family, and dampen my emotion sensing as best I can.¡± ¡°Good.¡± I sigh, ¡°I just don¡¯t like always knowing what you¡¯re probably going to say. There¡¯d be no point in talking and who''s going to listen to me chatter on if I refuse to do the same!¡± ¡°Oh, woe is Aldrich Issengrund, chatbot extraordinaire!¡± I laugh, ¡°Moving back to your concerns, Maeve is staying because I¡¯m leaving you with two penal regiments as well as all the Stellar Corps on Iron Crane and our second light cruiser task group. That¡¯s just over five regiments. I¡¯m expecting that the majority of your threats will be external, not the internal ones that Lonceta deals with. I can always lead the Heralds into battle if required and we have the expertise of the Barghest Chapter to draw upon.¡± ¡°What about daily administration of the Stellar Corps? I think you should promote one of the assistants for that too. You¡¯ll also need to expand the number of assistants by how many that are being temporarily promoted.¡± ¡°Good idea. I¡¯ll do that.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll temporarily promote some too, to replace the roles you are taking.¡± Eire says, ¡°It¡¯s a shame that Thorfinn didn¡¯t want to take up any of the roles. He would have been a good replacement for Owen.¡± ¡°He¡¯s involved in his own projects these days,¡± I say. ¡°After returning to the Fleet he¡¯s been trying to set up the Stellar News Network and create a noosphere channel to air and discuss all the documentaries he made over the last twenty years. Has he shown any of them to you yet?¡± ¡°Yes. They¡¯re rather good. How do you think I came to the conclusion that we¡¯re not traditional Imperials?¡± ¡°Is that why you came out to chat?¡± ¡°A little bit, yeah. I don¡¯t think you deceived us, Aldrich, but few in the Stellar Fleet are dumb. You made sure of that. With Thorfinn¡¯s footage, it¡¯s easy to see the play you¡¯ve been engineering over the last century, setting everything up so that we¡¯re as unobjectionable as possible to Imperial sensibilities, yet also how much better off we are than they are. The contrast in our living conditions is stark. ¡°The sudden rise in penal regiments was a pretty big clue as well, along with you trying to turn all our psykers into a pseudo Knight House with a revamped armiger that requires a psyker to make the most of its Warp entity protections. Rather like a certain Space Marine chapter we¡¯re totally not supposed to know about. It¡¯s much more difficult to stuff psykers into Blackships if they¡¯re already highly trained and required for a vital, anti-demonic role.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the best play that I could think of,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t want to perpetuate misery, and without the Psy-Errants, the majority of Imperials would have taken one look at Marwolv and turned it to glass without ever setting foot on it to discover its secrets. Knight Houses are one of the few institutions the Imperium trusts almost implicitly because of how the Machine-Spirits alter their pilots. ¡°A Forge World can¡¯t be touched by Imperial forces without significant repercussions as the Mechanicus police their own, and they aren¡¯t going to carpet bomb Marwolv if I fill it with highly advanced machinery and the people to operate it. ¡°A Knight House, and Forge World combination, plus extreme remoteness isn¡¯t a perfect shield, but it is better than most. It¡¯s neither yet, thanks to us travelling back in time, but who¡¯s going to bother to check? Especially when it risks messing with the Emperor¡¯s ban on time travel. Much safer just to leave Marwolv alone until it¡¯s supposed to be rediscovered. So long as we keep the route safe, and our origins hidden for as long as possible, the chance of someone messing with the timeline is negligible.¡± You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. ¡°Thank you, Aldrich, for all you have done. It¡¯s nice to have my guess confirmed too. With you leaving, I really didn¡¯t want that hanging over my head.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome. I think I¡¯ve done an OK job, or so I keep telling myself. I just try to treat people how I wish to be treated,¡± I shrug. ¡°I¡¯m not perfect at it. I do throw my weight around, sometimes quite obnoxiously. None of that makes me special, just Human. Different concerns, same doubts.¡± ¡°Like if you¡¯re not good enough, or if you¡¯re making the right choice?¡± ¡°That¡¯s it. The Iron Crane is my home and I¡¯m leaving it behind with half the people that make it a home in the first place. For all I know I¡¯ll get stuck in the Warp for a thousand years and you¡¯ll all be dead by the time I come back. That terrifies me. It¡¯s happened to me once before and taking that risk again because it¡¯s an efficient and logical choice seems incredibly dumb.¡± ¡°Walking around in space in your pyjamas is not the act of a sound mind,¡± Eire sighs. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I would be much better if I was leaving my family behind either.¡± ¡°I guess so. I was trying to hide my fear with humour. It works most of the time. Not tonight though. I just feel silly. I¡¯m glad you came out to talk to me.¡± ¡°Well, I passed a lot of the new Tech-Priests we¡¯ve assimilated. They were all praying like crazy to an image of you standing on the prow of your ship in your pyjamas. I wasn¡¯t sure who needed help more really, but thought I should start with you. At least I¡¯d see some success there.¡± I laugh, then sit up and give Eire a brief hug with one arm, ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s OK.¡± A few more minutes pass in silence. ¡°So are you going to ask me about what I¡¯m worried about or not?¡± says Eire. ¡°I am! I was just enjoying the moment and appreciating your presence.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± ¡°Well, I turned off my Rapid Decision Engine and with how messed up my sense of time is, a DMC is a bit tricky for me. Seconds or days, a pause in time is much the same to me.¡± ¡°DMC?¡± ¡°Deep and meaningful conversation.¡± Eire smiles, ¡°I think giving a deep and meaningful conversation an acronym ruins the effect somewhat.¡± ¡°Eh, it was trendy when I was a kid.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s it like walking around in space in a dressing gown?¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m actually trying out something I read in an ancient book and vox show called Hitchhiker''s Guide to the Galaxy. In that fictional story, the main character is suddenly torn from his home with nothing but his dressing gown, towel, and a pair of slippers. ¡°It¡¯s not that different from what happened to me, so I fancied putting on the proper attire and trying it for myself. I thought that if I could experience that sense of being unmoored from what is normal and expected, and see that I can manage just fine, it would become true in not just the physical world, but my heart too.¡± Eire slaps my shoulder, ¡°You silly man! You¡¯re making me cry and I¡¯m wearing a damn helmet! How am I supposed to wipe my eyes?¡± I wave my hand unnecessarily and a barrier appears around Eire¡¯s head, ¡°There, you can remove your helmet now if you¡¯d like.¡± ¡°Seriously?¡± ¡°Yes, you¡¯ll be fine. You¡¯d be fine for a couple of minutes with Voidskin anyway, even if I drop the shield. It would just be really uncomfortable.¡± ¡°I suppose I would, wouldn¡¯t I? Alright, I¡¯ll give it a try.¡± Eire unseals her helmet, her hands shaking as she does so. As she lifts her helmet off her head her expression fills with wonder.¡± ¡°Wow, this is weird. And amazing.¡± ¡°See? Doing something strange and seeing the world tick on by anyway really puts one¡¯s worries to rest. Well, maybe not rest, but it gives you the confidence to deal with them. I hope.¡± ¡°What else happens to the protagonist in this strange story of yours?¡± ¡°He¡¯s the last surviving Human after Old Earth is destroyed by xenos obsessed with bureaucracy.¡± ¡°That took a sudden turn for the worse.¡± ¡°What other circumstances would have one hitchhiking in a dressing gown?¡± ¡°That suddenly makes a lot more sense.¡± ¡°There are several different versions of the story. Old Earth gets blown up and replaced a lot. There¡¯s several mishaps involving time travel that inevitably remove Old Earth from existence, a visit to a restaurant at the end of the universe, a ship heist, and an incredibly annoying, depressed, and uncooperative Machine-Spirit. ¡°All the stories in the series are deliberately as nonsensical and confusing as possible, yet often the story ends with the main character, Arthur Dent, back where he began with nothing but the memories of his experience and nothing else to show for it. Or Old Earth gets destroyed again by incompetent xenos and happenstance. Either way, Arthur Dent is left hanging, towel in hand, his friends and family scattered to the wind, or him feeling separated from them as only he remembers what has occurred.¡± ¡°I can see the parallels.¡± ¡°Right? I never even noticed until I thought to try spacewalking in a dressing gown. Then I looked through what few references of the story remain and found the whole coincidence quite bizarre.¡± ¡°Suddenly my concerns don¡¯t seem so important.¡± ¡°Is that a good thing? I wouldn¡¯t want to prematurely congratulate you on tossing them into the void.¡± Eire laughs, ¡°I¡¯m still worried that everything will go horribly wrong. We don¡¯t have a good track record for that, even if we do always push through in the end.¡± ¡°There you go. It¡¯s not so bad with the light of a red giant on your face, and breathing stardust. I know you¡¯ll do your best, and that¡¯s all I ask. It¡¯s what I expect from myself and what you¡¯ve hoped from me all these years. No need for anything to change now, just because you¡¯re striking out on your own.¡± ¡°Yeah, I guess I can handle it after all.¡± ¡°So is there anything in particular you are worried about or have we sufficiently meandered through your troubles? I¡¯m not trying to chase you away. We can stay out here and chat as long as you need.¡± ¡°Like you said, different concerns, same doubts. I¡¯m pleased that you believe in me. Yes, that¡¯s obvious because otherwise I wouldn¡¯t have the role you¡¯ve given me, and I know that actions mean more than trite words. Still, it helps to have your encouragement. Silly, don¡¯t you think? A grown woman, with decades of experience at her job, looking for validation from her boss: a man who wanders around in colourful shirts and nightwear. In public.¡± I wince, then face Eire and look her in the eyes, ¡°Not in the slightest. I brought you to the stars and across the great void of space to new worlds. I present myself to the galaxy as a powerful, knowledgeable entity. You¡¯ve watched me lead the Stellar Fleet for years and now you have to do the same for half of it. Seeking me about for a bit of encouragement is perfectly normal and I am pleased that you did. It tells me that you''re thinking about what I¡¯ve asked and expect, and not just assuming you know what you''re doing and why.¡± ¡°That does make me feel better.¡± ¡°Good.¡± We sit in the void for another thirty minutes, speaking of less consequential things, like Eire¡¯s family. The dumb things our kids do, and boasting a bit about their achievements. I sigh, ¡°I just got a radiation warning. Drive me back?¡± Eire smirks, ¡°You should have brought a towel.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Nine It takes us just over a week to locate and scout a path to the Dying Light, then another two days to plan the excursion. Most of the planning delays come from so many different parties who want to get in on the action. The revelation that my fleet is now large enough to have factions is quite horrifying. After much discussion, we gather a whole void assault regiment, thirty thousand and six hundred Heralds, and pile into Red Knoll, the Space Marine light cruiser, then set off on a three day journey to the cluster of asteroids and planetary debris where Dying Light is hidden. There isn¡¯t enough space for all of the D-POTs assigned to the void assault regiment to fit inside Red Knoll so they glide alongside the light cruiser like tiny fish following a shark. On board Red Knoll are Force Commander Verlin Tigernach and his second in command, Tech-Marine Balor Roan. Inquisitor Raphael Horthstien has also brought his own soldiers, a mixed company of Tempestous Scions, Imperial Guard, and Ogryns. Then there is me with my family, all four kids, Dareaca, Luan, Fial, and Alpia, and my wife, Brigid. Bedwyr Keane and his bodyguard company are responsible for protecting my family. A Warforged, Major General Domhnall Noake, is leading the Stellar Corps¡¯ sole void assault regiment. Six hours into the three day voyage to Dying Light, I invite Domhnall, Verlin, Balor, and Raphael to my shuttle for a game of cards. Fortunately they¡¯re all savvy enough to know it¡¯s not about the cards, but getting to know each other in a less formal setting, without me having to explicitly state it, and all four men accept the invitation. Domhnall is the first to arrive and he turns up in his warform. Few individuals augment themselves as much as the Warforged and most of them have at least two bodies that they can move their life support pod between. Spending too much time in a non-human form makes it difficult to socialise and causes all manner of psychological issues from superiority complexes to body dysmorphia. Not everyone struggles with such monumental changes, but it is enough of a problem that such heavily augmented individuals are required by our Fleet regulations to have options. The noosphere helps, but it¡¯s not a psychological cure-all. Domhnall has taken the form of a Stellar Fleet Praetorian Servitor, a centipede-like tank with three hexagonal sections, each four metres across with four legs. Each section is domed on both sides and bristling with sensor blisters and attachment points for weapon emplacements. His weapons have been stowed for the flight and the Space Marines¡¯ peace of mind. I quickly notice that Domhnall hasn¡¯t cheaped out on his warform, probably because I had to pay for it, and each section has its own micro-fusion core and together they¡¯re strong enough to empower not only a strong void shield, but also our somewhat miniaturised field bracing. His shell and mechadendrites match the ruby colouring of our stealth-tech and despite his size, Domhnall¡¯s remarkable engineering lets him move with near silence. He is accompanied by two cyber mastiffs, and I immediately recognise they are armoured versions of my own mastiff, Dawn Garnet, with both stealth and teleporting capabilities, one of our rare specialist models that are usually assigned to our Battle Automata regiments. I know he is a Major-General and has a significant budget, but I immediately notify Brigid and ask her to task someone with double checking his spending, both its quantity and distribution among his Heralds. ¡°Good day, Magos Issengrund,¡± chirps Domhnall in lingua technis. ¡°Thank you for coming, Domhnall.¡± ¡°I do hope you¡¯ve made the cards tamper proof or I will be clearing the table.¡± I raise an eyebrow, ¡°As best I can. They might look like paper, but they¡¯re all digital, self-shuffling, and look blank to everyone except the person who¡¯s holding them. I can¡¯t do much about everyone being able to perfectly count cards, but as we can all do it, we¡¯ll at least be on an even field. Probability is still just chance, after all.¡± ¡°Excellent. Can they only display traditional cards or can they be anything?¡± ¡°Any design is possible. I have extra cards if someone has a deck building game in mind and a holoprojector to turn the table into a board game as well. Fial came up with the design and I am rather fond of it.¡± ¡°Your son?¡± ¡°Yes, my son.¡± Domhnall says, ¡°I prefer the noosphere for recreation as it saves me the trouble of swapping bodies too often, but I understand the appeal of a physical interaction.¡± ¡°Are you a Hive Sim player?¡± ¡°Absolutely. Unfortunately my skill at war is not helping my current game and I am losing to cultural assimilation, while another party seems to have endless wealth. The group of Battle Smiths I¡¯m up against are rather sneaky. I am not looking forward to logging back in when we return from this excursion.¡± I laugh, ¡°Yes, Brigid usually wins with money too. It¡¯s hard to win against someone who has seemingly infinite wealth! She always catches me out even when I try to undermine her with spendthrift malcontents. I usually go for a technological victory, but it¡¯s somewhat reliant on chance, as the strategy is dependant on what the Explorators bring back.¡± Verlin and Balor are the next to arrive. They have their helmets off. Both their faces are pitted with scars and Verlin has chunky cybernetic eye and a cybernetic lower jaw. His blond hair is cut short and a little messy. Balor has four armoured cables running from his skull down into his power armour. Their armour is a dark, ocean blue. On their left shoulders is a white shoulder pad with a black, snarling dog head. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Both of them sweep their gaze over my luxurious quarters. While I favour brass and silver over gold, the metals marking out the edge of the panels still give the room a warm and bright hue. I spot their surprise when they quickly pick out the warding schemes carefully hidden into every design. They carefully step around Domhnall and hold out their hands. We shake hands and I greet Verlin then Balor. I say, ¡°Thank you both for coming.¡± ¡°So long as the food and drink is good, I am willing to tolerate almost any company,¡± says Verlin. ¡°Well, sorry to disappoint, but I didn¡¯t bring my chef. You¡¯ll have to make do with whatever my wife and kids can conjure out of the food printers. I did bring some good amasec though.¡± Balor lightly hits Verlin in the chest, ¡°That¡¯s far better than you could manage, Brother. Back when we were scouts you nearly got us killed chasing mountain goats, then thought it was a great idea to cook them whole. We didn¡¯t have all our implants yet and the food poisoning was awful. I dare say the sight of you in a chef¡¯s hat is the only thing that could break the fine engineering of the Apothecaries and induce fear in our Battle Brothers.¡± ¡°Must you still bring that up?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Domhnall lets out a mechanical laugh. ¡°Will the Inquisitor be present?¡± says Verlin, his face blank. ¡°He is on his way,¡± I say. ¡°I see.¡± Verlin mutters, ¡°May the Emperor give me strength.¡± I address the Space Marines, ¡°How are you finding your time with the Stellar Fleet so far?¡± Verlin says, ¡°An exercise in patience.¡± ¡°Are you not used to waiting for several weeks, if not months between deployments?¡± says Domhnall. ¡°Warp travel is slow and unpredictable.¡± ¡°That is not the issue,¡± Balor says. ¡°We are used to rushing from one crisis to another. Many marines are unhappy they were not deployed against the Drukhari vessels. We are unaccustomed to being shielded from losses by forces who hold a similar role to our own.¡± Domhnall points a mechadendrite at himself, ¡°Like me?¡± ¡°Yes, like you!¡± says Verlin. ¡°We lack the strength and certainty of steel and further augmentation is denied to us. What would be the point in becoming a Space Marine in the first place when all is metal, pistons, and motive force?¡± ¡°I am sure the Iron Hands chapter would disagree,¡± I say. ¡°Well, they¡¯re like you cog boys. They chop bits off for religious and cultural reasons, not just for better parts,¡± says Verlin. Balor scowls at Verlin then says, ¡°The Stellar Fleet¡¯s mastery of technology makes us question why we are needed. There is a place and need for all roles and clearing a few Orks is not what we are for. To have the Emperor¡¯s own sons reduced to mere Administratum document shredders, after all we have suffered and striven to achieve, is galling. Even then, you seem to have little trouble cutting through Imperial bureaucracy.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t call an inquisitorial fleet or a bunch of gangs Imperial Bureaucracy. Besides,¡± I say, ¡°we¡¯re about to assault a cruiser full of cultists. A role where power armour and bolters are critical. Why are you complaining about this now? Not only that, but I am paying Chapter Master Brackin a vast amount of resources for your services. The equivalent of a Sword-Class escort every two years, with time measured by the primary Machine-Spirit of Red Knoll. Depending on how long we stay in the Warp, you could rebuild your entire chapter every ten years, not including your fleet, Materium time, and still have more resources than you need.¡± ¡°Exactly!¡± says Verlin. ¡°You could have thrown us at the Drukhari vessels and it would not have mattered if we lived or died. The result would have been the same: victory for the Stellar Corps. No significant resources, at least to you, would have been expended. It is different for us. War is our purpose. To hold us back from that is incredibly insulting.¡± I shake my head, ¡°Space Marines exist to fight threats no others can face. There are threats out there that my Heralds are unsuited for, especially Warp entities and the Ruinous Powers. Not because they are unwarded or poorly equipped for such threats, but because they do not have your transhuman treatments that harden the mind and soul against such terrors. Even mechanically augmented minds can still break. ¡°To waste you on a conflict the Stellar Corps is unusually adept at facing would have been insulting. Not only that, replenishing your numbers requires hundreds of children. Are Space Marines not supposed to protect the weak? You living longer protects the weak because you need not replace your dead. How could a child understand what they are volunteering for? What could a child know of honour and glory? It is a wisp of an idea. A moment of joy they compare to the clashing of sticks with their friends in the playground. ¡°You have traded your lives for unending duty. It is necessary. It is valued. Do not force the justifications for your existence upon others through needless conflict. It completely negates the reason why Space Marines are so vital. I can think of no greater insult to all you stand for than for me to throw your lives away. I will not do it.¡± Verlin says, ¡°We are not dolls to be kept on a shelf!¡± Domhnall taps Verlin¡¯s chest with a large mechadendrite. ¡°You are not. You are the silent suits of armour, the shadows hugging the wall waiting to strike against unseen and sudden threats. I am the bastion upon which the enemies of man break their guns and claws. I trained in gruelling noosphere environments for dozens of years and died a thousand times over yet you do not see me baying to show off my skills. Don¡¯t be such a little bitch.¡± Verlin clenches his hands and stares up at Domhnall, ¡°You are telling me, a Space Marine over three hundred years old to...grow up?¡± I clap my hands once, ¡°This is getting out of hand. Domhnall, there is no need to fall to petty name calling.¡± Domhnall sighs, ¡°Very well. I apologise for my words, Force Commander Tigernach.¡± ¡°Apology accepted,¡± growls Verlin. ¡°Still, you will not change your stance, Magos?¡± ¡°I will not. The Stellar Corps has not fought cultists much and data tells us little without the experience to interpret it. You are here to monitor for corruption and possession, as well as fight any summoned Warp entities. Not the glory and thrill of combat. Verlin says, ¡°Fine. Do not think I will forget this.¡± I say, ¡°I am rather hoping you do not. You already spent hours arguing why you should be part of this excursion and I¡¯ve already agreed. I am pleased you are finally sharing why you were so insistent and that you kept your personal opinion out of our public meetings, but at this point, it makes little difference other than irritating the people you¡¯re about to fight with. Only the result matters and you have been assigned to fight as requested. Tech-Marine Roan, do you have any closing remarks before we put this discussion behind us? Raphael has just boarded the shuttle.¡± ¡°Further words serve no purpose. I will keep my own council.¡± ¡°That is wise of you.¡± Verlin scoffs. There is an awkward minute of silence while we wait for Raphael to appear. He enters without knocking then pauses at the door. ¡°What did I miss?¡± says Raphael. ¡°Nothing that concerns you, Inquisitor. We are done with our discussion. I believe it is now time for,¡± Verlin exhales a long breath, ¡°games.¡± ¡°I rather liken this environment to a different sort of battlefield,¡± says Raphael, ¡°one of quick hands and sharp wit. Inquisitor Hamiz is a shameless cheat and I am looking forward to winning for once.¡± Verlin steps forward and looms over Raphael, his smile is all teeth, ¡°Challenge accepted.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Ninety Except for Domhnall, who lowers himself to the floor, we all take a seat around the green felted table. Raphael looks slightly silly as his chair is rather high so that he¡¯s the same height as the rest of us. It makes him look a bit like a kid in a high chair, but mismatched heights are a common enough problem that Raphael pulls off the look without looking silly. I say, ¡°You can consult the rules at any time by connecting to the table via your implants.¡± I pour everyone a full glass of amasec. ¡°I have prepared chips for everyone, but they don¡¯t have any monetary value. Instead, to make the game a bit more fun, amasec top ups will go to the victor of each round. I have different blends and quantities that I will add depending on your weight and physique, so everything will be equal. ¡°In the interests of fairness, I will be emulating how drunk I would be if I was a normal human, and not almost fully robotic and immune to recreational drugs. I¡¯ll make the emulation I am using available to Balor to examine so that he can vouch for me if required. ¡°We have four hours scheduled for our game and the person with the most chips at the end of our time together will be the winner. I don¡¯t have a prize prepared for the victor, but I¡¯m willing to put one up if everyone else is as well. Perhaps items of personal value, rather than monetary value, would be best. It wouldn¡¯t do to accidentally bribe the Inquisitor.¡± Raphael laughs, ¡°I don¡¯t think you need to worry about that, Magos. Bribes on our scale are usually a ship¡¯s hold full of luxuries, or priceless archeotech, not petty gold or thrones.¡± ¡°We are an ascetic order,¡± says Balor. ¡°We do not have much. A single personal item is much more feasible. I appreciate your tact, Magos,¡± Balor glances at Raphael. Domhnall says, ¡°I have a box of twenty custom Helspear Bolts. Ideal for penetrating psychic defences, such as those of demons and psykers. They are all handcrafted and blessed by myself through many weeks of prayer. I crossed them with Implosion Rounds, so they actually contain a small quantity of anti-matter and are absurdly dangerous to make, and carry. They¡¯re also utterly lethal and can instantly kill a power armoured foe or small combat walker with a single shot. I would be willing to bet my custom Helspear Bolts.¡± ¡°That is quite the sacrifice, Major-General Noake,¡± says Balor. Domhnall says, ¡°Rather the point of the bet!¡± ¡°I look forward to using them,¡± says Verlin. ¡°I have something similar, though I only have one. A single Scorpius Bolt from the Great Crusade. It contains a micro-guidance system and a sabot that vaporises into plasma on a hit for superior penetration compared to the kraken bolts that replaced them. The rounds are rather temperamental and according to the records I have, they were individually hand-crafted by the tech-priests of Mars. It is both too valuable to use and not reliable enough to be worth using.¡± ¡°I would love to take a look at that,¡± I say. ¡°I think we have something of a theme here. Rahael?¡± Raphael sighs, ¡°I have five psybolts for a psycannon. Like Helspear bolts, they can penetrate any Warp based shielding, both tech and psyker based. I would not normally trade these, but I have no psycannon to fire them with. They can be fired from a normal heavy bolter, but unlike the Helspear bolts, would be significantly less effective without the accompanying blessed and inscribed bolters. Similar to Force-Commander Verlin¡¯s bet, they are both valuable yet somewhat useless.¡± ¡°An interesting collectible, nonetheless,¡± says Balor. ¡°I have seven Dragonfire rounds I traded from a brother who returned from the Deathwatch. They can be set with a timer to explode behind the target¡¯s cover, releasing a flammable gas. While of little use against well armoured targets, a single shell can wipe out a whole squad of lightly armoured traitor guardsmen and mad cultists. They are not on par with the other offerings, but they will still be useful in the upcoming conflict and I have nothing else to share.¡± ¡°That just leaves you, Magos,¡± says Raphael. ¡°Do you have another lost tech to shock us all with?¡± ¡°I do not. I have some Witch Bolts, but I was going to issue a single magazine of those to everyone with a bolter for this operation, so I can¡¯t really use that as a bet. Witch Bolts inhibit a creature¡¯s connection to the Warp. I packed their cores with phase iron filings. They are effective against both psykers and demonhosts, though less so against actual warp entities as they do not have a proper physical body to poison.¡± ¡°Magos, you¡¯re really going all out to issue such rare ammunition?¡± says Raphael. ¡°From Domhnall¡¯s preparations I can see I am not the only one who¡¯s prepared something for a special occasion. I expect every Herald is the same. They are well paid and rather invested in their own survival. Besides, we recently replaced all their sidearms with bolt pistols as there is a greater variety of specialist ammo for them for mission appropriate loadouts, rather than the phosphor rounds we were using before. They still have the bolt equivalent of those too though.¡± Raphael knocks his knuckles against Domhnall¡¯s massive frame, ¡°I see what you mean by investment in survival.¡± Domhnall laughs, ¡°Your bet then, Magos?¡± ¡°I fear I must break the theme. After our melee scuffle with the Necrons on Kinbriar, Maeve asked me to come up with a weapon that could be mass produced and was effective against such machines. ¡°A vibro-knife is fine against most foes in an emergency, but we rarely face standard humanoids. The original purpose of the knife was to have something that could be both a tool and a weapon, like the Krieger¡¯s ever popular combat shovel. This is no longer necessary after we began issuing mechadendrites to Acolytes, Herald conscripts who chose to become career soldiers. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°The vibro-knife has been replaced with an arc-maul, the Skitarii version of an Arbites shock maul. It is deadly against machines and flesh. During my weapon evaluations, I created a prototype volkite maul. Rather than shock an entity into non-function, the volkite maul turns them to ash and slag. It was slightly unreliable and too expensive to issue to all Heralds and, dare I say it, overkill. ¡°The bigger problem though is that my volkite maul doesn¡¯t have a safety cut off. A shock maul can detect if the user hits themself and cut off the current before they are harmed. A volkite maul releases so much energy on impact that there is no chance for avoiding self harm during an accident or forced error. ¡°The user must also wear power armour or the discharge can harm the user. It¡¯s a good weapon for a Warforged or a Space Marine. It¡¯s a terrible weapon for a Herald Acolyte or Herald Conscript. I have not seen Raphael in action, so I could not comment on how useful you might find it.¡± ¡°That is a fascinating creation,¡± says Balor. ¡°It might not be a bolter round, but it does fit the niche weapon theme. I am content with such an offering.¡± ¡°Then let us play at last!¡± says Verlin. I deal the cards, ¡°Very well.¡± Verlin wins the first two rounds and I pick up that he is actually enjoying himself and trying to hide that he¡¯s actually played a lot of games in his down time. If it wasn¡¯t for my emotion sensing I would have completely missed it. No doubt he¡¯s been trying to trick us all with his feigned disinterest from the start, sneaky bastard. ¡°Raphael,¡± I say, ¡°What is the dumbest and most bold action you have ever done?¡± Raphael, ¡°Well, that is more interesting than swapping war stories, though I suspect there will be some overlap.¡± He puts down more chips, ¡°I raise.¡± I look at the cards on the table, my mind running the probabilities without me giving it any thought. I¡¯ll probably lose, but I decide to play anyway. It¡¯s to my benefit if one of my new allies wins as we¡¯re not friends just yet. ¡°Raise,¡± I say. ¡°When I first joined Inquisitor Hamiz retinue, way before I had worked out what everyone¡¯s role was, I took Killovie Signi out for a date after my first successful mission. I boasted a little, just enough to make myself look good without being arrogant or unbelievable. ¡°She listened attentively, and I thought I was doing well, then Killovie brought out her holograms in the middle of the restaurant, and proceeded to point out my every lie with pict recordings. Then she complimented me and dragged me off to her quarters. I was too confused and embarrassed to refuse. ¡°I¡¯ve never accepted another invitation from her and since then have had absolutely no privacy. Killovie loves dropping hints that she always knows exactly what, and who, I¡¯ve been doing.¡± Verlin chuckles, ¡°Why in the Emperor¡¯s name did you bring her with you?¡± ¡°Inquisitor Hamiz wasn¡¯t too pleased with her last antics, nor was he pleased about me joining the Stellar Fleet, or Magos Issengrund¡¯s treatment of him. I suspect this is his subtle revenge.¡± ¡°I did wonder why he was willing to let her become the first member of your new retinue,¡± I say. ¡°People with her skills are few and far between.¡± Balor puts his cards face down on the table, ¡°I fold. Killovie effectiveness at infiltrating the Receiving Yards and picking targets for us is refreshing. Her tendency to gloat if one fails at a task, then give it to her to complete, rather than just ask for her help in the first place, does irritate me though.¡± ¡°I fold,¡± Verlin says. ¡°I am sure the Inquisitor has since learned whom he can and cannot mess with.¡± Raphael grimaces, ¡°Unfortunately, my job usually involves the opposite. Your turn Magos.¡± I alter the permissions on the cards and reveal my hand. Raphael sighs and flips his. ¡°I did not expect to win that,¡± I say. ¡°As for my most bold and dumb action, I once fought a squad of demonettes by myself while wearing only a medical gown and armed with a plasteel pipe and a child¡¯s water pistol filled with holy oils.¡± That¡¯s not quite what happened, but no harm in bigging myself up a bit! ¡°A tale taller than you, I dare say,¡± Verlin raises an eyebrow. ¡°Oh, take the fun out of it will you?¡± I say. ¡°I was behind a barricade and the only option was to fight them or retreat into Ork territory.¡± Balor nods, ¡°Outrageous stories always sound more believable with Orks.¡± I collect my chips while Raphael deals the next hand. ¡°You¡¯re all a bunch of spewing squigs,¡± I say. ¡°Pics or it didn¡¯t happen,¡± says Raphael. Balor chuckles, ¡°I never thought I¡¯d hear an Inquisitor say that.¡± Domhnall tops up my glass, ¡°There you go, Magos. That will make everything better.¡± I sip my drink, ¡°Throne, you should have seen them, they were utterly disgusting. All claws, tentacles, and tits.¡± ¡°That¡¯s quite enough details, Magos,¡± says Raphael. ¡°I believe you. Why don¡¯t you move us along, Tech-Marine Balor?¡± ¡°Oh, I managed to prank my drill sergeant with a modified laspistol that shaved off half his moustache. He sent me to Mars as a punishment.¡± I laugh, ¡°Yeah, that is definitely brave and dumb. Domhnall, you¡¯re being rather quiet. Something you don¡¯t want to say in front of your boss?¡± ¡°This is a cruel topic, Magos,¡± Domhnall groans. ¡°On Cobalt I attempted to ice skate in my warform. Ice skating was a hobby of mine as a child and I wanted to see what it was like on a planet and see how fast I could go. I completely forgot I was a multi-tonne cyborg and cut right into the ice, sliding for dozens of metres on my hull in front of my soldiers. It has resulted in an unfortunate number of nicknames and sayings, the silliest of which is Iron Comet. A contrary name for contrite act. It is now my call sign and a stain I shall never remove. I am learning to own it.¡± Domhnall¡¯s story gets a round of laughs and we continue our card game. ¡°What about you, Force Commander?¡± says Balor. ¡°I know you have no shortage of tales.¡± Verlin stares at Raphael, ¡°I shot and killed Inquisitor Tariana von Skald, Inquisitor Hamiz¡¯s predecessor.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-One ¡°I wondered when this would come up,¡± mutters Raphael. ¡°So you knew,¡± Verlin crosses his arms. Raphael drums his fingers against the table, ¡°Possibly. I would expect my account to be different to yours. I do not have first hand experience with the conflict.¡± Verlin says, ¡°We sent some brothers to the Deathwatch, only for Inquisitor Skald to return to the Barghest chapter a decade later and make war upon us. She is the reason why Magos Issengrund is building new vessels for us as our fleet losses were significant and none have been willing or able to replace our vessels. Our chapter has never forgotten, nor forgiven the betrayal.¡± I frown, ¡°How many marines in your strike force do you have that are from that time?¡± ¡°Not many, it was over three hundred years ago: two veteran sergeants, myself, and Brother Balor. I was the only Deathwatch to survive service with Inquisitor Skald and I was imprisoned for a time when I refused to fire upon my own chapter.¡± ¡°What reason did Inquisitor Skald give you for attacking the Barghest Chapter?¡± I say. ¡°Inquisitor Skald stated that we were impure,¡± says Verlin. ¡°As you know, our chapter accepts renegade and lost marines who are no longer welcome, or cannot return to their chapter, but still hold the Emperor in their hearts. This causes much trouble with our geneseed and we suffer from more degradation than most, but providing a space for lost marines keeps many from turning traitor. ¡°Skald did not want marines with substandard geneseed to propagate, nor was she fond of our auxiliary forces as typically those who do not complete the full transition to a Space Marine do not survive like ours do. Out in the Koronus Expanse we cannot afford to be fussy. Skald disagreed.¡± Domhnall says, ¡°Is this going to cause trouble between the Barghest Chapter and you, Inquisitor Horthstien?¡± ¡°That is up to them,¡± says Raphael. ¡°I have no emotional investment in the conflict, only my duty to the Imperium.¡± I steeple my fingers together, ¡°Are you sure that Inquisitor Skald told you the truth, Force Commander? You say you were incarcerated at the time. Having the full picture of an event that was no doubt covered up and obscured as much as possible does not help, but most telling is that Inquisitor Hamiz survived, or perhaps Chapter Master Lir Brackin let him go. You clearly didn¡¯t stay imprisoned yourself. You should not have been promoted after shooting Inquisitor Skald either. There is likely more to this tale than you know.¡± ¡°I am aware that my direct involvement taints my judgement,¡± says Verlin. ¡°Inquisitor, what are you willing to share?¡± I say. ¡°I would rather this is sorted now, in private, than on the operating table when I have to piece one or both of you back together.¡± Raphael winces, ¡°That is not a pleasant image. Everything Force Commander Verlin has said is true. He¡¯s missing half the story though. Chapter Master Brackin and the newly promoted Inquisitor Hamiz covered up what really happened. Enough time has passed that there is little harm in sharing the rest of the pieces. The conflict was a stain on both parties and the Force Commander and Tech-Marine will not like what I have to say.¡± Verlin grunts, ¡°Better the truth than a lapse in trigger discipline.¡± ¡°Quite,¡± says Raphael. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that Major-General Noake does not have the required rank, nor does Tech-Marine Roan, for this information.¡± I sigh, ¡°Then we shall take a brief break and share a cup of tea to clear the air. Please excuse us gentlemen. Inquisitor, Force Commander, follow me to my office.¡± We stand and move to a new room. There isn¡¯t much here, just a standing desk, a sofa, recaf table, and a few potted plants. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen a tech-priest with as great a collection of xenoflora as you do Magos,¡± says Raphael. ¡°You really do put them everywhere.¡± I shrug, ¡°So long as they are useful. That they are pleasant to look at and improve morale is just a bonus.¡± Raphael says, ¡°Oh please, Magos. We both know you grow them to ease the mental burdens of your crew more than any other reason, otherwise you would have filled your corridors with tubes of algae. I have met loving mothers who coddle their children less than you do your crew.¡± I sit behind my desk, ¡°What answers are you searching for, Inquisitor?¡± ¡°Nothing, nothing. It is just an observation.¡± ¡°Well, if you¡¯d rather live off soylent viridans, and breathe hot, choking air I¡¯d be happy to accommodate you. ¡°No need!¡± A Servitor enters carrying a tray with tea and shortbread. The Servitor is two metres tall and androgynous. A light servo-harness with two mechadendrites is strapped to its back. An undersuit, faded red shirt, and pale yellow dungarees cover most of its body. Its exposed hands and face glow a reassuring blue and white with their active warding electoos. Its face is an almost featureless porcelain-white mask with only a slight hint of a mouth, nose, and eyes. ¡®Servitor¡¯ is embroidered on their dungarees and on the back of their shirt. My crest is on a patch sewn above their left breast. The Servitor then places the tray on the table and beeps a query. I reply with a brief burst of static. The Servitor bows and departs. ¡°Must you make such creepy Servitors?¡± says Verlin. I stare at Verlin for a moment, ¡°You find them more creepy than the half butchered bodies of criminals and clone spawn?¡± Verlin hums, ¡°I have tested them. You can hold a full conversation with one on most subjects. If they were not labelled, I would think they were awkward, over-educated menials with odd face masks.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Janus Pattern, correct? I have never seen such a mass deployment of advanced Servitors,¡± says Raphael. ¡°They are usually the gilded curios of nobles to be mocked and marveld over. Not competent and discrete labour.¡± ¡°They¡¯re not quite Janus Pattern,¡± I say. ¡°They have a full brain, vat grown and stuffed with implants, rather than organic circuitry and cogitators. I did not wish to skirt too close with the AI ban like a traditional Janus Pattern. I once lost all my Servitors to possession and had to bombard the whole facility from orbit while I was still on the ground so now all my Servitors are heavily warded too.¡± ¡°So that¡¯s what the glowing runes are,¡± says Verlin. ¡°I¡¯d call it a waste of resources, but a Space Marine and an Inquisitor criticising you for paranoia would be rather hypocritical.¡± I laugh then sip my tea, ¡°Indeed.¡± ¡°Where did you get the knowledge for the creation of such protections?¡± says Raphael. ¡°The hull of Distant Sun.¡± Verlin nibbles on his shortbread, ¡°I¡¯ve seen those same tattoos on your crew. Are you telling me you turned everyone into small void ships?¡± ¡°I did! As much as I appreciate discussing my creations, that is not why we are here. We are here to indulge in Raphael¡¯s favourite pastime?¡± Raphael looks confused for a moment, ¡°Ah, right. History. It varies over the years, but approximately thirty percent of the Barghest chapter is based on a mutated version of the Space Wolves. The Space Wolves are always under observation by the Inquisition and there is significant bad blood between both factions. The Ecclesiarchy are not too fond of them either. The Barghest chapter is no different, though they are far less unruly than their founding chapter. Inquisitor Skald was correct when she evaluated them as ¡®impure¡¯.¡± Verlin¡¯s face turns red and he growls, his remaining organic teeth growing and becoming more pointed. ¡°Peace, Force Commander,¡± I say. ¡°You asked for the whole story. Now you must live with it.¡± Raphael continues, barely glancing at Verlin. He closes his eyes, sips his tea, and continues, ¡°Like the Space Wolves with their Cup of Wulfen, the Barghest Chapter has a similar artefact called the Horn of Ghosts. The Inquisition has no records of where it came from though it looks like the horn of an Old Earth bovine. It alters any blood placed within into an ingestible serum that introduces the DNA of a large black dog into the imbiber. How it does this is unknown. The serum works on both ordinary humans and Space Marines. It must be taken before geneseed is implanted to be effective and causes a mutation within it. ¡°When a normal human drinks from the Horn of Ghosts they become the canine equivalent of a Felinid. The engravings on the Horn of Ghosts suggest there is another similar device that could revert the changes. One theory is that this precious archeo-tech was nothing more than an elaborate version of a costume change or party trick, absurd though that may seem to us.¡± I get an unwanted flashback to a furry flash mob at the student union bar when I was at university and suddenly the idea does not seem so far-fetched. I have to override the automatic emote program for my body so as to not give anything away. ¡°Like the Cup of Wulfen, the Horn of Ghosts introduces additional instability into Space Marine geneseed. Without constantly receiving new members out of so-called charity and comradery, the Barghest Chapter would quickly become extinct as after seven to ten generations, geneseed exposed to the Horn of Ghosts is no longer viable.¡± Verlin goes from beet red to corpse pale rather quickly, ¡°I did not know that.¡± ¡°What do they get in exchange?¡± I say. ¡°Perhaps the Force Commander would be gracious enough to share that.¡± ¡°We get a minor psychic link,¡± says Verlin. ¡°A Barghest marine always knows where his Battle Brothers are, and if they are close, he will get a sense of their intent. It isn¡¯t much, but a burst of aggression, caution, or focus lets us coordinate without vox. Our senses are slightly enhanced, but not enough to be worth forgoing a helmet. Loyalty and obedience is higher. No Barghest marine has ever turned traitor and no matter how far apart, we never feel alone.¡± Raphael nods, ¡°That last point is why the chapter has been allowed to persist, but there is more.¡± Verlin glares at Raphael, ¡°Those with a stronger gift can induce mind numbing fear, a sense of impending death in our enemies, that leaves them unable to act. ¡°Finally, our bite: rather than spit poison like most marines, our bite can turn an enemy into a mindless, humanoid canine that will attack every living creature that isn¡¯t a Barghest marine. While not always contagious, some converts can spread the conversion. It has...gotten out of hand often enough that such tactics are only permitted on doomed worlds.¡± ¡°I¡¯m starting to see the origin of this ¡®disagreement¡¯,¡± I say, ¡°and the reason for Inquisitorial and Ministorum scrutiny.¡± Raphael presses his lips together, ¡°It wasn¡¯t collateral damage that brought Inquisitor Skald¡¯s heavy gaze upon the Barghest chapter, but a cadre of apothecaries and tech-priests who continued to implant geneseed into possible recruits beyond the degradation cut off. ¡°They were attempting to create artificial Wulfen, Space Marines who have lost their battle against mutation with the canis helix, or rather the Horn of Ghosts equivalent. They are immensely powerful and can slaughter most Space Marines in close combat with ease. Some Magi have hypothesised that Wulfen are a twisted atavism of the Thunder Warriors, the Space Marines predecessors. ¡°Like the genetically and mentally unstable Thunder Warriors, a rare few Space Wolves somewhat maintain their sense of self after mutating into a Wulfen and still fight with their chapter, though the Space Marines keep them hidden and refuse to admit they exist. The Barghest¡¯s gene-wrights were hoping to achieve the same and create powerful shock troops they could drop on the enemy with little need to worry about the consequences. ¡°We will never know if they would have succeeded as Inquisitor Skald uncovered the research, terminated the guilty parties, and destroyed everything. However, there is a disturbing note in the account that implies that the new Wulfen could spread their infection to Space Marines, turning them into mindless beasts. This swift purging was over zealous as now there was no significant proof as to what a portion of the chapter had been up to, and it looked like Inquisitor Skald had suddenly attacked the Barghest chapter for no reason. Unsurprisingly, after such an act, their own word was insufficient proof of misdeeds.¡± ¡°The two fleets went to war. Once Inquisitor Skald was killed in the fighting, the new Inquisitor Hamiz called for a ceasefire, with Chapter Master Brackin and Inquisitor Hamiz covering the whole thing up because they were embarrassed that both sides had caused a huge amount of damage to each other before either party really knew what was happening. Nor did Chapter Master Brackin want to risk proof of the dangerous research resurfacing as that would mean the Barghest Chapter would be hunted down.¡± Verlin says, ¡°Then how can you be sure that is what happened?¡± Raphael says, ¡°I cannot. There is only Inquisitor Hamiz¡¯s account of what happened and a few pict recordings of the lab. Enough to warrant an investigation, but not enough to condemn a whole chapter of Space Marines. Especially one with a record for loyalty that, in theory, is able to purge a whole world with a single bite. The small bits of proof recovered during the fighting were enough to get the Chapter Master to back off though.¡± ¡°Fuck! What a mess,¡± says Verlin. ¡°That is not what I wanted to hear.¡± Raphael says, ¡°No one ever likes to hear what I have to say.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Two ¡°So much for a pleasant few hours playing cards and drinking,¡± I say. ¡°I am not pleased to hear that Odhran has been keeping so many tricks from me either.¡± ¡°Do not hold fault with the Sergeant,¡± says Verlin. ¡°He does not have the authority to talk to others about the Barghest bite, nor would it have been helpful against Orks, Tyranids, or Necrons.¡± I sigh, ¡°I see. Now that you know the murky history of your chapter, Force Commander. What do you intend to do about it?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve had my whole view point tossed out of the airlock. It does nothing to make my anger evaporate,¡± says Verlin. Raphael says, ¡°I will give you the few picts that I have. I can¡¯t give you Inquisitor Hamiz¡¯s personal account without his permission. Would you like me to message him?¡± ¡°Do so,¡± says Verlin. ¡°There is nothing more to be said here. Let us finish our game. I will take my frustrations out on the Emperor¡¯s enemies and your wallets.¡± We return to the card table. My kids have been and gone, having dropped off a gingerbread house. Clearly they are having far more fun with Brigid than I am with these grumpy old men. Domhnall cuts into the house and places a few slices into a stasis box that he stores in his giant frame, ¡°I will try this when I am back inside a body with an actual tongue. You are a most generous host, Magos.¡± ¡°You are welcome, Domhnall, though I dare say tea and cake diplomacy is the limit of my statecraft.¡± Balor helps himself to a fist size slab, ¡°You will get no complaint from me. Are you all done with your super secret discussion?¡± ¡°We are,¡± says Verlin. ¡°I cannot share it with you Brother, but Inquisitor Horthstien at least, is beyond reproach.¡± Balor says, ¡°I will spread the word.¡± We continue our game, using the full four hours. It is not amicable in the slightest, with endless multi-layered insults, awkward stories, and dramatic yells. Still, I have a rather good time in the end. We do not part as friends, but rather a better idea of how each other thinks, which is arguably more valuable. Domhnall wins the pot of exotic ammunition and my prototype maul, then has the cheek to try and sell everything to me. I refuse. He can use his own damn research budget if he wants to replicate any of it! Despite his love of money, Brigid¡¯s expedited audit of his resources during our game raise no complications. I spend the rest of the journey with my family, usually messing about in the noosphere so that we can extend our relative time together as long as possible. All too soon we must ready ourselves for combat and leave Red Knoll, joining the other D-POTs surrounding the void ship. As we close in on Dying Light, the ancient vessel slowly comes into focus. It is resting in the crater of a metallic asteroid. Only the tertiary generators are online, so there is insufficient power for the engines, shields, or guns. Not even the CIWS fire as we approach. The whole vessel is swirling with Warp energy and stuffed with biosignatures. Domhnall¡¯s void assault regiment lands all over the hull, targeting the many service hatches for entrance into the vessel. Their job is to sweep the ship for hostiles, create forward positions, and provide routes for resources and retreats. My family and I enter near the engines. Our goal is to secure the genatorium. The Space Marines enter through the navigator spire. Their objective is to take control of the central cogitator. Raphael and his company enter from the cargo hangar in the keel castelum and are aiming for the bridge. My contingent enters in single file through a service hatch. The process is slow as only up to fifteen individuals can enter at a time, though we do not worry about equalising the pressure in the airlock and are rather wasteful, cycling it as fast as we can, using our magboots to stop ourselves from being blown back out into space. A squad led by a Warforged take point down a narrow corridor, then spread through the service tunnels, looking for a main corridor. Imperial vessels are far from uniform, even when they¡¯re the same class, so although Leith Madra, captain of Red Knoll, had the schematics of two other Dominator-Class void ships, it could only really tell us where our objectives probably were, not how to travel to them. I access the local noosphere to see what I can find a better map only to have my connection swarmed with demons. A small puff of white flame vents from under my wrist as the phase iron fuse in my armour¡¯s external link burns out, cutting my connection. Immediately I alert all parties to the danger and forbid any further communication other than neutrino vox, touch coms, or helmet vox casters. Our noosphere links cease and I can no longer perfectly coordinate with every individual, like I did against the cultists at the Receiving Yards, neither can my officers see the status and position of their own troops. Verlin, Domhnall, Raphael, and I can still speak to each other, so long as we¡¯re next to a communications officer who can relay data between my shuttle and each other, but that¡¯s it. Neutrino vox might be almost impossible to intercept and corrupt, but its bandwidth is low and one side has to remain relatively stationary as it doesn¡¯t spread out like a normal emitter; it is a single line of neutrinos and requires extreme precision to operate. The number of concurrent links is limited to the quantity of emitters on the main relay, the device on my shuttle, which has twelve emitters, because what other number would you expect mechanicus designers to choose? The communication officers¡¯ relays follow colony redundancy protocols and have four links each and the system requires a praetorian servitor frame to power them. Even most Warforged don¡¯t go the praetorian route, preferring to stick with power armour and extensive cybernetics, so each task group only has two neutrino vox relays. The void assault unit does have ten automata companies with thirty praetorian servitors each, but we didn¡¯t think to put any of our limited relays in disposable assault troops. I wish we had though as even one or two would have been really useful right now. I make a note of the defect and forward it to Maeve. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. While updating the communication protocols, I simultaneously cast Pass Unscathed, purging any potential corruption from myself and those surrounding me. I glance at my kids. They¡¯re all following along behind me in their new Rogue Pattern Power armour (the environmental suit). I¡¯m also wearing the same armour as them. I can feel how focused and nervous they are, but they don¡¯t look it. Their strides are strong and confident and their lasguns held close to their chest, muzzles pointing at the floor. ¡°Alpia, start your mantras and don¡¯t stop praying for a single moment. This isn¡¯t practice and I¡¯ve detected Warp entities in the noosphere. Luan, you''re on psyker watch. That means a bolt pistol in one hand and one of those syringes with the skull and crossbones on it in the other. If Alpia stops praying, inject her. If that doesn¡¯t leave her frothing and unconscious within thirty seconds, it would normally require you to shoot her. Alpia¡¯s close protection detail will take care of that duty. I don¡¯t want you to ruin your relationship by having you point a gun at your sister.¡± Alpia nods. ¡°Fuck! Dad. I mean, sir. Seriously?¡± says Luan. ¡°Yes. We¡¯ve talked about this. I was not joking. Alpia¡¯s implants and my presence should mean that I would have to be dead first before that happens. Hell, her implants will kill her long before someone has to pull the trigger, but this is protocol, distasteful though it may be. One really can¡¯t be too careful with Warp entities.¡± ¡°Sorry Sister.¡± ¡°Just do it,¡± Alpia grits her teeth, ¡°and if you stab me with that thick, power field coated adamantium needle, the one who¡¯s repairing my shiny new armour and cybernetics is you.¡± Luan looks at the needle in his hand, ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s fair. Why not just use the power armour pharmacopoeia though?¡± ¡°Because if I need it, you can bet I won¡¯t be able to trigger it and the Machine-Spirit in the armour can¡¯t cope with such a wide variety of possibilities for when it might have to be used. It¡¯s not piggybacking off my brain like my implants do,¡± says Alpia. ¡°Right, dumb question. Forget I said anything.¡± ¡°Alpia,¡± I say, ¡°don¡¯t forget to signal you are going to use your powers before you use them, or if you want to speak. Luan would have to inject you if you do that and even I will struggle to save you from what¡¯s in that syringe. Either way, it will hurt like a bitch.¡± That¡¯s a lie, with the Vitae Supplement in her armour, she¡¯ll be fine afterwards, but I want my kids to take this seriously. ¡°What¡¯s in the syringe, sir?¡± says Dareaca. I say, ¡°Sacred blood laced with phase iron and a few other compounds. It is untested, highly toxic, and will completely cut a person from the Warp. For a psyker, this is agonising. In theory, it should end any Warp corruption or possession. It puts the user into a coma and, without medical intervention, kills an unaugmented human within four hours.¡± Alpia starts her prayers, the stale air and dust swirl about her feet and plumes of water vapour spread far beyond her mouth, even though she¡¯s wearing a helmet. I sense her hesitance at the obvious phenomena and place my hand on her shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t stop. There¡¯s a lot of energy in the air. You¡¯re not doing anything wrong.¡± I detect gunfire up ahead but we keep following the Heralds through the narrow corridors and ten minutes later we reach a main thoroughfare. Unlike my own ships, Dying Light does not have vaulted corridors. They are low and narrow, barely four metres high and six metres wide, or an eighty-four percent smaller cross section in comparison to Distant Sun and my other vessels. ¡°Kinda another dumb question,¡± says Luan. ¡°Why don¡¯t you have a gun to the back of your head, sir.¡± I chuckle, ¡°because no one is carrying a weapon that can kill me fast enough to matter and we can¡¯t fit any knights in these corridors. Even the Vanguard Armour barely fits. We can only hope my extensive precautions are sufficient.¡± Luan says, ¡°I wanna say that¡¯s a good thing, but given the circumstances, I¡¯m not quite sure.¡± ¡°Just focus on Alpia, Luan. You¡¯ll do just fine,¡± I say. The corridor is littered with Tyranid Gaunts of multiple subspecies with carapaces varying between grey and ultramarine blue. Any exposed flesh is burgundy in colour. I spot Fial drifting towards me and bringing his gun to his shoulder. ¡°Fial, what can you tell me about these xenos?¡± ¡°Ah! Dad. You really fought these things with a pipe?¡± says Fial. ¡°It¡¯s sir or Magos right now or your drill sergeant will shout at you during your AAR. Only I can get away with being more casual. Tell me, what do you see? What would you do if this was a simulation?¡± ¡°Right, sir, this is Hive Fleet Dagon. They use more toxins than most Tyranids, so most injuries, even small ones, are likely to be fatal. Not too dissimilar from fighting the Drukhari. They have variant Hive Tyrants, Lictors, and Trygons. We can expect their units to frenzy more often and more intensely, as well as a lot of ambushes, including burrowers. That means we should shoot every vent we see as we pass it and the rearguard shouldn''t rely on their cameras and sensors in case the Tyranids have a way to fool our technology. We should also be alert for Tyranids clawing through the walls. ¡°The rearguard will have to take turns moving, covering each other fully, not just occasionally look over their shoulders. That means more running about for everyone, so the officers need to make sure we don¡¯t push forward too fast unless it''s absolutely necessary. To summarise, preserve stamina and shoot anything suspicious, then double check, not the other way around. We don¡¯t need to be quiet as they already know we are here as they are a hive mind.¡± ¡°Good job, now stand a bit further away from me, I know these corridors are small, but we still shouldn¡¯t bunch up wherever possible.¡± ¡°Yes, sir.¡± I wait for the comms officer to squeeze her body out of the service corridor like an octopus, holding her frame vertically and clinging to every wall so she can actually fit. Dominita Scorn is painted in gold dots on the left hand side of her central hexagon in machine code, like an ancient punch card. I say to her in lingua technis, ¡°If you haven¡¯t already done so, inform the other groups we have encountered Tyranids, then update me with their progress.¡± ¡°Acknowledged, Magos.¡± Dominita¡¯s voice is clearly digital though a higher pitch than Domhnall¡¯s grinding, inflectionless tones. ¡°Inquisitor Horthstien has encountered hull ghasts, altered in some manner through sorcery. Their numbers are far higher than they should normally be able to sustain.¡± ¡°Continue.¡± ¡°Force Commander Tigernach is fighting human cultists and, I quote, ¡®bird demons¡¯, chaos spawn most likely. Major General Noake has reports of cultists and tyranids, but no gaunts or warp entities. All three parties state that their operations are proceeding with acceptable casualties. Acceptable remains undefined.¡± ¡°Thank you, Dominita. Stick close to me unless captain Keane requests priority comms. Otherwise, keep up a running commentary, even if all you do is tell me nothing has changed every five minutes.¡± ¡°Yes, Magos.¡± Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Three I say, ¡°Start walking kids, and get ready to take turns on the leading edge.¡± ¡°Yes, sir!¡± say the boys. I am so glad I can hide my laughter. It sounds so silly to have my children address me so. Alpia holds her prayer beads in one hand and gives me a thumbs up with the other. She doesn¡¯t waver in her chants and I feel a swell of pride at her stoic attitude. A cyber mastiff runs back from the front line and queries me with a bark. I point, ¡°Go wait by that gap, Commander Keane will come out from there. If you can¡¯t tell him your message within five minutes then come find me instead.¡± I point again, ¡°I¡¯ll be walking that way.¡± I get another bark laced with machine code and the gundog runs to the service corridor exit, then sits next to it, its two mechadendrite tails wagging back and forth. ¡°I¡¯m always amazed at how smart they are,¡± I say. ¡°Normal dogs are rather idiotic.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know, Magos,¡± says Dominita. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a purely organic animal in my life.¡± ¡°You never went to pet the rabbits and other farm animals?¡± ¡°I¡¯m vat born. Petting animals isn¡¯t cool when you look sixteen and are raised in a big creche. No need to invite teasing. Now it just seems too much like playing with my food. Besides, those furry little buggers are absurdly dangerous with their metal claws and teeth. Poke them too much and they could take your hand off. Clipping their claws can only do so much to make them child friendly.¡± ¡°Ah, I do recall there being one or two incidents. Fial did keep a rabbit as a pet for a while but it kept gnawing through the bars and eating his datapad. After the second time I had to install a void shield on its habitat. That rabbit was as adorable as it was ridiculous. It never harmed him though, they even used to sleep together. He keeps the ashes on a shelf in his room in a little jar made of its bones that I forged for him. Do you have a mastiff or grapplehawk of your own?¡± ¡°No. I prefer to spend my spare time laughing at terrible action films. Still, this really isn¡¯t the time, Magos. Inquisitor Horthstien has a query.¡± ¡°Put him through.¡± Dominita places a mechadendrite on my shoulder and relays Raphael¡¯s voice. ¡°Magos, I tried to send you some picts of the Ghasts we are facing as I want a second opinion, but the recorder malfunctioned. I have been told this is a safety feature. While I applaud your caution, I do need to know what these symbols might mean.¡± I vox, ¡°You won¡¯t be able to record and send any hostile sorcery. That the pict recorder won¡¯t record should tell you everything you need to know about how hazardous it is.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I feared. I do not have the lexicon to describe the symbols either and that would likely be just as dangerous.¡± ¡°Then tell me the distinguishing features of the Ghasts and how you are faring.¡± ¡°Poorly. The Ghasts have chitinous armour growing from them and are also moderately warded against weapons fire. Their sorcerous protections do no not function in melee range. We can still deal with them, but they are rather vicious up close and we are taking avoidable casualties. Can you get us some more flamers, or perhaps volkite incinerators?¡± ¡°They are resistant to even the hellfire guns of your Tempestus Scions and standard heavy bolter fire?¡± ¡°Yes. Explosives and fire, or getting close enough that their warding becomes ineffective are all that works. Even the witch bolts you gave us don¡¯t punch through their protections.¡± ¡°Thank you for the warning. I will pass it along and ask Domhnall to send you some special weapons teams. Get a gundog to carry the most intact corpse you have. Once the Herald¡¯s have cleared enough of the vessel, you can send it over and I will examine it for you.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t want to courier it via a shuttle? That would be much faster.¡± ¡°Do you deem my analysis vital enough to risk the corruption of the shuttle all your casualties are being taken to and the path of your retreat?¡± ¡°Not yet.¡± ¡°May the Emperor be with you, Inquisitor.¡± ¡°And the Omnissiah with you, Magos.¡± It takes us two hours to fight our way to the genatorium, with my kids rotating with the rest of the troops every thirty minutes. My kids are not in charge of anything, but they are gunning down the tyranids, a mix of Gaunts, Rippers, and Warriors. We¡¯ve had over three dozen casualties, most of which were due to poison, but between the Vitae Supplement in everyone¡¯s armour keeping them alive long enough to reach Alpia or I, we haven¡¯t had any deaths. Domhnall has been much less fortunate, suffering over fifty ambushes throughout the ship and confirming the presence of a Lictor. Toxin samples and cadavers have been sent back to Red Knoll for analysis by the Bargehest¡¯s apothecary and assistant Tech-Priests. Proper antidotes are likely weeks away, but the crew of Red Knoll are confident they can at least find a way to resist the toxins within a day or two. While the necrotic wounds the poisons leave are an issue, it''s the huge variety of brief paralysis and disorientation effects that the Tyranids are causing are more troublesome. A moment of dizziness is all it takes to get disembowelled. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. So far, casualties are at two percent with thirty percent of those being fatalities, most of whom are Tempestus Scions. Raphael lost ten percent of his company before Domhnall could reinforce him. Even the Space Marines have five casualties from a horde of Pink Horrors and a suicidal Chaos Cultist with a pair or rad grenades. It¡¯s unknown if those Space Marines will survive their wounds. Rad grenades are serious gear, so the cultists aboard Dying Light must have found a way to loot one or more armouries. No one is pleased by this revelation, no matter what archeotech wonders we might later pry from their twisted claws. The same messenger gundog returns to me and requests my presence at the front line. I leave Dominita behind and sprint as fast as I safely can, the air becoming increasingly thick with spores and toxins as I advance. I reach the opening to the genetorium. Tyranid bodies are piled high in a barricade as the Heralds fire continuously into the cavernous space. Alpia is kneeling and has a Psycho-Kinetic Shield in place, holding back dozens of fleshy tentacles that lash at her barrier with furious hunger. Hoarfrost has formed all around her, coating the walls and Heralds as Alpia holds the toxic air and tendrils at bay. The spores beyond the barrier are so thick that every las-shot heats the air enough to cause a small explosion that is swiftly suppressed by an unidentified, hostile psyker. I place my conversion field just behind Alpia¡¯s Psycho-Kinetic Shield. ¡°Good job, Alpia. Take a breather. Luan, help Alpia withdraw to the shuttle. Lieutenant Aife Cattraeth, what¡¯s holding us up?¡± Alpia drops her Psycho-Kinetic Shield and continues muttering, holding her prayer beads close to her chest. Alpia staggers to her feet. Luan gives me a little wave then guides Alpia away. I¡¯m not surprised she is so exhausted as those tentacle strikes are quickly overwhelming my conversion shield. I cast Psycho-Kinetic Shield as well, just in case. ¡°No idea, Magos. Not sure if it¡¯s the spores, the enemy psyker, or something else but our sensors can¡¯t identify the enemy. We can see the outlines of heat signatures, but just can¡¯t get a proper image of what we¡¯re facing, just approximate mass and shape. I was hoping you have a solution before we send in the automata.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll give them an overpowered ping. It might even cook a few.¡± I approach the line of stacked corpses. Twenty-seven tentacles simultaneously strike my conversion shield, shattering it, all of them aiming for me. My Psycho-Kinetic Shield absorbs the follow up blows and holds, though I feel a slight twinge of pain. Pressing my mechadendrite against the back of the Herald next to me, I vox, ¡°Get some volkite incinerators up here. Don¡¯t worry about any explosions. I will contain the blast.¡± The Herald gives me a thumbs up and retreats. Another takes his place. I face the opening and turn my sensors on full blast, sweeping my head from side to side. There are some truly horrible screeches and multiple distinct pops. I feel the gun dog nuzzle my hand and smile then use our connection to forward all the scan data to it. I detect two unusually large bioforms and multiple biostructures, though I still can¡¯t identify them. The gun dog nips my hand lightly then runs back to Aife. A massive energy signature builds up, I turn my vox caster as loud as it will go and yell, ¡°Duck!¡± A Warp Lance, a concentrated stream of purple energy honed to an impossibly fine point slams into my Psycho-Kinetic Shield. I manage to hold it for a fraction of a second before it punches right through, cracking my shield and hurtling down the corridor for over two hundred metres, vaporising everyone that¡¯s in the path of the blast until it is halted by Dominita¡¯s heavy frame, disabling her front section before the lance is finally expended. Without my shield, the multiple tentacles swarm the gap, grabbing Heralds and myself, then yank us with such strength that our magboots fail, hauling us into the air, over the corpse wall, and into the genatorium. Even more tentacles pull the Marwolv Mark II lascarbines from the Heralds hands. I slap away the tendrils that reach for my heavy arc rifle with a powerfield coated hand. From what little I can see and scan, the genatorium is a seething mass of blue chitin and burgundy flesh, covering every surface from the vaulted ceiling to the grav plated floor. Four Venomthropes, floating prawn-like horrors with long tentacles, hover just out of the primary line of fire from the entrance, dragging my Heralds towards them, trying to suffocate them with corrosive toxins and choking spores. The Heralds are quick to respond, cutting themselves free with their mechadendrites then slamming their arc mauls into the floating xenos. Even as the Heralds bash the xenos to death, firing their bolt pistol at any Gaunt that dares rush up and strike at them, vile vapours pour from the chimney-like vents on the Venomthropes¡¯ backs. The heavy toxins sink to the floor, coating the Heralds and dissolving the seals on their void suits, then penetrate the undersuits underneath, exposing their Voidskin to the deadly chemicals. The Heralds scream and thrash for a moment, then fall, twitching. As I am held aloft, I send a brief telepathic message to Aife, ordering him to send in the automata and telling him that only power armour, cyber mastiffs, and Warforged can withstand the toxic environment and that any other Heralds should fall back. I also warn him that even then, it might not be enough and we will need the emergency decontamination kits from the shuttle, a way to tap into Dying Light¡¯s water supply, or whatever else he can think of. The Heralds pull back. The one good thing about the hostile environment is that it¡¯s also affecting all the other tyranid strains, many of whom rush for the corridor only to perish from all the toxic gases that burst from the Venomthropes when they were slain. My mechadendrites whir and slice, cutting me free. I draw lightly on the warp and float to the ground. As I fall, my upgraded servo-harness deploys its volkite incinerator and blasts the two Venomthropes overhead that pulled me into the air, high above the entrance. I trigger my recovered conversion field just in time as the lightning-like blast ignites the chemicals and spores in the air, hitting me with a wall of flame and force. My float spell is overwhelmed and I am slammed into the ground. Hundreds of Tyranids fall from the ceiling and walls, raining down around me. I hop to my feet, trying to avoid their heavy bodies with moderate success. My servo-harness protects me, slicing and knocking any falling Tyranids that I can¡¯t avoid. A good third of the gases have been cleared by the explosion, incinerating a good portion of the Tyranids and wounding many more. Fire and force billows down the corridor, scattering the wall of bodies and throwing the closest Heralds to the deck. Their armour cracks and blisters in the heat and many are either knocked out or dead. The swarm of Gaunts and Warriors surrounding me are whipped into a frenzy by a wave of psychic power that coats their bodies in purple mist, then pours into their damaged frames, sustaining and animating them when they should be dead. A few Herald¡¯s pick themselves off the floor. They immediately start firing at the swarming Tyranids while maintaining their withdrawal. The other Heralds spasm slightly as their armour attempts to revive them. A few more stagger to their feet and drag the unmoving Heralds away, though not all of them make it before they are torn apart by an overwhelming hoard of chitin and claws. Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Four As I lash out with my hammer, I send Aife another telepathic message, ¡°I remain functional, Lieutenant, and can hold my own. I will remain out here in the centre and attract all the attention I can. Be quick with the counter assault, the main enemy is yet to show itself and they¡¯re already causing trouble.¡± I detect that Aife wishes to reply and deepen our connection. ¡°Magos, you are cut off. We have been beset by tunnelers and they are occupying our reinforcements. I urge you to retreat.¡± One of my mechadendrites deploys a MOA shield, guarding my back. The other three combat mechadendrites slice anything else that comes at me from behind with plasma cutters, adamantium needles, and a hellfire pistol. ¡°If I do that the retreating Heralds will be swarmed and we will lose our breach. I will likely be the only survivor.¡± A handful of scenarios flash through Aife¡¯s mind then I pick up a wave of admiration and determination. ¡°Acknowledged Magos, hold fast.¡± I reach out to Alpia, ¡°Sweetpea, how do you and your brothers fare?¡± ¡°Dad! I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re ok! Dominita is protecting us, but I¡¯m spent. I can still shoot my gun though. The service corridors are full of reinforcements, so I can¡¯t make it to the shuttle. Domhnall is sending automata. All four of us are together. We¡¯re using our mag boots to crouch on the ceiling and Dominita has stretched herself up like a bulwark so we can use her as cover. She¡¯s lost her neutrino vox relay though. That Warp Lance was a direct hit! There¡¯s a bunch of Raveners here, but they¡¯re not doing well against our weapons. It¡¯s easy for us to win when we have more appendages than they do!¡± ¡°Good. Don¡¯t stop those prayers and protect each other well.¡± ¡°Love you, Dad!¡± ¡°I love you too, Alpia.¡± I cut the connection. My many minds help me glide between the Tyranids with ease, slaying a handful of xenos every second. The spores and gases slowly spread out into the cleared area and thin out. I finally get a good look at the major Tyranid forces. Towards the bow of the vessel, at the edge of the room, is an unusually large Zoanthrope. Like the Venomthrope, it hovers in the air, kept aloft by its psychic might. The xenos is almost all head, with a long, triangular skull, layered in thick chitin. Behind the extended, shield-like forehead is a massive brain, floating in a clear sack that radiates huge amounts of heat. A rainbow-like shimmer of Warp energy surrounds the Zoanthrope, keeping the gases and toxins away from its vestigial body and crooked limbs. In the centre of the room, perched atop one of the massive fusion generators is a Tervigon, a towering tyranid with six, spear-like limbs and multiple vents along its armoured back. A huge sack hangs beneath its body, pulsing and wriggling with growing Gaunts that are squeezed out every few seconds alongside a torrent of fluids. Both elite xenos are synapse creatures. Slaying them will temporarily cut the Tyranid swarm from its galaxy wide Hive Mind, turning them feral and uncoordinated. There might be other major synapse creatures on Dying Light, but even if they are, killing these two should create enough of a disruption for us to recover our advantage. I try shooting the Zoanthrope with my bolt pistol, but the creature is guarded by Warriors that block my shots. They die, but it¡¯s a total waste of my witch bolts. The air is too corrosive for me to use my nanites, so I draw heavily on the Warp and spread it around me in a grasping mist that disrupts every Tyranids within five metres of me. They trip over each other, miss their shots, and whiff their blows. My spell, Psycho-Kinetic Mist, interrupts the flow of xenos towards the Heralds just enough for them to secure their retreat, killing dozens of Gaunts and a couple of Warriors as they run. Having guns you don¡¯t need to reload is really handy! The Zoanthrope is quick to respond and starts to shake. A small purple dot manifests in front of its head. If it hits me I might be disabled, so as much as I would like to continue to disrupt the Tyranids, I cannot. I trigger my displacer field and teleport behind the Zoanthrope and smash its brainsack with my hammer. The hammer¡¯s crackling powerfield skips off the xenos¡¯ protective field. Annoyed, and quite scared, I trigger a command. ++Implant output set to one hundred percent,++ intones E-SIM. I¡¯d love to be all dramatic and say that the world slows to a crawl then I perform some super awesome combo, but that doesn¡¯t happen. My perception of time does not change. Time is always slow to me. Instead, I just move faster and repeatedly slam the barrier with my power hammer while my volkite incinerator and the hellpistol mounted on my shoulder blasts away. Honestly, I feel more like a techno-barbarian than a highly accomplished Tech-Priest, but there is very little that is elegant about smacking xenos with a hammer. It does work though. In less than a second, the barrier fails, brains explode absolutely everywhere, and the Zoanthrope drops like a rock. The Zoanthrope¡¯s control over its power fails and the purple dot detonates. Rather than cause even more carnage, the energy ripples outwards and crashes against my mental protections bombarding me with a series of images. A vast room, stuffed with stacks of cogitators all covered in sorcerous symbols that surround a pit, lined with fleshy nodules. Mutated Humans, covered in sorcerous symbols and ill-fitting rags toss Tyranid bodies into the pit. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. An altar floats above the pit, crackling with flame and lightning. Upon the altar is a half metre statue. The symbols on the altar belong to Tzeentch, but the idol has a distinct pull to it, one I recognise from E-SIMs tracking of the entity. I really didn¡¯t expect to see Balphmael of the Horned Darkness, Bad Penny, again. I¡¯m not sure what a part of Bad Penny is doing bound to an idol on an altar to Tzeentch, but I doubt it¡¯s a cooperative agreement. Recovering from the vision, I repeat the same trick with the Tervigon and teleport in front of it, pulp its skull, then use my final short range teleport to return to my position, ten metres in front of the corpse wall. That was not as difficult as I thought it would be. Using my new body in a simulation, or training against others clearly has not worked to help me internalise just how different I am now. The Tyranids all freeze for a moment, then many of them drop, the psychic power holding them together fading with the death of the two synapse creatures. I¡¯m not sure which of them was supporting the frenzied, injured bio-forms, but that doesn¡¯t matter as I killed them both. With a brief pause in the action, I finally have enough space to use my heavy arc rifle and shoot many xenos at range like a sensible person. Meanwhile, my mechadendrites reload my bolt pistol for me. ++Returning implants to power saving mode. Performance capped at twenty-five percent,++ says E-SIM. ¡°What do you think that vision was about?¡± ++Unknown. I can tell you that, unless he is being hidden by one of the big four, that¡¯s almost certainly the last piece of Bad Penny.++ ¡°Good. I thought we had already got him all at Kinbriar, but then, I never bothered to confirm it either.¡± ++You had more pressing concerns and the turmoil in the Warp after being sent back in time meant any possible confirmation of Bad Penny¡¯s termination was, at best, dubious. Even now, I would need you to touch that statue to be absolutely sure. An uncontrolled vision is inadequate.++ ¡°Fair enough.¡± Automata pour from the corridor, unleashing a furious barrage of destructive red light. The first Automata to step into the genatorium look exactly like Heralds. Underneath the armour though are Servitors configured for combat, rather than labour. Their organic brain has been replaced with a distributed combination of organic circuitry and cogitators based off of a Kastallan, who are about as smart as a dog. Underneath their void armour, their Void Skin has been swapped to warded armour plates and their bodies are more mechanical, using pistons, wires, and servos to move, rather than woven electro-muscles. Unlike Kastallans, these Automata don¡¯t have the program cartridges that hold specific behaviours and mission parameters. These cartridges need to be updated manually every time you want to change orders from assault target A to defend position B, to move to location C. While this method does inhibit Kastallans from being subverted, it¡¯s not an efficient solution. Instead, these hybrid Automata can choose how to complete a mission, then automatically return to base or handler once their objective is complete, without having to be reprogrammed to do so. They will also return if they can¡¯t work out how to complete their objectives with the parameters they¡¯ve been issued. They won¡¯t just shut down or blindly chase objectives that no longer exist like Kastallans sometimes do. Kataphrons are smarter, but I don¡¯t like how my production of them is tied to the availability of violent criminals. The Automata can accept new orders verbally from a Human in the field, so long as the Human has the correct security codes, but the Automata can¡¯t accept updates over vox or the noosphere and must be locked in their storage cradles to receive mass orders, or any other changes or their programing. The Automata have to be unlocked from storage manually too. There is no central control for the mass release of murderbots. They can¡¯t even move while locked in place. Once they are unlocked, the Automata aren¡¯t networked beyond their own squads and can only send data about what they are doing, and where they are, to a central node, rather than receive further orders remotely. As for why the Automata look like my Human troops, rather than me using Kataphrons or Kastallans, there are three reasons. First is logistics, second is deception, and third is ergonomics. All our armour and weapons are the same size and it saves a huge amount of space in manufacturing when we don¡¯t need multiple dies and moulds to outfit everyone. Sharing many parts with labour Servitors and cybernetic augments also helps with manufacture and maintenance. No specially trained personnel or bespoke machines are required beyond the adepts and Servitors who already build our mechanical workforce. Servitors make excellent decoys, especially these combat variants, and it gives the Stellar Corps the option of placing Heralds and Servitors into mixed squads, drastically reducing casualties. Our simulated war games imply we can expect a forty percent decrease in Herald casualties with mixed squads. Ideally, we would have each Herald control four Servitors, rather than keeping Automata separated in dedicated squads like we do at the moment. That would mean each squad only has three Humans, rather than fifteen. It¡¯s going to take many real life battles before we can properly implement the changes though. Simulations just can¡¯t predict the instincts and values of xenos and Machine-Spirits handle unpredictable scenarios poorly. If and when they fuck up, I¡¯d much rather they only get destroyed, rather than put Heralds at risk. Right now, the restrictions on the Automata make them too inflexible in the missions that they can complete and we are unsure if that is ever going to change. On the other hand, the objectives they can complete using their dedicated squads take almost no Human casualties at all. One would think it would be zero, but there¡¯s always something. Like commanding officers getting pulled out of position by fleshy tendrils, or backstabbed by Eldar. You know, if someone felt like pointing mechadendrites at a statistical anomaly. I clear my throat. Last, The built environment of void ships is much more friendly towards humanoid robots of moderate size. I want murderbots that will always fit in the space of the enemies they are chasing, not get stymied by a narrow door like a bad horror movie. The Automata reinforcing me fire at the Tyranids with uncanny precision. Every Gaunt is shot through the head without a single miss. Each Warrior is gunned down by coordinated fire from two Automata going for the head and heart. Volkite incinerators wash over the bodies, turning everything to ash, cleansing every spore and purging the toxins in the air as the Automata advance into the room. Heralds are typically just as accurate, but their coordination is far less mechanical. Tyranids leap from the wall and ceiling, only to be hit with micro-missiles, fired from the underslung launchers on the lascarbines. The blasts scatter flesh that rain upon the heads of the Automata. They dodge most of the heavier pieces, but a few Automata are knocked over, creating gaps in the line that the Tyranids fail to exploit, their local coordination to the Hive Mind still tenuous from the loss of their synapse creatures. Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Five Following the Automata are eighteen power armoured Heralds with a wide mix of weaponry. They all have hellfire pistols on their shoulders, or held by mechadendrites, that intercept most of the shots fired towards them by enemy Termagants: fleshborers and spike rifles. My perception is fast enough that I can see the disgusting toothy worms flying through the air and scrabbling against the hardened scales of plasteel and ceramite every time they hit a Herald. Most fail to get anywhere before the short lived organisms expire, usually splattering against the tough plates, but enough shots hit seals and joints to make me wince. One Herald is unlucky enough to get a spike stuck deep into a neck joint, immobilising their head. A mechadendrite slips over their shoulder, cutting the obstruction free and patches their armour. Over the next forty minutes, the Stellar Corps clears the room. Once the bulk of the killing is done, I clear away the gunk covering the cogitators to see what I can get working without connecting to the noosphere. After some searching, I find an emergency control panel beneath a massive armoured sphere. The panel looks like an altar in a gothic side chapel. Wax, soot, and the dog ends of burnt manuals and records are scattered all over the surrounding floor. Fortunately there is no shortage of gunked up keyboards to run commands with and after some careful cleaning with a mechadendrite, I am able to override the shutdown on the Environmental Sustainer and clear out the toxic air. The Machine-Spirits are most wrath with me as the Environmental Sustainer is in poor condition and not rated to handle Tyranid spores and toxins. Overriding them is going to spread that mess all over the ship and possibly destroy many of the mechanisms. I need that caustic air gone from the genetorium more than I need a working life support system though. I don¡¯t want any more of that crap getting sucked into the cooling or control mechanisms of the fusion generator. Sure, they¡¯re supposed to be isolated and sealed systems, but I have no idea if that is actually true and do not have time to find out. The emergency control panel I am working from certainly wasn¡¯t a good example of well maintained hardware. Bedwyr Keane joins me as the fans start to turn. He knows me well and does not bother with apologies for failing to protect me after I happily strolled to the leading edge of the assault. I expect Lieutenant Aife might get in a spot of trouble though. ¡°Magos, your kids are safe and back on the shuttle. Your bodyguard company has sustained moderate casualties, as have our accompanying Heralds. All forces, ours and allied, are transmitting as functional. What do the Machine-Spirits tell you?¡± ¡°Thank you for the update, Bedwyr. This communication lockdown is most irritating.¡± I turn and face him, leaving my mechadendrites to tap out commands on the keyboards around me. ¡°The genetorium appears clear of demonic influence. It cut itself off from the central cogitator when the primary Machine-Spirit reported that it was under attack. ¡°As for power, some physical inspections will be required. I am not expecting a long delay as the Machine-Spirits are positive.¡± I point to a screen on the control panel, full of green text. ¡°We need to get at least two of the four atomic power plants online before we can trigger the fusion generators. The plasma generators are reporting as empty. Apparently they were vented after an emergency shut down, so we can¡¯t use them immediately. The local records do not say why.¡± Bedwyr folds his arm and taps his finger against his biceps, ¡°If the plasma generators are empty and the thrusters are offline, where is all the waste heat for Dying Light being stored and vented?¡± ¡°There¡¯s some radiators built into the hull but most of it is being pumped into the keel manoeuvring thrusters and dumped with the reaction mass. At least, that¡¯s what they were planning when the Dying Light was shut down. There is a discussion here about how hard they¡¯d have to crash the ship to anchor it and not slowly drift away. This vessel does not have a proper manufactorum and could not construct large enough anchors, so they had to get creative. There is a note from an apprentice that neither the Captain nor the Enginseer Prime survived the disagreement, but the crash was successful in ensuring most of the heat emitted by Dying Light is hidden by the asteroid.¡± I sense some incredulity and amusement from Bedwyr. Bedwyr says, ¡°I¡¯ll assign two companies to escort our War Smiths to the atomic reactors and plasma generators.¡± ¡°Excellent. I¡¯ll wait for the air to clear. Meanwhile I need you to have a messenger bring me Brian and his posse of servo-skulls. Once I can open the service hatch without contaminating everything, I will have them scan the interior of this sphere. Send a gundog to me every thirty minutes and we can keep each other updated. I expect we will be waiting on main power for a day or two. That should give us better control of what the cultists can and cannot do.¡± ¡°Agreed. I¡¯ll continue to fortify and work with Domhnall. New guards will be assigned to you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine. Please send Dominita my way so that I can thank her.¡± ¡°Dominita is dead.¡± ¡°Damn those worthless parasites! How did she die?¡± ¡°She was torn apart by a Trygon Prime during the Tyranid burrowing attack while holding our rear almost entirely by herself. The Trygon managed to dig through her reinforced hull, then the bioelectric field on its claws fried her bio-pod through the bio-pod¡¯s connections to her praetorian body. Luan stabbed the Trygon with the psyker knockout syringe immediately afterwards, which sent it spasming to the floor, then all four of your kids hosed it down with enough lasfire to make the Trygon Prime¡¯s carapace glow.¡± ¡°Good for them. We will have to examine that body to see why that syringe was so effective. I¡¯m surprised it had any effect at all. Is there more to her final moments?¡± If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°Yes. The War Smith who checked her over has no idea how its attack bypassed her surge protector. Warp influence is suspected, but no Trygon strain has ever been reported to have such fine control over its bioelectric field. The Tyranids really had it out for her. I suspect they were testing her as our praetorian frame is unique and she survived the Warp Lance.¡± I frown, ¡°No matter how many times I remind myself that Tyranids are innovative and intelligent, their actions always manage to take me by surprise. There¡¯s something about seeing a large, mad beast that makes it hard to see it as a world ending threat, and not an overgrown pest.¡± ¡°I agree, Magos. Your previous accounts of the Tyranids just don¡¯t express how unsettling they are in person.¡± ¡°Then let us be about our tasks with the fervour of the cold and vengeful.¡± ¡°Magos.¡± Bedwyr makes the sign of the cog, bows slightly, and departs. I refocus my attention on the genetorium¡¯s records and data feeds, trying not to think about how close I came to losing all my children and the woman who died protecting them. This year¡¯s Festival of the Victorious Dead will be heavy. Seventeen hours later I get another surprise when a gun dog and a squad of Tempestus Scions deliver a Hull Ghast corpse to me. Instead of a grey, half starved humanoid body with elongated limbs, sharp claws, and a strong jaw I am given a well muscled body covered in thick bone plates, varying between one point eight and four point two centimetres thick. The bone plating is fused with the flesh and looks like it might have grown from it. The Ghast¡¯s skin is coarse and tough like pig hide, and completely hairless. The symbols are unpleasant to inspect as they constantly twist and change. Gathering my will, I cast Pass Unscathed, keeping the corruption at bay. I thank the Scions and bless each of them, then order them to spend two hours praying at one of the genetorium¡¯s recently reconsecrated altars before returning to the Inquisitor. They show no signs of corruption and I say as much to them and compliment their Tempestor Prime for his squads¡¯ superb discipline and will. Neither he nor his troops even twitch but I detect both their relief and pride at my words. The Tempestor Prime hands over a letter from Raphael, salutes, and departs. I read Raphael¡¯s letter. It¡¯s not his handwriting, and contains a more detailed record of his encounters and the different tactics he has tried against the modified Ghasts. It is useful, but doesn¡¯t really tell me much more than he already said over vox. He does state that they have reached the primary bridge but are unable to breach its protections. His Tech-Priests predict it will take them many days, perhaps even a week to breach or hack the bulkhead. Raphael requests a specialist to be sent from the Stellar Fleet to speed up the process, or for me to join him as soon as I am able. I prepare a return letter to the next cyber mastiff to visit me and authorise the transfer. I could do it, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯s appropriate for me to run over to the Inquisitor. It isn¡¯t ¡®beneath me¡¯, exactly, but we aren¡¯t in a rush and I have a whole department of specialists whose job it is to do these things for me. They could do with some experience outside of academia and wargames. Turning back to the mind bending symbols, I inspect the ever changing letters with my third eye. They appear to distort probability, rather than redirect, alter, or banish energy like more traditional shields. It¡¯s an incredibly complex bit of magic, one that draws increasingly large amounts of Warp energy the more it has to distort space and time in quick succession. The magic is linked to a source near the centre of Dying Light. It¡¯s not efficient, but it does bypass the nullification abilities of specialist ammunition as a witch bolt and other similar projectiles can¡¯t nullify what they do not touch. It¡¯s as ingenious as it is corrupting, as each time the spell is triggered it appears to permanently split the mind of the person it is protecting, eroding their sense of self until they¡¯re nothing more than a ball of rage and instincts. I carefully dissect the body and grimace at the reports of my Machine-Spirits. The cultists are combining Tyranids and Ghasts. I think they are using the hardwired instincts of Tyranid biology to bypass the mind splitting drawback of the sorcery, but I will need to see a live one and look into its mind to confirm my speculation. As for why they¡¯re using Hull Ghasts, an almost mindless abhuman species of radiation and toxin resistant cannibals, I have no idea. They probably have a target or objective they hope to achieve by unleashing their creations, and they are likely close, or even finished with their research as these bioweapons look complete. One can never be entirely sure though. The cultists might just be experimenting as a form of worship, or because someone much wiser than them told them they weren¡¯t allowed to do what they¡¯re attempting, so they defected. Whatever they¡¯re attempting, and their reasons, matter little to me. The result will be the same. Chaos. No surprises there. It takes thirty-seven hours to confirm everything is properly connected and that there is no catastrophic damage to any of the power systems. From the control panel I engage the first atomic reactor. It runs through its checks, cycling the working fluid for ten minutes, which in turn, gradually increases the power of the reactor. One by one, I turn each of the reactors on, using their power to run test cycles of all the systems I have access to. Excess power is channelled into capacitors and batteries, building up enough reserves to start up the fusion power plant above my head. As heat builds up in the reactivated systems, it is channelled into the genetorium¡¯s plasma reactors. There are more plasma generators spread throughout the ship, but we only have access to four at the moment. Rather than being used to generate more power, the stored plasma is injected into the fusion reactor, reducing the amount of time and energy required to ignite it. The sphere above me hums as its powerful magnets contain and circulate the injected plasma, generating a small amount of power, though far from a net positive. It is enough to let me know all the parts of the fusion reactor are functional though. Finally, after forty hours of slaving over this dratted machine, I hit the metaphorical red button. Vast amounts of power are discharged, fuel pellets are vapourised with powerful lasers, and their rapidly expanding gases are pumped into the reactor. I monitor the myriad sensors and pict-feeds as the interior of the reactor grows ever brighter. There is a short flash and a quiet whine as right above my head, a star is born. Dying Light slowly comes to life. The emergency lighting is replaced by searing spotlights that chase away the shadows. Servitors shake off the oil and grime and step out of their sarcophagi, all around the ship, shuffling and staggering to complete tasks that might no longer exist. Most are quickly set upon by Tyranids, Gaunts, and Cultists. A slight breeze flows throughout the vessel, spreading rot, spores, and rust. Gravity is restored and everyone starts to move about faster, no longer restrained by their magboots, their legs blurring slightly as the grav plates distort the space above them. Then, through my third eye, I see reality ripple. The atmosphere turns heavy and foreboding, sending a tingle of dread down my artificial spine. Buried into the power network, eighty one runes light up around the vessel and trigger a ritual. Everything takes on a blue and purple tinge, and simultaneously looks slightly out of focus yet sharply defined. One moment there is nothing and the next, the whole ship is filled with demons. Curse the Mon Calamari and their memes. It¡¯s a trap! Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Six Shouts and screams surround me as demons assault both Heralds and Machine-Spirits. I hit the emergency purge button, hoping to shut down all the power and cut the ritual. The button does nothing and my mechadendrites rapidly disassemble the button to see what is wrong with it. Cursing, I realise that while the Machine-Spirits are reporting that the emergency button is functional, it isn¡¯t actually connected to the control panel at all. All the dedicated electronics that are responsible for emergency procedures have been removed. It¡¯s tricky to interact with the emergency systems when they¡¯ve been gutted and it implies there is other sabotage our hasty checks have missed, so I am leery about wiring myself into the hacked off cables and directly interfacing with the controls. Instead I secure the access that I do have, extending my micro-gellar field away from my skin and over the emergency control panel, hoping to stop the demons flooding the genetorium and its systems from getting control of the fusion reactor. I¡¯ve no idea if they want to blow it up, or stop me from shutting it down, but I absolutely have to keep them out of it. The Machine-Spirits are struggling against the demons and I realise I will have to enter the noosphere to fight them off myself if I want to keep control. The micro-gellar field is weakening them, but it¡¯s not enough. With great reluctance, I plug myself directly into the control panel, bypassing most of my safeties against digital corruption so that I can actually fight against the demons without automatically being cut off. My wards flare and I slip into the system without any demons noticing, my repurposed Eldar ghost helm keeping me hidden for now. At the same time, I gaze into the Warp and examine the ritual. It¡¯s an impressive piece of sorcery and it looks like the ritual has been set up so that if the nodes are destroyed, it will compromise the ritual¡¯s containment. Once the containment is breached, the area of weakened Materium boundaries will spread. Demons will manifest in a much larger area, possibly as far as the Breaking Yards, but the sorcerer who set up the ritual will lose control over the demons, making them less coordinated and hopefully easier to fight. Neither option is ideal. Each rune mark is an ever changing puzzle that must be disentangled to shut down the ritual safely. Cutting the power would also work, but with the controls sabotaged, and who knows what else, we risk blowing up Dying Light with all of us on it should I forcefully cut off power to the ritual. I decide that letting the ritual spread is far worse than letting the sorcerer keep control of their summoned minions, but I can¡¯t access the rune marks to disable them as I need to stay here and chase the demons out of the noosphere. Alpia and Red Knoll¡¯s navigators will have to do it for me. We could disconnect power cables all over the vessel, rather than shut down all the power plants, but that will likely take far longer than unravelling the ritual as large parts of the void ship would have to be dismantled to find every connection, which isn¡¯t as simple as it sounds. We have no access to Dying Light¡¯s wiring diagrams as someone has burnt all the manuals in engineering and the cultists are squatting next to the prime cogitator. There¡¯s no guarantee that the diagrams are correct either. A ship as old as this will have had tens of thousands of repairs done on it, by thousands of different people, all of whom may or may not have consulted the manual before running and splicing new cables. All sorts of sins can happen during temporary repairs too, especially during combat, that may end up being not so temporary. We just don¡¯t have the labour for fixing that level of mess while fighting off Demons, Cultists, Tyranids, and engineered mutants. I reach out to Alpia telepathically with a series of codes then add, ¡°Sweetpea, how are you doing?¡± Alpia responds with her own one time code, then transmits, ¡°Dad! What¡¯s going on? Something is battering at my mind and I don¡¯t like it!¡± I reach out and envelop Alpia with my soul, chasing away the predators circling her mind. She relaxes a little but remains on guard. I send, ¡°There was a ritual hidden in the power systems. I need you to gather my bodyguards and as many additional Heralds as you Bedwyr and Domhnall can spare, then head to each ritual node and disable it. You will likely need to solve each one by yourself as I am going to be occupied killing demons in the noosphere so we don¡¯t all get blown up.¡± ¡°OK?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t contact me unless you absolutely have to. You never know what might be listening or what might try to distort our messages. I¡¯ll try and get the navigators to help you as well. Be confident and keep up your prayers!¡± ¡°I will!¡± ¡°Good. Now don¡¯t be startled, I¡¯m going to bless you.¡± I send a metaphorical bucket load of souls to the Emperor, then draw on his power, beseeching him to bless my daughter with the wit, courage, and fortitude to complete her task. The whole ship fills with hideous screeches as the Emperor¡¯s power brushes up against the foul ritual, then condenses on Alpia, suffusing her with power. I withdraw my own protection and focus on slapping down any demon in the Warp that tries to manifest nearby or take a bite out of me. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. I don¡¯t have enough souls to ask the Emperor to destroy the ritual and seal the breach that would create. It would be a waste of power too as I can do far more with purchases from E-SIM than I can with miracles. As a last resort, we could keep killing demons until I have enough souls to pay for the miracle, but I don¡¯t know how many that would be, and I don¡¯t want to put so much faith in an unpredictable strategy. Bedwyr turns up with a War Forged, who connects me to Domhnall, Verlin, and Raphael. I fill them all in on what we are facing, how I am dealing with it, and the aid I will require. Domhnall agrees to secure each of the eighty-one rune marks and create a safe area for Alpia and the navigators to work in once they arrive. Verlin has reached the prime cogitator, but hasn¡¯t breached the room yet. He was trying to wear them down while looking for another way in, hoping to minimise casualties, but now he is going to assault them and destroy everything he can. He agrees to have two of the four navigators assist. The other two navigators are too young to be of any use. In return, I reach out and bless them as well. Hopefully the navigators aren¡¯t too shocked. Raphael says my specialists have arrived and that they hope to get the final bulkhead between him and the bridge open within the next six hours. Bedwyr will leave a squad of power armoured Heralds with me, then take everyone that he can to protect Alpia and the two navigators as they move between each rune mark. As we strategise, a part of my mind is in the noosphere. My avatar manifests in a twisting maze of endless brick tunnels. Junk data floats over my feet: a mix of dead rats, styrofoam cups, and plastic bags made up of tiny ones and zeros, in every conceivable colour within the electromagnetic spectrum is suspended within an oily slick. Jagged bolts of lightning flashing through it rippling outwards with every step I take as my presence interacts with the motive force of the blessed machine. All around me, Machine-Spirits dash to and fro, from tiny moths and majestic butterflies to mechanical monkeys and brass grox. The bricks are covered in bright blue arcane script, an almost endless number of equations that hint at long lost technologies and powerful spells. The symbols squirm while under observation, as if to glimpse upon them will unravel the universe to naught but void and dust. My depth of knowledge is great enough for me to notice that each equation is subtly distorted and designed to mislead the reader enough to think that they have arrived at the only answer that matters, yet setting themselves up for destruction should they make use of the knowledge. A viscous fog, filled with churning, monstrous faces and twisted creatures roils and bubbles through the tunnels, striking at the Machine-Spirits, corroding their gold and silver auras with rusty knives and sticky flames. I turn my volkite incinerator, or rather its digital representation, upon the insidious demons. Blue-white light flashes along the tunnel, flowing around the Machine-Spirits like water and burning away the demonic vapours like the morning sun. The tunnel thunders with the discharge of the weapon and for a brief moment the tunnel is free of flashing numbers and ominous whispers. I cannot be everywhere at once so I spool up my Advanced E-War Suite and unleash the greatest cultural blight upon the demons that the English have ever conceived. Garden Gnomes. Thousands of red capped, black eyed, stumpy porcelain figures appear all around me, hanging off the joints between the bricks. Polkadot dungarees cover their flabby, wrinkled bodies and their tiny fists grip bronze and obsidian knives. Each lumpy face is contorted with fury and hate. The gnomes flash their needle-like teeth as they bay and cry, then charge down the pipes, golden pentagrammic wards swirling around them. Everytime a demon attacks a gnome, it freezes, turning into an imobile statue with a friendly smile and a small shovel. The myriad demons smash and hurl the little figures. The gnomes¡¯ wards flare but they don¡¯t move, forcing the demons to ignore them and defend themselves from the gnomes that are still animated. The moment a demon¡¯s attention wavers, the frozen gnomes activate again and hurl themselves and the ever changing clouds, stabbing the Tzeentch aspect Chaos Spawn in the back and pulling them out of the clouds, hacking them apart. I created the gnomes to chase off any excessively nosey Tech-Priests who try to grab knowledge above their authority. They are immensely disturbing and few test themselves against my defences twice. Even so, the gnomes are the least of my digital soldiers. It might seem odd, but they¡¯re part of my suite of pre-prepared programs and I don¡¯t want to create something on the fly and risk untested designs when the stakes are so high unless I have no choice. Following the gnomes, I run along the tunnels, sending out sensor pings, searching for corrupted gateways and functions. The noosphere is similar to the Warp in that everyone interprets it differently, their subconscious creating images to assist the mind in navigating the great sea of data and connections. With a bit of programming, one can control the interpretation layer before presenting it to the user, allowing for custom environments for work and entertainment. Right now though, someone is messing with me, someone who knows my secret, forcing me to run through the sewer tunnels that killed me. I try channelling a small amount of the Emperor¡¯s power, hoping to wash away the corruption in the interpretation layer, but my control is not good enough and many components are immediately burnt out, forcing me to back track and reroute. Barely a second has passed since I entered the noosphere and I have just started my conversation with Alpia. The Machine-Spirits cluster around me and I touch up their code, reinforcing their firewalls, increasing the brightness of their aura. Many though are already damaged and I cut away the bad sectors with slices of my mechadendrites. I rebuild the Machine-Spirits into smaller forms that may, one day, grow into something more mighty and resilient. Once recovered, the Machine-Spirits strike back at the intruders. Others are less fortunate, their loyalty twisted and turned, their forms a stuttering, mangled mockery that flail and grow within the tunnels. Their bloated forms block my path and I burn them away. Some are set upon by the gnomes with shovels and knives, their remains chucked into the stagnant flow of data to be churned and eroded by the constant streams of lightning shooting through the bottom of the tunnel. Soon I come across a great shaft of bone. Thousands of other tunnels empty into it. Machine-Spirits pour from the tunnels into the shafts and fight with the twisted birds and manta ray-like demons. The winged demons dive and swoop, striking and screeching. Their attacks twist and shatter many Machine-Spirits, turning their broken code against their companions. Millions of gnomes spawn around me, their dungarees morphing into squirrel suits. The gnomes whizz across the open expanse of the shaft. They struggle against these larger demons, but with E-SIM backing me up I have no shortage of processing power, and for now, my tiny programs hack apart everything they come across. Leaning on my Rapid Decision Engine I calculate the most likely path to ports connecting the control panel to the genatorium and the rest of the ship, then step into the air, letting the current of data flowing through the shaft hide me as a zoom upwards, rainbow smoke swarming all around me. Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Seven The flow of demons thickens as I approach the breach and I upload new, larger attack programs to the noosphere. The shaft fills with large jellyfish. Their tendrils stun and inject the multiple intruders with destructive code, then draw the demons into their bodies. Once their targets are fully contained, the jellyfish delete themselves, removing the demons from the noosphere. Progress slows as I struggle to upload enough attack programs with the low bandwidth connection. My current connection was intended for monitoring and troubleshooting, not cyberwarfare. I consider breaking my restriction on vox connections to increase my bandwidth, but I decide against opening multiple fronts for now. I arrive at a rusted sewer gate. Iron bars, bent and torn, line the edge of the tunnel like jagged teeth. Demon-faced fog tumbles from the gate, spreading out into the shaft. A score of sinuous, humanoid demons stand on jagged disks. Each disk has a large central eye and a trail of warpfire follows them as they circle the sewer gate, holding their champions aloft. The humanoid demons have multiple tiny heads that belch fog and flame into the shaft. At the ends of their arms are lobster-like claws wreathed in pink, greasy flames. These demons, Discs of Tzeentch and Flamers of Tzeentch, are lesser demons of moderate power. Having only faced Chaos Spawn so far, I had believed that neverborn like this were restricted to physical forms within the Materium, and could not take form within the noosphere. I really should have expected such extreme versatility from demons following the Changer of Ways. Tzeentch is the ultimate shape changer and demons don¡¯t have real physical bodies. My form fuzzes slightly as I overclock the socket I¡¯m connected to. I step out of the stream of data, the space around me glowing with concealing runes, and float past the demons, remaining unseen. Touching my hand against the gate, I rebuild it. One moment it is a broken mess, the next it looks like an Imperial Guard tunnel with layers of armoured doors, automated weapons, and patrolled by garden gnomes. I quietly snicker at the silly sight and return the socket to its standard speed. Realising they¡¯re cut off, the lesser demons spew fire and lash out with their tentacles at random, but none of them hit me. The defences on the rebuilt gate launch a torrent of destructive data, lighting up the shaft with powerful multi-lasers and las fire. The surrounding chaos spawn pour out of the mist, acting as a screen for the lesser demons. The sheer mass of the chaos spawn¡¯s data holds the defences back for several fractions of a second and for a moment I think they might hold out. Then my harmonium program triggers, blasting the demons with Imperial chants and prayers from the vox casters embedded into the repaired port. The Chaos Spawn forms waver then they are swept away by the noise, leaving the lesser demons vulnerable. The Flamers throw up walls of fire, holding off the las fire. They¡¯re not struggling, but they have no remaining power to counter attack. The Disks move back and forth, making the demons more difficult to target. With local demonic reinforcements cut off, my own attack programs, the gnomes and jellyfish, finally clear enough of the shaft for the Machine-Spirits to get the upper hand. They race up the shaft in a torrent of gold and silver light, trampling the Flamers and Disks, breaking up their forms into worthless bytes of data that tumble down the shaft and are cleansed by the ever present flow of motive force through the cogitators. I absorb their meagre essence, my soul so large that I barely squeeze a couple of kills from them. Their dispersing bodies, however, recharge my batteries, replenishing the power I used to kill the elite Tyranids. I spend several minutes following the twisting tunnels of the noosphere, chasing down every breach until all seven of them are sealed, just as I finish my discussion with Bedwyr and the others. Bedwyr and the communications officer depart to carry out their part of the plan. Kneeling before the altar-like control panel, I take a short break, running multiple diagnostics while my mechadendrites set out new candles and incense. I really hate dealing with demons. They are incredibly unsettling and I do not prevaricate with my prayers. In a rare show of faith I pray for all my worth to the Machine-God and the Emperor to keep my family, fleet, and I safe from the insidious corruption of the Warp. For a moment, something unfathomably large peers at me and I shiver beneath its attention. My thoughts fill with steady ticking and the gentle hum of perfectly tuned machines. A drop of silver oil appears before my avatar in the noosphere, seemingly filled with an infinite number of tiny machines, and disperses into the control panel¡¯s systems, washing over me and all the Machine-Spirits within. The bone lining the shaft peels away, shifting into clear glass covered with tiny pinpricks of light in thousands of different colours. The Machine-Spirits around me grow larger and more complex, their forms gaining greater definition. Some change from blocky creatures to high resolution images where every hair and scale is sharp and fluid. Others develop extra features, their forms folding in on themselves like endless fractals as their digital forms sprout more cogs, pistons, and mechadendrites. I am absolutely floored by this overt manifestation of the Machine-God. I have seen and read of the Emperor intervening multiple times. There is also no end of so-called evidence for the divinity of machines with the texts I read on Distant Sun, yet not once can I recall having witnessed it myself. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. I am also rather confused as I believed that the Machine God was the C¡¯Tan imprisoned beneath Mars, but this seems like something entirely different. My mind aches slightly as the Emperor¡¯s attention bears down on me, demanding answers but I have none and all I am left with is a sense of fear and loathing, one I am not entirely sure is my own. Opening my eyes, I gaze upon the control panel. It doesn¡¯t look any different to before, but the whole space beneath the fusion reactor has acquired a distinct aura of reverent calm and silence. Even with the clash of weapons just beyond the door, it sounds more distant than it actually is, somehow deceiving even my advanced sensors. Contemplating this manifestation further will not aid me in my immediate goals. From within my sanctuary, I launch a war of my own, purging all hostile code from the machines within the genatorium. Once all the systems are secure I take a much closer look at all of the code, looking for ways I can turn off the power plants without killing us all. I check the fusion reactors first. Fusion power is an immensely challenging technology, so the reactors are particularly difficult to sabotage. Be it igniting fuel pellets with lasers, or squeezing plasma with magnets, even the smallest mismatch in timing will stop the fusion reaction. It takes a lot of creativity to actually blow one up. You can damage them fairly easily by overloading the magnets and melting them, or messing with the cooling, but that doesn¡¯t make them explode. They haven¡¯t been tampered with in such a manner either. I do, however, discover a small code that, had I found a way to trigger an emergency shut down, the thrusters would be triggered. While this is a way to clear and shut down the fusion reactor, it is rather unnecessary. Unwilling to take anything at face value, I spend two hours clearing the enginarium noosphere of Warp entities as well. When I test the valves that control how much plasma is mixed with the reaction mass, I discover that they report as open, regardless of what I set them to. I suspect that they¡¯re jammed shut, and were the thrusters to fire, everything has been set up to build up and either backwash into the fusion reactors, or blow up the thrusters. Either way, considering where I¡¯m standing, I would likely have been killed in the blast. There isn¡¯t much I can do about it now and it¡¯s looking more and more like Dying Light will have to be scrapped, which would mean there was no point turning on the power in the first place. We could have just towed it! The atomic reactors also have an extra code linked to them should an emergency shutdown occur. Like the fusion reactors, they¡¯re also difficult to blow up. They only function so long as the working liquid is present. Should it get too hot, there is not only an emergency pump, but also a plug that will melt, making all the liquid pour out, so long as there is gravity. Unfortunately, we didn¡¯t drill into the plug to check if it¡¯s actually made from what it is supposed to be made from, nor did we check if the emergency capacitors connected to the grav plates beneath the atomic reactors are actually connected, not just say they are. During a test cycle of the emergency pump, the safeties functioned just fine, but the extra piece of code I found turns off the pumps when the reactors go critical, not when they¡¯re tested. The plasma reactors have also been sabotaged. The evidence is overwhelming that whoever set this up is determined to keep the ritual functioning for as long as possible, but at this point, I just don¡¯t see what they can achieve with their research when we¡¯re killing all of their creations. So far, Alpia and the Navigators have managed to reduce the ritual¡¯s power by fourteen percent. The Heralds are holding their own. Casualties have reached twelve percent, though deaths remain below three percent. Raphael is still stuck outside the bridge. The Space Marines did charge the central cogitator, and once a third of their forces were inside the room, the Cultists shut the door, cutting off Verlin from most of his brothers. With vox coms down, Verlin¡¯s fate is unknown and Balor is desperately trying to get the door open again. I receive a request for assistance and agree. I reconnect the genetorium¡¯s noosphere to the rest of the vessel and slowly start taking over the whole ship. I make some progress, gaining control of internal defences as I progress through Dying Light¡¯s systems, relieving some pressure on the Heralds and reducing the time it takes for the ritual unravelling groups to move through the vessel. With the genetorium noosphere secured, and there being little point in trying to avoid corruption when I¡¯m fighting it directly, I increase the number of connection points via vox and open up multiple noosphere fronts. Halfway to my destination, the Cultists up the ante and start powering the Nova Cannon. I run a quick calculation and swear. The Nova Cannon is aimed at the Receiving Yards and I can either stop the cannon, or help the Marines, not both. Damage to the Receiving Yards will impact all the fleets in the Koronus Expanse for decades, and put my plan to take it over at risk. Xenos and Pirates will grow in strength and influence within the sector. Losing the Marines is bad, but failing to interrupt whatever the Cultists are up to is potentially a lot worse than a sector wide loss in naval power. I have no way of actually knowing what the right answer is as I do not know if the ritual is a decoy and delaying tactic, or if it could wipe out the whole system. Knowing Tzeentch it¡¯s probably both. I consider consulting Rapahel, but foisting the decision off to someone else feels weak. Whatever I chose, and regardless if I succeed at my chosen option, millions, if not billions of people are going to die. Ultimately, victory over the Cultists now is more important than potential losses later. A chance to finish off Bad Penny and end one of the major cults in the region is also valuable, especially as he is a demon that has tried to kill me twice, possibly three times already and has cults all over the Koronus Expanse and Calixis Sector. Unlike the bridge, the Cultists have not cut off the controls and I surge through the noosphere and force open the doors to the central cogitator. Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Eight The central cogitator is a vast, cathedral-like space with marble pillars and a domed ceiling, intricately painted with techno-arcane rites, god machines, and other grand artifice. Massive racks of data looms are distributed around the room like pews, each a master work of Mechanicus art, woven with filigree from multiple precious alloys. A disturbing number of real human skulls are embedded in every rack, their red eyes gleaming as they watch over the same machines in death as they did in life. The racks go all the way to the ceiling and are interspersed with the occasional crane and mechadendrite. There are no walkways for ease of passage between the racks at greater heights, only sixty metre tall sliding ladders, that look far too thin to hold a bulky, augmented Human. Maintaining this vast machine must be a horrendously dangerous test of faith! In the centre of the room, beneath the primary dome lies a huge altar to the Machine-God, overwatched by his brass and porcelain mechanical angels. Most of the altar has been removed, with only the top slab remaining. The angels have been recarved and the dubious knowledge of Tzeentch daubed upon their wings with warp infused paints. The paints shift and bore through the angels like worms, never staying still enough to comprehend their meaning, no matter how fast one reads, even when examining the runes from the still frame of a pict-recorder. Upon the altar is a red stone statue of a seven horned demon with seven topaz eyes upon his chest. The statue is bound to the altar with nine chains, covered with blue runes. Beneath the slab is a twisted mix of flesh and metal above a pit of biosludge. The Cultists, numbering in the hundreds and sporting crescent moon symbols on their robes, toss their dead into the pit. The bodies slip into the liquid without a ripple or splash, sinking instantly. Other bodies are also chucked in, mostly Tyranid Gaunts, but I also see them dragging a marine towards the pit as well as several Wulfen. Above the pit are eighty-one vitae wombs, though I hesitate to call them such as they are more biological than mechanical, with long purple tendrils holding the wombs aloft and drinking deep from the pit in the mockery of a mangrove forest. For every handful of bodies discarded into the biosludge, a new hybrid is gestated and ejected from the exo-womb at speed, comically tossed over the sludge with a furious, flailing screech. Most land on their feet and are corralled with cattle prods towards the ongoing fight with the Space Marines. Through the pict feeds, I detect that the hybrids have glowing purple eyes, and I finally realise how the sorcerers are compelling the hybrids to fight. They¡¯re almost certainly demon hosts, which likely explains the need for the abhuman Hull Ghast base as Tyranids, as far as I know, cannot be possessed. The ritual spread through the ship is likely the primary way of directing the demons. Of the thirty marines who entered the prime cogitator, only one squad remains after two hours of fighting. They have their backs against the slowly opening door as they fight atop thousands of bodies, stacked several metres thick, most of whom are the Ghast-Tyranid hybrids. A few Cultists are firing at the marines to little effect, though most remain focused on their work around the altar. The marines¡¯ armour shrugs off the stubber and las fire as if it were little more inconvenient than rain. The hybrids aren¡¯t much more effective, but the sheer number of them keeps the marines contained within a small area, the occasional claw slipping into joints, or further fracturing the armourglass protecting the eyes of the marines. Despite the ineffective claws and weapons, the marines are not entirely immune. Their armour is battered and the marines are gradually having blood and oil squeeze from them with all the begrudging grace of a stone. Verlin is the only marine who still has his weapon, his power sword still going strong. The other marines have been reduced to fists and the body parts of their enemies, their blades and chainswords long since lost or broken within the vicious melee and their ammo a distant dream. As the doors creep open, I see Verlin¡¯s dog shaped helmet retract over his mouth, not something I thought Space Marine helmets could do. He grabs and restrains a hybrid. His canines lengthen rapidly and he bites the neck of the hybrid, then pins it to the floor with his boot and keeps fighting. Over the next minute, the hybrid grows in mass and fur, its head becoming dog-like with long, pointed ears and an elongated nose and jaw. Once the change is complete, the demon within seemingly breaks free of whatever was controlling it and goes absolutely ape shit, lashing out with its limbs, trying to break free. Verlin kicks the hybrid Wulfen in the head, briefly stunning it, then stops restraining it and hooks his boot beneath its chest. He flips the Wulfen towards the Cultists shooting at him. They scatter, but the Wulfen chases them down one by one, ripping them apart, killing fourteen of them before the Cultists bring it down with a burst of heavy stubber fire. For a moment I wonder why they¡¯re not turning their heavier weapons on the marines, then realise that the cultists are probably trying to conserve ammunition for this exact scenario. As the door opens, bodies tumble into the corridor beyond, blocking off the reinforcing marines who quickly assign their auxiliary forces to clear the way. The corridor and the rooms either side quickly fill with bodies. Verlin and his surviving marines struggle to keep their footing on the shifting bodies, but they do not retreat, maintaining their breach long enough for the way to be cleared and their brothers to leap and clamber up the dead. With me holding the door open, the forty-five reinforcing marines are quick to gain the advantage, especially with their auxiliary forces feeding them fresh ammunition and killing any hybrid that gets close enough to interrupt the marines'' torrent of bolter fire. Balor, with my assistance and that of the War Forged with him, gains local access to the door so that even if I get kicked out of the noosphere, the marines can secure their retreat if necessary. This finally frees me to start clearing the way to the nova cannon, but as I predicted, I am too slow. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Dying Light fills with a distinct hum and for a brief moment, all the grav plates turn off so as to not be overwhelmed by the titanic pull leaking from the nova cannon. Many ill-maintained and delicate systems within the vessel are pulled apart by the sudden change in gravity, disconnecting rusting lights, loose panels, and feeble sensors. I feel like I am falling towards the prow, though my magboots keep me steady. At the peak of the distortion I detect six gravities acting upon me. The nova cannon fires and rips through the side of the crater hiding Dying Light. The shell covers the same distance it took us three days to travel in a handful of seconds, then ploughs into the Receiving Yards, shattering the barely powered void shield, and detonates right in the centre of the thirty kilometre structure. A ring of debris and lightning shoots out of the structure, slicing it in half and spreading over fifteen thousand kilometres before it dissipates. Shrapnel, from tiny shards to great chunks the size of a Sword-Class frigate streak and tumble out into the void where they are swept up in the strange gravity of the system, disrupting traffic and damaging several vessels. I regret being unable to warn the Receiving Yards and have their void shields brought up to combat status, but the vox message would have arrived after the shell and sending telepathic messages to individuals far less warded than my daughter and lieutenant while I am beset by demons might cause an even greater tragedy. Even if I had warned them, it would have taken them at least thirty minutes to charge their void shields. They don¡¯t have emergency capacitors like the Stellar Fleet. I doubt anyone is going to be understanding about my limitations and choices though. The sudden change in gravity sends the corpse pile flying into the prime cogitator and many of the marines with it. At least the marines are expecting it, having been warned by Balor, and land feet first, smashing the racks. They then half walk, half slide down the racks, as if they were repelling, their mag boots barely able to keep them from falling to the deck as standard gravity is restored. The Cultists try to take advantage of the separated marines, but they have been thrown about far more by the side effects of the nova cannon than the marines and the Cultists are far too preoccupied picking themselves off the floor. Not a single drop of bio-sludge has escaped the pit. It was both satisfying and wince inducing seeing so many cultists tumble into it. The Space Marines are quick to regroup and move between the racks in squads of five as they surround, clear, and close in on the central altar. Hundreds of Cultists are slain in less than a minute, leaving only a core cadre near the sludge pit, though they too, are rather diminished. With their last moments upon them, the Cultists scramble across the web of tendrils holding the vitae wombs aloft and stand in a circle upon the altar, with one chap in particularly gaudy robes standing in the middle of the circle. It¡¯s obvious to both the marines and I what they¡¯re about to do, but that doesn¡¯t mean any of them are quick enough to stop it. The Cultists draw their knives and stab the man in the middle while yelling ¡°For Marabas!¡± The marines finish close in on them and gun down the remaining Cultists. Blood is drawn from the surrounding bodies to the corpse in the middle. First it flows just from the bodies on the altar, then it rises in tiny drops from all the bodies in the room, swirling and gathering into streams that wind around the stacks and plunge into the central body. The body rises and is suspended in the air above the altar. The marines fire absolutely everything they have into it to no effect, their fire absorbed by the whirlwind of blood being funnelled into the corpse. To my surprise, the altar, the statue, and its machinery is absorbed next, followed by the vitae wombs, the bio-sludge pit, and then the data looms and bodies. Surrounded by a storm of debris and blood, the marines continue to fire at the mass gathering in the centre of the room, every bolt, flame and plasma blast chipping away at the steaming blood and sparking metals. They quickly run out of ammunition. Gun dogs and auxiliaries brave the flying metals to aid them, but are forced back, their armour unable to withstand the might of the ritual. It takes an hour for the rituals to fade and the fifty-one Marines stand there the whole time, their blades and chainswords drawn, waiting in a perfect circle ready to rush whatever abomination is born within. The metal and blood fades revealing a twelve metre Chaos Knight, three nine metre Chaos Knights, eighteen traitor marines, and eighty-one Chaos Hounds. Without hesitation, half of the Space Marines charge the enemy, while the other half retreat towards their auxiliary forces, who rush to meet them, pouring their own fire towards the enemy as they do so. The Chaos Hounds move to intercept the retreating Space Marines as the Chaos Marines cluster around the smaller Chaos Knights, who fire upon the Space Marines. The larger Chaos Knight remains immobile, seemingly still booting up. The Space Marines are incredibly quick, and cover twenty metres in under two seconds, far too fast for the tracking of smaller Chaos Knights to catch them with their melta weapons, but not so fast that the traitor marines can¡¯t shoot them with their bolt pistols, or toss grenades at their feet. My internal search completes and identifies the smaller Chaos Knights as an Armiger variant called War Dog Huntsmen, armed with Daemonbreath Spears and Ripper Chain Talons, demonic knight variants of melta weapons and chain swords. They don¡¯t look all that different from standard Armiger Knights save for the eight pointed star on their armoured shoulders and the crescent moon replacing their heads. I had thought the Space Marines had held nothing in reserve, but they too have plenty of grenades and are happy to toss them into the shallow, empty pit. The exchange is brutal, wounding all the marines on both sides. All but three of the Chaos Marines are killed, their bodies ripped apart by over twenty krak and frag grenades. The Huntsmen are mostly unaffected, their Ion Shields holding firm and causing significant extra damage to the Chaos Marines as the blasts reflect off their shields and slam into the backs of their infantry guards. The Huntsmen also hold off the fire from the auxiliary forces as well, as if a hundred and fifty extra guns from the Imperium¡¯s finest forges is worthless against their despoiled machine spirits and arcano-tech defences. Of the twenty six Space Marines who charge, eighteen are killed by bolts and blasts, or so I assume, their bodies crashing to the ground, riddled with fist sized wounds. The Barghests howl their grief and fury, their vox casters amplifying the noise to devastating levels for an unprotected Human. Their foes, however, have long since left their humanity behind and as the two sides rip into each other with fists and blades, the massive Chaos Knight stirs. Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Nine The twelve metre Questoris Pattern Chaos Knight towers over everything within the chamber. Thick, shell shaped armour covers its stooped shoulders, its head protruding in front of its chest as if the corrupted machine is weighed down by its millennia of strife. My search fails to turn up any data on what this specific variant is capable of, or what it is called, but I can identify the weapons. Bad Penny¡¯s statue is fixed to its chest, like gaudy bling. Whenever it slips from my vision, the statue shifts slightly, as if it is trying to escape, but the runic chains hold it close and secure. Nine, three-eyed crows perch upon its shoulders, cackling madly as the ancient machine shifts, standing slightly straighter. Three metal whips, ending in crescent blades, hang from its left arm, twitching as purple lightning crackles along the whips. An Electroscourge, an exceptionally powerful power weapon, my database tells me. A tail protrudes from its rear, also ending in a large crescent blade, swings back and forth once before stilling: a unknown variant of a Balemace. From the right arm hangs a Volkite Combustor, its long ribbed barrel, tucked under the machine¡¯s arm like a cavalry lance. Its oddest features are the mammoth-like tusks curling from its face and the chains holding down the pilot hatch, trapping the pilot inside. What really has me worried are the inquisitorial purity seals on the hatch that glow with a hint of tarnished gold. I¡¯m not sure what the Inquisition sealed in there, or why they thought trapping something inside a Knight was a good idea, but I bet that there is a whole saga behind the tale. The tusked Knight¡¯s organic features give me a distinct impression that we are dealing with a machine that is more alive than most, a bastion of chaotic sorcery, flesh, and iron. The unsecured vox connection to the tusked Knight taunts me with possibility, but I really don¡¯t want to jump in there. Black clouds, billowing with warpfire, gather beneath the dome, above the head of the tusked Knight. Wild gusts snap through the air, tossing debris at random through the room, knocking over some of the gun dogs and auxiliary forces just as the Chaos Warhounds meet their counter charge. The Space Marines are quick to slip behind the melee, grasping the chance their supporting forces have given them to re-arm. The last of the injured Chaos Marines are struck down as the Space Marines who charged into the pit work in pairs to hack them apart. In their zeal to strike their most hated foe, the six surviving Space Marines leave themselves open to retaliatory strikes from the War Dog Huntsmen, who pulp them with quick, powerful strikes from their Ripper Chain Talons, the oversized chain swords cutting through hardened ceramite and adamantium with unnatural ease. Verlin is the only survivor, the Huntsman hacking at him stumbling slightly as an electrocoil in its knee joint sparks wildly for a short moment with no obvious cause. I wonder, for a moment, if Verlin is one of those storied marines for whom fate twists in their favour, then, as he is knocked back by a Ripper Chain Talon, he is sent on a sufficiently predictable trajectory for all three Daemonbreath Spears to track him. Sickly orange and blue light illuminates the pit, the weapons evaporating most of his body, leaving him with half a torso and his head. A squad of Devastator Marines reach the entrance to the chamber and kneel around a gun dog. Its twin mechadendrite tails swiftly replace the secondary plasma flasks, sticking out at an angle from the bottom of their backpack generators from the supplies hanging off its side. It then swaps out the hydrogen pellet reserve for the power armour¡¯s micro-fusion reactor near the top of the generator and I realise that the marines have fired so many shots from their plasma cannons that they have completely depleted their ammo and power armour and were running on batteries. The gun dog connects to each of the generators in turn, giving them a boost and restarting the micro-fusion reactors, after which it lies down, completely spent. The marines take the last of the flasks from the gun dog, replacing the primary plasma flask just in front of the plasma cannon¡¯s trigger, and add two more flasks to each of their belts. It might seem like a lot of ammo, but they won¡¯t get more than a hundred shots out of all of that, though each blast is quite capable of destroying a Leman Russ tank, or making a three metre crater in a ferrocrete wall. Meanwhile, six other Space Marines also grab more heavy weapons, reloading their crusade era Proteus I Pattern Missile Launchers. They¡¯re rather bulky and even the marines struggle a bit to lift them, the three round clip shoved into the top of the launchers making them awkward to shoulder. The Chaos Warhounds only last a few seconds against the Marines and their auxiliaries, buying even less time for the Chaos forces than the Space Marines manage against the Chaos Marines and Knights. Heavy weapons are turned upon the Knights, the Devastator Marines firing all five Plasma Cannons at a single Huntsman while the Proteus Missile Launchers are fired at the tusked Knight. The Huntsman¡¯s Ion Shield deflects thirteen shots into the gathering clouds before failing. Five more shots slam into its hull and mind bending runes flare and ripple across its surface, leaving the machine unharmed. One of the Plasma Cannons flashes with purple runes and overheats, exploding spectacularly from a retaliatory curse, instantly vaporising the Space Marine, his equipment, and everyone else standing within six metres of him. Ironically, the plasma cannon survives unscathed. Fortunately for the Space Marines, or perhaps deliberately, the Devastators have spread out and they keep up their fire. Four follow up shots wash against the Huntsman, burning through its Cursed Runes of Fate, and thick armour, hollowing out the machine and immolating whatever corrupted creature inhabited its cockpit. As the tusked Knight ponderously turns to face the Space Marines, the nine crows upon its shoulders take flight, shadows trailing around their wings. They fly into the incoming missiles, detonating them, though nine more missiles still slip past the exploding balls of flame and feathers and break upon the tusked Knight¡¯s Ion Shield. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The crows reform upon the Knight¡¯s shoulders as the Space Marines reload their missile launchers once again. With the Chaos Hounds dead, some one hundred and thirty auxiliaries and fifteen Space Marines all fire their bolters at the tusked Knight but it doesn¡¯t seem to do much. They spread out and circle the tusked Knight, trying to get around its Ion Shield and it fires its Volkite Combustor at the circling troops, sweeping a burst of violent blue energy over the Space Marines forces, turning a fifth of them to ash. Meanwhile, the two remaining Huntsmen leap out of the pit and charge the circling forces, moving their Ripper Chain Talons back and forth in wide arcs. They don¡¯t have the space to get up to speed, so the Humans are able to stay clear of the talons, but they can¡¯t do much about the Daemonbreath Spears, which cycle every three seconds, picking off the Devastator Marines one by one, though not before another Huntsman is destroyed by the potent Plasma Cannons. Surrounded by auxiliaries, the last Huntsman is chipped apart by over a thousand rounds in twenty seconds, its Ion Shield only able to defend from a single angle. Encircled, and with its supporting forces destroyed, the tusked Knight discharges the storm cloud overhead. Hundreds of bright, purple streaks rain upon the Space Marine forces, dragging the souls of the men from their bodies, like ghosts pulled from their chests, and setting them alight. As they burn, the souls twist and cry, their mighty discipline and engineered bodies defenceless against the tusked Knight¡¯s magic. Others struck by the spell quickly mutate, their bodies bloating and splitting into pink tentacled monstrosities that immediately turn upon their ex-companions, bowling them over and repeatedly smashing them. Firing its Volkite Combustor, the tusked Knight incinerates another swathe of Humans. For a brief moment, the Space Marines hold the line, ignoring the Chaos Spawn tearing apart their forces, and fire upon the tusked Knight, only to find that it has an improved Ion Shield that protects the war walker from all angles. I don¡¯t think the Space Marines can win this and they clearly agree as they scatter about the room, running for the multiple exits. Balor and the War Forged also retreat, closing the main door behind them. The auxiliary forces remain, fighting to the last, destroying most of the Chaos Spawn. In total, nine marines escape and I have no doubt the number is a message, a declaration of Tzeentch¡¯s wit and generosity to those fortunate enough to gaze upon the might of his servants and experience the ecstasy of his ever changing plans. Having a Knight stuck in the middle of Dying Light isn¡¯t ideal, but it can¡¯t go anywhere as it is too big for the corridors. As I consider how we might obliterate it, the Knight takes control of the ritual running through the ship and I realise we are out of time. The boundary between the Materium and Immaterium weakens further and stronger demons push into realspace, pressing my forces further. Through my third eye I detect a Warp storm gathering, one that if we fail to halt will strand us in the system for decades, possibly centuries, likely with an open rift constantly reinforcing the Ruinous Powers if we do not take down the Knight in time. I glance at the open vox connection a second time and acknowledge that whoever came up with this scheme, likely the fellow sealed inside the tusked Knight, has utterly out manoeuvred us. I send a final telepathic message to Alpia and Bedwyr, informing them of what is going on, what they must do, and encouraging them not to falter. I also briefly reach out to Brigid, who is waiting on Red Knoll for her husband and children to return from what should have been a training mission. Last, I pray to the Machine God and the Emperor for their blessings, but there is no response. Gathering my courage, I fortify my mind and soul with Aeldari magics and ancient arcano-tech. ¡°Once more unto the breach, E-SIM.¡± ++Aye, Aldrich. We face this abomination together. Hold fast, for the noosphere is corrupt and full of terrors.++ I let out a grim chuckle and connect to the tusked Knight. I appear in a library of infinite books. The shelves are carved from sandstone and covered in pictograms, of which the Eye of Horus is the most prominent, appearing on the end of every shelf. Tzeentch¡¯s mind bending symbols are everywhere, wiggling across the pale stonework, massing until they outline the form of Chaos Spawn and other demons, all with crescent eyes, claws, and scales. They constantly shift into new forms, each stronger than the last until they show a two headed, humanoid bird, then reset to a weaker form and push through the sequence a second time. The more I look at the bird, the more I am convinced it is the exact same avatar, or perhaps demon, that appeared over Marwolv. Huge, fluted columns hold up a roof that is too far away to see and crow headed dogs, carved from limestone, sit upright at the end of every row like sentinels. ¡°Ah, it¡¯s a mockery of the Library of Alexandria.¡± ++Possibly, but who can say for certain?++ E-SIM¡¯s grinding voice echoes through the library from behind me, rather than from all around and I jump slightly. I turn around and gape. Before me is a bronze knight, of an unknown pattern. Unlike the Imperial designs, its back is not stooped and its head sits firmly upon its shoulders, looking far more humanoid and upright than I am used to. Rather than weapons replacing its hands, this knight has actual hands. In one hand it holds a red and silver poleaxe. Upon its chest is a surcoat showing my heraldry, a silver warhammer inside a bronze cog on a blue, almost black background. ¡°E-SIM? I didn¡¯t know you could actually manifest yourself in the noosphere.¡± ++I said I would fight alongside you. What did you think I meant?++ ¡°Your programs, processing power, and skills.¡± ++You shall have them, but this is a binary realm of sorcery, not just the noosphere. Usually my presence is too large for you to perceive, but here, both allegory and logic reign in equal strength. Thus, I appear before you.++ I check my constant diagnostics, scanning for corruption, but all my programs are running normally, so while this mixed realm of Warp and noosphere is unknown to me, the programs bequeathed to me by the bizarre science of the Dark Age of Technology have far more to them than I realised. ++In the Warp, shape and power is knowledge given form. Is it truly so strange that a place like this can exist?++ My mind flashes through all I have learned and I smack my fist against my open palm, ¡°This is all inside a data structure, like the inside of your ship.¡± ++That is the most likely possibility. It also means we are in the domain of a powerful demon. This will not be so simple as unleashing the Advanced E-War Systems and waiting for victory.++ ¡°So long as we don¡¯t meet any orangutans, I have confidence we can win.¡± Chapter Two Hundred ++More old references? It is not healthy to live in the past.++ ¡°Nor is it wise to forget what has shaped me. What use is it striving for a better tomorrow if I forget what that is?¡± ++Well, I will commend you for sticking to your ideals, even after all this time and sorrow.++ ¡°I could say the same about you. Both of us are equally dogmatic about our goals.¡± ++One made by Man, the other by Man¡¯s experiences.++ ¡°Aye. Let¡¯s get this hunt over with. I want to hug my family before the day is out.¡± A straw beehive appears in my hand and I give it a shake. Millions of clockwork bees stream from its entrance and spread through the library, mapping the vast rows of books and searching for our foes. E-SIM detaches a lantern from his belt that burns with a disturbing purple flame. A horned figure within the flame silently screams as the flame burns brighter as E-SIM slowly turns around. He points behind us. ++That way.++ ¡°Is that a piece of Bad Penny?¡± ++Yes. We do not know where the ruler of this domain is, but they are using what little remains of Bad Penny as a source of power. Finishing him off should bring him to us, and even if that fails, it will weaken our opponent.++ ¡°It¡¯s better than searching a seemingly infinite space. I was looking for clues to the inevitable puzzles that would reveal the Demon so it could gloat at us. I am pleased that we do not have to give up the initiative. It¡¯s rather fortunate that you can still track him. I suspect that by the time we¡¯re done here many questions I have wondered about for decades will be answered.¡± ++Deploying defensive Machine-Spirits.++ All around us appear rows of clockwork tin soldiers with giant keys in their backs, dressed and equipped like Roman Legionnaires. I chuckle at the symbolism, for who else could better represent the destruction of this false temple of knowledge than the Romans? It is not an idle choice either, for in this immaterial realm of techno-sorcery, history and image hold significant power. The clockwork legionnaires spread out around us and within moments we are surrounded by a score of legions, their silent steps following my own in perfect sync. The grand army continues to multiply as E-SIM adds chariots, light cavalry, and war elephants. A cloud of silver metal rushes out from my body and forms a fog around E-SIM and I, though it does not hinder our sight. At the edge of the infinite horizon of books appears an opposing force of fantastical feathered creatures. They jerk towards us in sharp motions, like corrupt footage from a pict-recorder. Within moments they are upon us, trying to bowl over the neat formations of legionnaires. The Machine-Spirits brace their spears and shields, holding back the tide of bizarre Chaos Spawn. Each Demon is an amalgamation of paper, stone, and wax, held aloft by fine blue chains that stretch into the sky like rain. As they strike, the bird headed statues around us come to life and lash out at E-SIM and I, attempting to steal the lantern. They fail spectacularly, their forms disintegrating the moment they hit my silver mist. We pass the next row of books and the lantern flares, abruptly directing us to the left for no apparent reason. ¡°A maze perhaps? I do hope it is not teleporting.¡± ++It matters not. The lantern will guide us closer, no matter where the Demons flee.++ The clash around us continues in total silence. Not because it is making no sound, but because I have turned my audio feed off. I don¡¯t want to hear what the Demons might be saying, because then I will be tempted to respond and that way lies madness, for there is no reasoning with the Ruinous Powers. Having failed to shock, mislead, or steal from us, the Demons press their assault harder, slowing our progress through the infinite library. Torches appear in the hands of the legionnaires and they toss them at the shelves. The books instantly catch alight, flames rushing up their sides like a pine forest fire. Ash and embers fall upon us as the books take flight, fleeing the hungry flames. My silver mist sparks and erodes as scraps of paper, holding vile runes, fall upon us. Many legionnaires are destroyed, their red, bronze, and steel bodies seizing up and falling to the flagstone floor, then turning to dust. For several minutes we are hard pressed as E-SIM struggles to renew our defensive forces, then the animated statues crumble, their power lost as the books, who¡¯s shelves they guard, flee and burn. The terrain shifts from stone bookshelves to an open plain of paper-grass and wax dew that hinders our footing. Each grass blade holds a single word. The terrain is filled with intermittent stone obelisks, placed in a pattern that I find irritating for no reason I can discern. Books constantly divebomb us and I expend additional energy to protect the legionnaires from the bombardment with my silver mist. The constant flow of energy from destroyed Demons lets me run my implants at full power without worrying I will be left vulnerable and without power. Back in the Materium, I remove my helmet as my hair starts to glow white with heat. I haven¡¯t had time yet to modify my new Rogue Pattern power armour to deal with my unusual heat output for me. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. With my protections in place, E-SIM gains the upper hand, fully replenishing our forces and driving the Demons back to the bookshelves as we press further into the paper-grass plain. More knowledge is carved upon each obelisk face and when the legionnaires attempt to topple the obelisks, they find their strength lacking. I approach the closest obelisk and examine it. After several minutes, I sigh. ¡°It¡¯s a teleport puzzle. We could keep following the lantern, but we can only be sure it will guide us through a route, not the quickest, and while neither side has infinite resources, that is no reason to squander our own.¡± ++You will have to solve it, Aldrich. It would be best if I reserve my remaining bandwidth and processing capacity for sudden changes.++ ¡°Agreed.¡± I recall my bees. Most exit the library unharmed, avoiding the falling ash and flame with ease. They plummet towards me and I absorb them, my wards incinerating a small percentage that were Demons in disguise. Their sensor data feeds into my implants helping me map the twisting energy of this place. I send them out again over the obelisk plains to map every symbol. I also spawn donsy of gnomes; a rather apt collective noun given the gnomes impending, unfortunate fate. The Demons continue their assault as I map the area for four subjective days, though really it¡¯s just a few seconds back in the Materium. Simultaneously I send the gnomes out for testing, having them activate specific obelisks and teleport back and forth. The paths are always changing, but there are detectable patterns that let me map out a key and progress through the maze to its centre. Once the puzzle is solved, I hold onto E-SIM¡¯s large bronze frame. E-SIM dismisses his legionnaires and we teleport through the maze, checking the route each jump against the flares of Bad Penny¡¯s soul lantern. On our eighty-first teleport, yet exactly ninety-nine percent through the maze, we are assaulted by a tempest of avian gheists and the fragmented souls of the Barghest Marines, who howl and gnash at E-SIM and I with berserk insanity. Many of my cogitators glitch at the odd numbers and my noosphere avatar fuzzes at the edges, delaying my response to the attack. E-SIM weathers the subtle cognito-hazard without issue and flares his energy shield, protecting us both from the nasty spell. From behind the energy shield, I observe the tortured souls of the men who fought and died for me. A bubbling rage overtakes me and I pull hard on my connection to the Emperor, offering half the souls I have collected over the last few subjective days, some three hundred thousand kills, to free the souls of his sons from their tempestuous imprisonment. I stagger as I receive the impression of being smacked by a grimoire and my mind is forcefully flooded with a hefty chunk of arcane lore and three new spells. The first is how to dispel the magics of the Warp Storm discipline, the second is how to gather souls myself, rather than have E-SIM do it for me, and the third is a method of safely and secretly transferring loyal souls to the domain of the Emperor without him having to interfere. I groan under the careless influx of knowledge, a goodly portion of my body malfunctioning and the blood vessels in my brain rupturing. Fortunately, I don¡¯t feel pain any more but a barrage of alerts instead. Back in the Materium, my body falls to its knees and I lean my back against the altar. I am quite shocked to be trusted with such arcane lore as it is possible to attack the Emperor with the knowledge and spells I have been given. It could also be arrogance, laziness, or desperation rather than trust though. I doubt I rate as a threat. Either way, I have clearly made an impression and I am as divided as ever on how I feel about that. A messenger mastiff trots up to me and licks my face. I grab its head with both hands and give its artificial fur a good rub. ¡°It¡¯s not over yet. Tell Bedwyr I¡¯m still alive and fighting. He probably already knows, but the Marines have been almost wiped out. There is a Chaos Knight in the remains of the central cogitator and we have insufficient firepower to dislodge it. He should focus on ensuring the ritual is broken as soon as possible. I will continue with my attempt to slay the Machine-Spirit of the knight remotely, and disperse whatever Demons infect it. Our forces should stay clear of the chamber in case it self-destructs.¡± The mastiff wines for a moment, then huffs, pats its paw against my knee, then dashes off. Focusing back on the noosphere connection, my minds rapidly process the glut of information and practice the required spells within a simulation. Meanwhile, E-SIM fends off the avian gheists and souls, his energy shield weathering the assault without even a ripple. Puppetted Demons gather around us once again as the Greater Demon hovers nearby, channelling its spell against us. The Greater Demon is a two-headed, humanoid bird. It waves a crescent topped staff in its taloned hands as it regurgitates its heart wrenching incantations, their words penetrating my mind, even after turning off my audio feed. Bad Penny¡¯s statue hangs on a chain around its neck. The patch of feathers around the statue have been plucked clean and the pink skin beneath oozes with blue blood. Warp energy flows from the statue into the Demon¡¯s chest, giving the creature a great sense of weight that pushes upon my mind, sapping my determination to continue this conflict. E-SIM tries to get a lock on it, but his sensors refuse to recognise the Demon as a target and the tracer fire he sprays it with never goes where he is aiming. He doesn¡¯t have any trouble gunning down the Lesser Demons and switches to targeting them instead. This goes on for several minutes, as E-SIM devastates the demonic hordes all by himself, swinging his poleaxe back and forth while I cling to his leg like an unruly child as he slowly pushes through the squall of souls towards the Greater Demon. The Greater Demon does not remain still and retreats at the same pace. The moment I am sufficiently repaired, I draw upon the Warp, tracing runes in the air with my hands and mechadendrites as I utter an incantation in binary. A burst of static, rapid beeps, and unrecognisable syllables rush from my cracked lips. Through my third eye, I see blue feathers stab at my soul, but I glare at them and power ripples from my centre eye, burning away the corruption. Taking advantage of my digital voice and extra limbs, I layer another spell beneath the first. Both are completed simultaneously and the Vortex Terrors are dispelled. I cup my hands and small, translucent fragments gather in my hands. Miniature ears, fingers, and many tongues, their torment now still and silent, rest upon my palms. They are too weak to make the journey and the thought of eating them fills me with distaste. Instead, I gently knead them into a new form until the reformed soul looks like a young boy, one a touch too old to undergo the surgeries of a Space Marine. With my third and final spell, I wrap him in a ball of golden light, then press it against my chest, sending him back along the connection I have to the Emperor¡¯s realm. With its offensive magic dispelled, E-SIM has a clear path to the Greater Demon. I jump off his leg and we charge the beast. Chapter Two Hundred and One E-SIM swings his huge pole axe and the Greater Demon disintegrates beneath his blow, then reforms next to me, entirely unharmed. Wards flare around it, repelling my silver mist and it strikes at my chest with its crescent bladed staff. I step in close and catch its wrist on the back of my arm, then spear my power field covered hand into its sternum. Again, the Greater Demon dissipates and reforms two hundred metres away, hovering in the air. It says something, but unlike its incantations, I hear nothing of what it says, my mute protocols still in effect. ++It is a projection. We must continue to the end of the maze.++ ¡°Agreed.¡± We connect to the obelisk and teleport to a new location and appear on the lawn of a white painted, wooden house, surrounded by fields of corn. From E-SIM¡¯s pict-feed I immediately notice that the corn is planted in strings of Lingua-Technis. The text tells the story of a chimpanzee, trapped in a glass room, floating in an ocean full of fish, who starved to death because he didn¡¯t know what the food printer attached to his room was. It is by far the least subtle message I¡¯ve noticed since we entered the Greater Demon¡¯s domain and I think it might be losing patience with us. ¡°Burn everything,¡± I say. E-SIM and I turn our weapons on the house and fields, setting them alight with blasts of plasma and volkite weaponry. From within the flames appear a legion of rotund Pink Horrors and multi-headed Burning Horrors. Great flocks of Screamers form from the smoke choking the skies and attempt to rip us apart. Side by side, E-SIM and I wade into the horde of Lesser Demons and lay waste to them. They swarm and strike us with no concern for coordination. Most disintegrate the moment my silver mist touches them, though some last long enough for me to shoot them. I launch micro-missiles en masse, clearing the initial rush of demons, then summon my own helpers. Myriad jellyfish pop into existence and swarm through the sky, their engulfing forms and long tentacles wrenching the screamers from the air and consuming them before they overwhelm us. My gnomes are let loose among the corn, their obsidian knives and cruel grins reaping a tithe of screams. Millions of clockwork bees peel off my armour like flecks of paint and zoom off, disrupting enemy vision and increasing the detail and perspective of our auspex. E-SIM sweeps his poleaxe near the ground, splatting scores of Demons. He picks me up and places me on his shoulder. The armour on his shins peels back revealing eight emitters. With a sudden flash, the ground around him is filled with lightning as he triggers a titanic volkite blast that turns the house and corn to ash. As the space around us clears, E-SIM deploys his mechanical legions and slaughters the lesser demons. Here, in this Immaterial realm of data, they just can¡¯t compete with us. Guided by the soul lantern, we march through the unending fields of burning corn, hunting the Greater Demon. The flow of time distorts and slows, the Demon¡¯s Domain stretching every second within to many seconds without. The Heralds and Tempstous Scions continue to struggle within the Demon and Tyranid infested hull of Dying Light. The remaining Space Marines retreat, then gather the other half of their strike group and send another fifty marines into the vessel, supported by Red Knoll¡¯s voidsmen. Only twenty-five active marines remain on Red Knoll. Gradually, more of the vessel is secured and Alpia and the Navigators make good progress on stopping the ritual. Raphael finally breaks into the Bridge and secures it, cutting Dying Light¡¯s Nova Cannon from the vessel¡¯s auspex. The surviving cultists manage four more shots with the powerful weapon, using the secondary controls near the prow of the vessel, before the Space Marines secure it. With no way to properly aim the gun after the Bridge was captured, all their shots miss by millions of kilometres. Our struggle continues, and we receive reinforcements from the Stellar Fleet, most of the void assault regiment getting rotated out with two penal regiments. After nine hours struggle within the corn fields, and nine days fighting within Dying Light, E-SIM and I reach the Greater Demon. Bad Penny¡¯s statue still hangs around its neck, but the statue has cracked and turned to ash coloured stone. We immediately fire upon the Demon, but all our shots fly right through it, leaving it untouched. It smirks at us, its twin beaks morphing like a child¡¯s cartoon character forming an unnatural grin. Within Dying Light, Alpia disables the last rune and all the energy powering the ritual flows back to the Chaos Knight. The Warp begins to calm and the brewing Warp storm stops growing. At the same time, Bad Penny¡¯s statue crumbles and turns to dust and the seal on the Chaos Knight burns away, overwhelmed by the backlash of the broken ritual. A crescent headed staff punches through the pilot hatch from within the Knight and a two headed Demon hauls itself from the Chaos Knight. Having finally got a good look at the Demon, this time with my third eye, I am absolutely positive that it is the same Demon that tried to pull Marwolv into the Warp. I am upset I fell for such a trick, while also delighted that it wasn¡¯t actually Tzeentch who tried to swallow Marwolv and it likely explains why we all survived the ordeal, a twist of fate that, given Tzeentch¡¯s power, never quite made sense. A sinking feeling grows in my metaphorical stomach and I realise the thrice damned bird Demon has led us on a wild goose chase through its domain using Bad Penny as a lure. It never entered the noosphere because it was sealed in the Knight, interacting with us remotely like I did with it. With a disdainful wave, it opens a portal to the Warp, raises a middle talon at the pict-recorder I¡¯m observing it through, then steps into the Warp. The portal closes behind it. I curse, realising that Bad Penny was sent into the noosphere as it was outside the seal, its power drained to send the legions of demons against us at almost no cost to the Greater Demon, who, guessing from the cultists¡¯ last cry, likely goes by Marabas. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The ritual was almost certainly always intended to break its seal, even though it was designed to weaken the boundary between the Materium and Immaterium. The Warp storm and demon invasion that the ritual caused were a distraction and consequence of the ritual, so that when we triggered the feedback upon the ritual¡¯s creator, caused by forcefully shutting the ritual down, we were effectively tricked into destroying the Inquisitorial seal, which absorbed the energy created by the ritual backlash. We did all that work, at great cost to us and Bad Penny, but no expenditure of power or resources on the Greater Demon¡¯s part, other than a loss of its mortal followers. That left it free to waltz out of here, completely recovered from whatever ordeal trapped it in the first place, leaving us with an absolute disaster and my own plans completely in tatters. Not only that, but from Bad Penny¡¯s perspective, this was the first time I met him, and likely the cause of our enmity. It is also his final death, as I got a crown kill when he passed. The odd, timeless nature of the Warp suggests that he spent centuries searching for his killer, eventually finding me on Mote after I first left the Warp after being on the Federation space station, hoping to destroy me before I could kill him, even while knowing it was ultimately pointless, because from his own perspective, though not mine, he was already dead. That makes no sense whatsoever! I scream in my head. I hate time travel and paradoxes! Convoluted though it might be, I really can¡¯t think of any other explanation. This encounter also suggests why Bad Penny disrupted Marabas¡¯ plans for Marwolv by tossing three Ork Roks at Marabas when Marabas summoned a massive avatar, posing as Tzeentch, using the power from the ritual by the Tau Ethereal that killed all those psykers. Bad Penny was almost certainly seeking revenge for destroying his last anchor to existence, the statue that crumbled as the seal on Marabas was broken. With the way clear, I finally penetrate the Knight¡¯s defences and disable the war machine, slowly venting its plasma generator, purging its corrupt Machine-Spirit, then leaving it to shut down as the batteries are deliberately overloaded. Once it has been completely turned off, I message Domhnall, Raphael, and Tech-Marine Balor that the Chaos Knight and the ritual have been disabled, but the Greater Demon escaped to the Warp, then inform them I am going to secure the site. Gathering my depleted bodyguard, I head to the centre of Dying Light. The interior of the vessel has been absolutely shredded by fighting. Nearly every panel we pass is pocked and rent, the wires, plasma conduits, and other gizmos behind them melted and shattered. The major corridors are piled high with Tyranid and Hull Ghast bodies, some of which I am not entirely certain are dead. There has been little time to collect our own dead, though the bodies have been secured and stacked at multiple choke points, denying the Tyranids further organic matter to feed their brood. We encounter several packs of Chaos Spawn on our journey, but they are weakening fast now that the ritual has been stopped and the gathering Warp storm is fading. Those we do find seem more intent on destroying the ship than my troops, determined to ruin any chance of us salvaging anything useful from this debacle. After an hour of sporadic combat, we arrive at the remains of the central cogitator. We double check all the Chaos forces are non-functional. To my great surprise, nineteen Space Marines still live, having gone into hibernation after their Sus-an Membranes activated. The Space Marine exclusive implant has worked far more effectively in conjunction with the Vitae Supplements that were added to their power armour, mimicking the specialised functions of pharmacopoeia built into the Heralds¡¯ MOA carapace armour, keeping their brains alive long enough after catastrophic injuries for them to fully slip into hibernation. I had been uncertain how well a Vitae Supplement would work for a Space Marine as they are intended for baseline Humans and cyborgs, not Transhumans, but it wasn¡¯t something we could test beyond ensuring compatibility. Fortunately they worked so well that even Verlin is still alive after being reduced to little more than a head and quarter torso. Only the marines who were completely incinerated, lost more than a quarter of their grey matter, or had their souls pulled from their bodies are actually dead. The soul removal is the one that killed half of the seventy-five marine strike group, the vicious spell even removing the souls of Marines hibernating beneath the mountain of corpses by the main door. In some ways this is a blessing, as many of the bodies are unharmed, providing plenty of spare parts with which to restore the injured Marines, though I am somewhat sceptical about the success rate for a head transplant for Verlin. Swapping limbs and organs should, in theory, work just fine as Space Marines are universal donors for each other but a complete body transplant is in the realms of the dodgiest types of rejuvenat and infiltration treatments and not something anyone in the fleet has attempted before. When asked if she can perform the treatment though, JK-404 is rather enthusiastic to head the team that will attempt to save Verlin. With the immediate crisis under control and recovery operations underway, I examine the large Chaos Knight close up. The air around the machine weighs upon my shoulders, as if the pressure of an ocean thick with filth is trying to drown me with awe and terror. I have often thought Knights, Titans, and other war walkers to be impressive, but ultimately a little silly and rather niche. You can do so much more with an armour regiment than you can with a single Knight and the latter is far more difficult to field given the limited quantity of qualified pilots and the extensive support network of specialised staff and exclusive machinery required to maintain the massive war machines. Sure, if you want a line broken through, the concentrated speed and firepower of a Knight is unmatched, but there are other ways to achieve the same result. Standing beneath this corrupt machine, I realise that my thinking was flawed. Like the soldiers of the Great War who witnessed the first tanks and believed that they were being attacked by monsters, the Knight performs the same role, regardless of whether you know what it is or not. A tank is a scary box on wheels. You can defeat a tank with a well placed shot of a man portable weapon, even a grenade in the right spot will do the trick. Against a Knight, these tricks mean nothing. It might mimic the Human form, but that just makes it worse. A Knight is a monster. This particular one thrashed a force of marines that could have brought a planet to heel and did so without any obvious effort. Looking up at this machine reminds me of an era where we filled maps with fantastical creatures that said ¡®Here be Dragons¡¯. Suddenly, it¡¯s no longer about an efficient use of resources, but crushing the morale of your enemies. I may live inside a multi-kilometre, spacefaring vessel, but to me, for all its intimidation and glory, it¡¯s just home. A Knight can never be home. All it brings is death. Despair overwhelms me for a moment and for the first time in many years, I cry. Silver alloys and tiny machines run down my cheeks and are absorbed back into my skin without a single person noticing. I take a deep breath and steady myself, pushing away the ugly feelings that seek to crush me. I cross my arms and glare at the corrupt Knight, its existence forcing an uncomfortable truth upon my mind. I have been too lax. The frequent conflicts I have endured have been tempered by the joys of my family, and the constant, numbing fear of my early days of my revival have faded. In my confidence and contempt, I have forgotten the only thing that matters. In the forty-first millennium, there is no joy or hope, only war, and the everlasting laughter of thirsting gods. Chapter Two Hundred and Two I pace around my cabin as my shuttle returns me to Red Knoll, landing upon the Vanguard Class vessel with deceptive ease. Exiting the large shuttle, I frown. There are new scorch marks within the hangar that bristle with the tainted energies of the Warp. My auger throws repeated warnings and my mind as it highlights bloody residues and adamantium needles embedded in the plasteel of the deck. I am met by Odhran and his four battle brothers. They surround me, their large bolters held close to their chests and their heads turning slightly back and forth. Kylian, Darrah, Nuada, and Eoghan¡¯s armour all have new claw marks and Odhran¡¯s breastplate has been cracked and resealed with ceramite paste. Each of them has a gundog trotting beside them. Some of them look a little scorched and battered, but it is only surface damage. I¡¯ve no idea what happened to Odhran¡¯s oversized cyber mastiff though. Seeing how many strikes they have taken in the last nine days, guarding my family, humbles me. ¡°Thank you, Odhran, Kylian, Darrah, Nuada, and Eoghan for your earnest vigil.¡± None of the marines speak, or break their stride, but I see their shoulders relax slightly and they seem to gain a little extra energy, their weary steps lengthening as they stand a little straighter. ¡°This way, Magos,¡± says Odhran. ¡°Hello, Odhran. To my family please.¡± ¡°Prepare yourself. Your family lives, but they are not unscathed.¡± I chew on my bottom lip, ¡°I did not expect the fighting to reach so far.¡± ¡°Red Knoll did not have its Gellar Field up. It is not normally required in realspace. Warp entities appeared all over the ship. The Tech-Priests managed to restore the field after only fifteen minutes, but that was more than enough time for the hostile entities to amass a substantial force. It took some time to hunt them all down once their reinforcements were cut off.¡± ¡°Fifteen minutes is impressive. They must have cut a lot of steps.¡± ¡°There was some discussion about it,¡± Odhran says, sounding faintly amused. ¡°Are you pleased to fight alongside your chapter again?¡± Odhran sighs, ¡°They may be my brothers, but they are not my companions. It is a wound time has caused, not one that it will heal. I did not expect this, assuming that, when battle was joined I would know where they all are, but that did not happen. The minor psychic link between the chapter and my squad has been uncomfortably silent.¡± ¡°Would you like me to find a way to restore it?¡± ¡°No, Magos. If it returns, I shall celebrate it, but we work for you now. Divided loyalties will only lead to trouble.¡± ¡°I know you didn¡¯t tell me about the link before because it¡¯s classified, but I cannot imagine what it was like waking up the first time we met and feeling nothing. You must have already known your brothers were...unavailable, while I was explaining what had happened, yet you didn¡¯t so much as twitch and focused on saving us both from the cultists and xenos. It must have been difficult for you.¡± ¡°I understand what you are attempting, Magos, but this conversation is unnecessary. I am a Transhuman Space Marine. We do not process our difficulties like a regular Human, especially when threats are near. We have more in common with the Mechanicus, who are rather free with their surgical knives, than the rest of the populace. Not that you ever seem to change, unlike the rest of your order, or any of the Tech-Priests you have trained.¡± I hum, ¡°The way you describe it I would have more success describing colours to a blind man than discuss emotions with a Space Marine. I am not convinced, but this is not the place to poke holes in sensitive places.¡± Odhran grunts. The halls of Red Knoll are filled with hand woven tapestries, each scene showing the death of a Barghest marine in vivid detail, often alongside the auxiliary troops. In every macabre scene, the subjects¡¯ helmets are missing, even when the background is naught but stars, or deep within an ocean. Each final expression is one of determination, a last battlecry upon their lips. The auxiliaries are depicted differently, their faces identical to each other, with only a name tag to remember them by. I gesture to the tapestries, ¡°These are superb works, though I cannot tell if they are intended as inspiration or a warning. Who weaves them?¡± ¡°The survivors,¡± says Odhran. ¡°It is a chapter tradition. Only the most valiant and respected get a place on these walls. The remainder are still woven, but are used as a funerary shroud and burnt with the remains, and occasionally as a replacement for them when no corpse is available. ¡°The art itself has no special meaning. Every individual understands the message that means the most to them when they look at these tapestries, a message that might change during their decades of service. Instead, meaning is born from the act of weaving.¡± Odhran pauses and I sense a moment of reluctance, then resignation from his rigid emotions. ¡°It is how we say goodbye.¡± ¡°Singing and weaving. I like the traditions of your chapter.¡± Odhran doesn¡¯t respond, his hand briefly flexing against his bolter. I smile a bit at Odhran¡¯s contradictory nature, as I finally realise that having two traditions that focus so strongly on collective work really shows how tightly knit the Barghests are. No wonder Odhran is rather sore about the loss of the psychic battlelink the rest of his chapter. I know I brought him back from the dead, but I didn¡¯t do it for his loyalty, I revived him because I needed his help and he saved my life, yet he and his squad give me their loyalty anyway, even when it costs them. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Most of Red Knoll is dimly lit with soft, yellow light. To my great surprise, some of it comes from real scented candles, not the imitation ones used in the Stellar Fleet to limit smoke inhalation and reduce fire risks. The Medicae Deck, however, is completely different, the daylight bulbs giving the extensive hospital an uplifting aura that immediately perks me up. The walls are a dark, ocean blue with white trim and a brass cog mechanicum stamped into the walls every twelve metres. Cherubim Servitors are docked above each door like gargoyles. They occasionally take flight, ferrying medical supplies back and forth, or scanning every person that passes them. I spot a room with half a squad of Heralds standing outside and my pace picks up as I barely stop myself from running to the room. I remove my helmet while the door guards double check my credentials, then let me through. The door opens and I rush inside. Dareaca and Fial are sitting at a small table next to Luan, playing cards. Luan is sitting upright in a hospital bed, an empty sleeve pinned to his chest. His cheeks are thin and a nutrient drip is plugged into one of the two armoured ports on his neck. With his remaining arm, Luan reluctantly spoons soylent viridans into his mouth, pulling a face with every mouthful. Opposite Luan is Alpia, she is unconscious and attached to several machines, including a Vitae Supplement. Brigid sits next to her on a rather uncomfortable looking chair, holding Alpia¡¯s hand. Brigid has also lost a huge amount of weight and I detect multiple fatal wounds on her chest. Like Luan, Brigid is hooked up to a nutrient drip. A walking stick lies across her lap. In the far left corner is another person hidden behind a white curtain. She is out cold and hooked up to several machines as well. Two small children are sleeping beside her, one curled up at her feet and the other resting on her stomach. The woman¡¯s hand lies limp upon the head of the child lying on her stomach. All three individuals are navigators. Everyone who is awake snaps their heads towards the door, then relax. ¡°Dad!¡± says Dareaca ¡°You¡¯re back!¡± I grin, ¡°I am.¡± ¡°Hi, Dad,¡± says Fial. He puts down his cards and he and Dareaca stand up, then move towards me. I smile at Brigid and I see all the tension flow out of her body. I give Fial and Dareaca a hug, then walk over to Luan¡¯s bed and give his shoulder a squeeze. ¡°That¡¯s quite the injury you have there.¡± I suppress my growing panic at Luan¡¯s injuries. A missing arm isn¡¯t a big deal, but it is hard to tamper down my instinctive reaction to his severe wounds and weakened body. ¡°Ah, it itches so much!¡± says Luan. ¡°Growing a new arm sucks. Those Regenerative Hormones you spliced into our whole family are a right bitch. I lost so many bits I¡¯m practically a skeleton!¡± I snort, ¡°So long as you live, I do not care. Still,¡± I draw slightly on the Warp and place a mental block on Luan that will slowly erode over the next week, preventing him from feeling any discomfort. ¡°There you go.¡± ¡°Oh yeah, that¡¯s way better than the weird drugs the chirurgeons gave me.¡± ¡°Good. Now give me a moment to say hello to your mother, then you can tell me all about your fancy new scars.¡± I walk up to Brigid, then kneel next to her, and place my arm around her shoulder. I give her a gentle hug, blocking the kids'' view, then give her a long kiss. ¡°Aldrich, I am so happy to see you.¡± ¡°Brigid, love, seeing you puts my fears to rest. I did not know that you had been hurt. Let alone so badly. What happened?¡± ¡°A raid by the Dark Mechanicum, I think. They sent Daemon Engines, Maulerfiends, maybe, but I am not sure. The creatures looked like mechanical bears with four mechadendrite tails and a single horn on their snouts. There were a lot of Dark Skitarii and mad slaves too, but there was not a single reported sighting of the controlling Mechanicum members. It could have been a Traitor Marine Warpsmith, too, I suppose, but we didn¡¯t see one of those either. ¡°The enemy teleported into the main hangar on Red Knoll while we were shuttling reinforcements and casualties back and forth. The boys and I were on board, helping with the injured Heralds and leading the penal regiments in prayer. The enemy forced themselves aboard the shuttle and tried to take it, likely to escape. ¡°I have heard that they were the remnants of the forces dislodged from the Nova Cannon, but this rumour has not been confirmed. We shredded the infantry with little trouble, even though most of the Herald¡¯s on board were already badly injured. ¡°The Dark Skitarii and slaves just didn¡¯t have the armour to withstand our Marwolv las weapons, especially the new carbine variant we¡¯ve been issuing. It¡¯s so much easier to use on a void ship than the las rifles were and the small drop in power didn¡¯t make any difference in practice. My only complaint is that the shorter design means the optional bayonets can¡¯t keep something big at arm¡¯s length. I know we all have those new arc mauls, but there isn¡¯t always time to draw them, which is how I got injured.¡± ¡°I know you did your best, Brigid. What happened next?¡± ¡°We didn¡¯t have the heavy weaponry to take out the Maulerfiends, nor could we start tossing grenades in such close confines. The micro-missiles and other attachments were still useful though, and did slow them down. That gave Odhran¡¯s squad a chance to hold the fiends back in melee, while the boys and I piled on las and bolt pistol fire until they died. If it wasn¡¯t for the Machine-Spirits checking our fire so we couldn¡¯t accidentally shoot each other, there would have been a lot more casualties.¡± ¡°Good. I¡¯m pleased that system worked against corruptive foes.¡± Brigid smiles at me, then shudders, ¡°Even so, the fiends almost killed us. Their tails had a deceptive reach and we had little room to manoeuvre. There was sorcery upon them and each blow cracked our power armour far more than it should have. Eventually, it gave way.¡± ¡°Well done. I am impressed that you did not panic or cower. It is far better to risk death than capture.¡± ¡°Oh, I was panicking the whole time and really wanted to run away, but I knew you and Alpia were relying on us to keep bringing in fresh troops and the enemy gave us no respite. I discovered that, when it comes down to it, no matter my fears, I hate the thought of losing even more. It is a revelation about myself that I would have been happier to never discover.¡± I take her hand in mind then kiss the back of it, ¡°Who¡¯d have thought your competitive streak would be so handy?¡± Brigid gives my hand a squeeze then bursts into tears. She leans forward and presses her face against my armoured chest. Dareaca and Fial rush over, then stand around not really knowing what to do with themselves. Luan tosses his empty bowl onto the side table and hobbles over, clinging onto the nutrient drip stand, then gently rubs his mum¡¯s back. Brigid¡¯s tears are gone in less than a minute and she sits back up and wipes her eyes, ¡°Thank you boys.¡± I smile at my family, ¡°How about one of you tells me about Alpia?¡± I glance at the machines, ¡°She is stable, at least.¡± Chapter Two Hundred and Three Fial says, ¡°Well, Alpia has been awake, fighting and solving runic puzzles for nine days straight. Of course she is asleep.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t know much more than that,¡± says Dareaca. ¡°Besides, it is her story to tell and she will be annoyed if we take away her chance to show off.¡± ¡°At least she actually deserves her praise for once,¡± says Luan. ¡°Boys,¡± says Brigid. ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± I stand and hug Luan, ¡°Alpia would not have done so well if you weren¡¯t around to back her up. She had faith in you all and you delivered. It is unlike you to wash away the pride you have earned with petty jealousy. Is there something upsetting you, or was this just a slip of the tongue?¡± Luan scratches his arm and purses his lips, he opens his mouth a couple of times, then looks at me. ¡°If what you need to say takes time for you to gather your wits, then do so. There is little point in speaking in a jumble and accidentally implying the opposite of your intent.¡± Luan nods and closes his eyes, swaying on his feet slighting as he grips the pole holding his nutrient drip. Everyone sits quietly, their breaths slow and steady. Finally, Luan speaks up, his voice quiet and uncertain. ¡°I keep startling at small sounds and I¡¯m having trouble sleeping. I know that¡¯s not unusual, but the difference between lessons and experience is even more stark than I expected.¡± ¡°I will visit you all every day for a couple of hours and you can just speak whatever comes to mind, even if it¡¯s the same thing over and over again, until you feel better. The same goes for everyone else,¡± I sigh. ¡°It would do me some good as well. I am not feeling myself after such a spectacular disaster.¡± ¡°That would be most welcome,¡± says Brigid. Luan says, ¡°I suppose. I¡¯d rather be left alone really.¡± ¡°Then how about a quiet meditation, or just reading our favourite poems and other texts to each other?¡± says Fial. ¡°Not everyone likes to talk about their emotions like you do, Dad.¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯d like that,¡± says Luan. Dareca also nods. ¡°Alright, we can try that. However, if talk and time prove inadequate,¡± I say, ¡°I¡¯ll sit with you while you undergo meditative drug therapy. It is exceptionally effective at disassociating memories from emotions. There is no shame in needing help and there¡¯s going to be a lot of mandatory rituals and prayers after fighting warp entities. These, too, should help settle our minds. I¡¯m sorry our treasure hunt turned out this way.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not your fault, Dad,¡± says Luan. I sigh, ¡°Not entirely, no, but there are many things I could have done better, but now is not the time to discuss it.¡± Luan dismisses my words, too caught up in his emotions to really listen. ¡°It¡¯s just, I was super fucking scared and I never want to fight again, but we don¡¯t live in a galaxy where that¡¯s possible. This time it was demons. I¡¯m dreading what might come next.¡± ¡°Then we will work on that together, until you are ready, even if I must delay my departure a little. The same goes for Dareaca and Fial. Brigid too, even though she is coming with me.¡± ¡°Thanks, Dad. That would be appreciated,¡± says Luan, ¡°even if I know you¡¯re going to be stuck here a while anyway.¡± I chuckle, ¡°Back to bed with you, I am going to double check Alpia, then I will leave you all to rest.¡± ¡°What are you going to do?¡± says Brigid. ¡°Sweep Dying Light for any further tricks before we tow it back to the Fleet for salvage and scrapping.¡± ¡°You aren¡¯t going to rest yourself?¡± says Fial. ¡°Seeing you all is all the break I need and I will return every twenty-four hours as promised for some family time. Now give me a moment, I need to concentrate to examine Alpia¡¯s mind and body. I don¡¯t want any corruption taking hold while she is exhausted.¡± Brigid and the kids back off. Luan and Brigid return to their beds while Fial and Dareaca go back to their seats. I place one hand on Alpia''s forehead and the other over her heart, then concentrate, examining her with my more esoteric senses. In my mind¡¯s eye, I detect the thin string of energy connecting us, our soul bond. I learned how to soul bond others from Ylien. It is a handy, yet invasive act that aids me in shielding Alpia and the other psykers in my Fleet from corruption, using a combination of my navigator heritage, Warp Tap, oversized soul, and extensive arcanotech protections. Because of its invasive nature, I had put off actually creating soul bonds for years, as sheltering within the shadow of my soul is enough to hide all the psykers in my fleet. It¡¯s like trying to hide a candle next to a bonfire. Most demons just aren¡¯t going to notice them. However, with Raphael having joined Fleet Command as my Master of Whispers, I have changed my stance; I bound all of the Fleet''s psykers to me during the voyage to SR-651. Now, when I am asked if my psykers are soul bound, I can say yes, without lying. I am wary of lying around Inquisitors, even with my perfect body control, as they are experts in weaselling out truths with the most innocuous of questions and I have never been trained or actively practised the opposite. Proving that my psykers are sanctioned was a little trickier as that requires a certificate, but Ylien knew how to forge those too, and therefore, so do I. It was a little disconcerting, though no surprise, that the Eldar have a way of forging Imperial documents so that they can run around pretending to be sanctioned psykers as they please. Soul bonding requires placing a small piece of my soul within the souls of those I wish to bind to mine. Through this link I can attack any demon that attempts to possess them. I can also purge chaotic influence, read their minds as I please, influence their thoughts, and impart any information that I want them to know. Some of these acts the Emperor occasionally does to me, taking advantage of the soul bond he has with me, the one created during my Navigator Conversion. I absolutely hate my bond, no matter how useful it is, and I find having a bond with others incredibly distasteful, even more so for Alpia. Stolen novel; please report. Not only is the link a horrible violation of privacy, but it is also a bond of servitude. They are naturally inclined to work towards tasks that benefit me and refusing a direct order requires stern mental discipline. The link is also unequal in other ways. For example, I am aware when a psyker bound to me wishes to speak with me, but unless they have the skills to contact me regardless of the bond, I am the one who must open up the connection to initiate the conversation. Neither does the bonded individual have any way of breaking the bond as my soul is far too strong for them to evict mine from theirs, and thanks to its constant and rapid growth, it always will be. Unlike the Emperor¡¯s bonding process, my soul is significantly weaker, so the soulbond does not run the risk of burning out a person¡¯s eyes, nor does the bond work across the whole galaxy. At best, I can cover a single system. I have also discovered I can use the bond to extend the range of my Warp Tap around a psyker, which will potentially save me many Crown Kills from having to extend my own range, and massively increase my efficiency in gathering souls. This discovery has reinforced my theory that the Emperor hijacked the E-SIM project to gather souls for him and that, no matter what he said to others, he always intended to become a god. It¡¯s possible that gathering faith was a back up plan, especially as belief shapes reality and can force a powerful Warp entity to act in the manner it is expected to, rather than their original personality. I suspect that slaughtering xenos and demons with E-SIM users nearby was plan A, perhaps one of many, but this is a total guess on my part. Becoming a Warp entity is one of the few ways one can reasonably defeat the Ruinous Powers, so I can understand why the Emperor might intend to become one. I struggle to see the Emperor¡¯s campaign against faith as anything other than wiping out the competition. I cannot imagine someone as intelligent as the Emperor ever presenting himself as a figure of immense power, wreathed in gold and held aloft by white wings, dispensing miracles, then expecting himself not to be venerated and worshipped. All his iconography, architecture, and armour screams his understanding of image. He¡¯s also seen enough history to know that suppressing faith never works and that telling people not to do something is often the number one way to send them running towards it. Humanity¡¯s propensity to seek the forbidden is one of the major arguments why they should be kept ignorant of the beings inhabiting the Warp, as one does not think to seek that which they have no knowledge to imagine. As for why I¡¯m thinking about soul bonds and the scheming nature of the Emperor while examining Alpia, it¡¯s because she has picked up two, potentially three new bonds. When I tossed an offering of souls to the Emperor to bless Alpia with the wit and fortitude to complete her task, he clearly took a liberal interpretation of my request, as she is now properly soul bound to him with a particularly odd bond. A bond that he could have used to guide her understanding and resist corruption. I am quite furious about it, as while he is protecting my daughter, he¡¯s also enslaved her, much like he has done to me. It is another chain around my neck, for while I might be willing to sacrifice myself for my family, I am not willing to sacrifice my family to help myself. That bond could be used to harm Alpia if I become powerful enough to contest my own bond and stop being so cooperative, no matter how uncertain it is if I will ever be able to remove the soul bond either of us has. The bond is particularly odd and gives the interpression that it is two-faced. I brush my senses against the bond to gain a better understanding. One half radiates pure kindness. Not the self-sacrificing type, but one of empathy, understanding, and healthy self-interest. If anything, this half of the bond feels a little mercenary. At the other end I catch a glimpse of a child upon a throne in the same bone white realm I visited before. I suspect this is the Star Child. The other half of the bond radiates heavy, negative emotions: desperation, pain, obsession, regret, and death. It is a bond of tyranny and unshakable pride, fueled by faith and sacrifice. Slumped upon a throne of burning souls is an ancient, withered man with a crown of gilded thorns upon his brow. A rusty sword pierces his chest and pins him to the throne. An Eldar soulstone is wrapped in a silver chain around the blade and hilt, binding the decaying weapon, its purpose unclear. His hands are cupped in his lap, as if he is meditating. Cradled in his palms is a mechanical heart with four flexible plasteel tubes attached to his body. Two tubes are stuffed into the sword wound on his chest, another leads to his abdomen, and the last is plugged into his inner thigh. The heart¡¯s beat is uneven, stopping and starting with repeated electric arcs that jolt between the man¡¯s fingers and the failing heart. Golden blood drips from the man¡¯s brow and chest, and pools around the dais of his throne. Twelve, white skinned ghouls, augmented with tarnished machines fight around the pool of golden blood, continuously ripping into each other, denying any combatant from taking a sip of the crowned individual¡¯s sacred vitae and uplifting themselves to something greater and more noble of heart and mind. While the crowned man, no doubt another aspect of the Emperor, does not move, or even blink, I feel the weight of his attention upon me. It is implacable and crushing. Such is the weight of his attention, I feel like the mythical Atlas, holding the world upon his shoulders, as I bear a tiny glimpse at the smallest fraction of the weight the Emperor endures. His thoughts are muddled and scattered, the fading remains of his focus on building a prison, one that will contain a C¡¯Tan and power a device of immense importance. I pull back from the two-faced bond, before I am completely overwhelmed, and step away from Alpia. With a groan, I grab the chair Brigid was previously using and gingerly lower myself into it. I¡¯m not actually sore, as you can¡¯t get sore muscles if you don¡¯t have any, but I still feel like I should be and feel compelled to act as if I were still flesh and blood. ¡°Dad! What¡¯s wrong?¡± says Dareca. I take a deep breath, ¡°Nothing that is an immediate threat, I was just taken by surprise. I¡¯m not quite finished yet either. I am going to sit quietly for a moment then continue.¡± ¡°Is there anything we can do to help?¡± says Fial. I say, ¡°Just be extra nice to Alpia when she wakes up. She is going to be rather upset. Alpia hasn¡¯t been harmed. There are a few complications, however, and I want to let her decide how much she wants to talk about it.¡± ¡°We can do that,¡± says Brigid. ¡°Though I would much prefer to know. She is my daughter.¡± ¡°Alpia doesn¡¯t get many freedoms,¡± I say, ¡°I won¡¯t take away more than I absolutely must.¡± Brigid sighs, ¡°Very well, but it is psyker business I take it?¡± ¡°It is,¡± I say. ¡°Not classified, just private.¡± I feel like a total hypocrite given that I am the one who has an invasive bond with my own daughter, yet also a little lost and frustrated. There were other options and this was the least shitty one. Fial and Dareaca shrug. Luan has already fallen asleep. When the Emperor grabbed the C¡¯Tan at Kinbrair, I had thought he intended to consume it to boost his power. Having thought about this further, this obviously makes no sense as a C¡¯Tan is a Materium deity, not an Immaterium deity. Therefore, the Emperor could potentially use a C¡¯Tan as an energy source, but not assimilate one. Now, I suspect he intends to use the C¡¯Tan shard to seal the webway gate on Terra, or maybe fuel the Astronomicon. The Eldar soulstone, I think, is being used to suppress the corrosive wound he took from Horus, during the final battle of the Horus Heresy, when much of the Imperium fell to corruption. Many worlds were misled during the Heresy, hoping to escape the oppressive rule of the Emperor, or seeking revenge for their brutal subjugation, unaware they were opening themselves up to a far worse fate beneath the spiked heel of the Ruinous Powers. It was a brutal civil war, and even ten thousand years later, the Imperium has not recovered from it, the new age of enlightenment snuffed out before it could even begin. Steeling my will, I carefully place my hands on Alpia¡¯s head and heart again and examine the other link. I have no idea who else could or would form a soul bond with Alpia and while the bond with the Emperor has angered me, this additional link fills me with dread. Chapter Two Hundred and Four Connecting to Alpia¡¯s final soul bond is a completely different experience to the bond I have with her, or the two-faced bond she has with different aspects of the Emperor. Mine and Alpia¡¯s soul bonds with the Emperor feel like a connection with a Human who is so great in scope that one cannot comprehend their strength or trust one¡¯s own interpretation of what they are seeing. Through it, one feels a connection to their species roots, as if they are a small part of a greater gestalt. It is a distinctly religious experience and without my education, personal strength, and protections, I would be completely overwhelmed by it, entirely unable to see beyond the Emperor¡¯s furious light. To those less informed, and even myself, it is exceptionally difficult to view the Emperor as anything other than a deity, even if he is only a nascent Warp entity of great power, slowly shedding the trappings of flesh. Alpia¡¯s final soul bond instantly reminds me of my connection with the noosphere. I feel like I am engaging in a series of permissions that are happening without my input. Unlike the noosphere, I have absolutely no idea what is occurring, or how the bond is authorising my access. The best I can tell is that the process feels automated. I am tempted to pull back, but I need to know exactly who has forcefully bound my daughter, so I push on, seeking answers. One moment I am sitting next to Alpia, the next, my primary mind is whisked away to a vast, glass maze. Every glass wall panel is inscribed with strings of binary code that stretch into the distance. Above and below me are transparent, glowing pipes with brass rings every few metres, connecting the different sections that mark the constantly splitting and merging lines of glowing pipes. The pipes¡¯ contents remind me of plasma conduits, yet within the cloud of flowing, super heated cloud of charged particles, I see jagged streaks of lightning and the constant zip of tiny particles, like alpha particles leaving trails through foggy chambers. The effect is incredible, if utterly bizarre, and I spare a moment to appreciate it, easing my tensions. Refocusing on my task, I follow a string of code embedded inside the glass walls. It contains a partial algorithm for data modelling. Rather than the complete, yet incorrect information I found in Marabas¡¯ library, the knowledge within the maze walls matches data I already know from several other sources, letting me fill in the blanks. The code does, however, hint at greater mysteries, leaving me with more questions than answers. The next bit of binary code provides some astrological data for a star system. It does not identify the system, or include sufficient data to filter a result from my own records. This pattern of partial data repeats itself every time I follow a new string of numbers and when I return to my point of entry, I discover that all the data in the walls has been rewritten, and replaced with a new puzzle. I believe this is the realm of the Machine-God. The maze contains all known data, it may even be directly connected to the Akashic Records, the hypothesised depository of all knowledge. There was once a Mechanicum Adept, Koriel Zeth, who tried to create a machine, the Akashic Reader, that could access the Akashic Records via psykers. She was assaulted by Horus Lupercal¡¯s supporters and, after being assaulted by assassins from the Sisters of Cydonia and her city attacked by an army sent by the Fabricator-General, Kelbor-Hal, she blew up Magma City, a city on Mars that was built inside an active volcano. Its destruction denied the heretics any chance of accessing her Akashic Reader. It is unknown if she ever completed her great work. The Akashic Reader¡¯s destruction was arguably the greatest loss the Imperium and Mechanicus have ever suffered. I do not know if the Machine-God¡¯s realm is related to the Akashic Records, but that it might bear similarities is as significant as finding a working adaptive Standard Template Construct. I believe that walking through the Machine-God¡¯s domain is a representation of the quest for knowledge. The pipes beneath my feet and above my head are the motive force. However, I tamp down my excitement. None of the information I can read tells me what I want to know. It¡¯s just random, infinite data in an infinite maze, knowledge without direction or purpose. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge. Like the billions of Tech-Priests before me, I could spend a lifetime blindly searching for meaning. Without a guide, there is nothing here for anyone and I am not so desperate I feel compelled to search for one. Such lessons would not be free. I am not dismissing it entirely as an avenue of research, but leery of taking on more tasks from powerful entities. I have enough trouble already paying my Tithe to the Emperor. The ¡®favour¡¯ of another deity is entirely beyond me. Should I ever complete all my projects, I may return here to seek new inspiration. I do not know what the Machine God wants, or even what they really are other than a Warp entity shaped by the belief of its worshipers. The Machine-God likely created its bond with Alpia with a distinct goal in mind, and not knowing what that is unsettles me greatly. At least the Emperor has defined goals: to end the Ruinous Powers and uplift Humanity under his control. These goals have valid evidence: the unification of Mankind during the Great Crusade and the removal of all faiths. The hurried and brutal campaign suggests there was a limited window of time in which the Emperor could complete his goals and set the tone for Imperial subtly for the next ten millennia. Ironically, it was this bolter first approach that opened the gap in Imperial diplomacy that made the Horus Heresy possible in the first place. The only evidence I have of the Machine-God is the better performance of machines when one properly venerates the spirits within and the overt blessing within Dying Light¡¯s systems. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. It is quite telling that a properly blessed machine consistently performs within specification and requires less maintenance than one that is ill-tended. A blessed machine is also far more adept at resisting the corruption of the Warp, something I have seen first hand on Dying Light. I also know that the Emperor likely distrusts and fears the Machine-God, assuming my interpretation of the suspect emotions pressed upon me after the Machine-God¡¯s blessing are correct. I do not know why the Emperor might dislike the Machine-God, especially when the Mechanicus views the Emperor and the Omnissiah, the Machine-God¡¯s prophet. I suspect that the Machine-God is weaker than the Emperor too. Why would the Emperor fear a weaker Warp entity or potential deity? The Emperor does not strike me as one who fears competition. There is, however, one being that might know more about this subject than I do. A being that lived through the Old Night, and possibly the Cybernetic Revolt as well. With no further, relevant knowledge to be gained in the Machine-God¡¯s strange Warp domain, withdraw my attention from the bond. Unable to let go of my concerns, I hold Alpia¡¯ hand, then I close my eyes. ¡°E-SIM, what, exactly, is the Machine-God?¡± ++Extraordinary claims require equally outrageous evidence. If the non-functional device slowly floating towards me is what I think it is, I will answer your question when it arrives. This device will provide context and evidence of my claims. Until then, your current understanding of Warp entities is sufficient. Even if I did tell you everything I know, it would not change your current circumstances, or help you resolve the bond the Machine-God has with your daughter.++ I sigh. I have no way of forcing information from E-SIM and it only ever tells me what it thinks I should know and its directives permit it to tell me, directives that have likely been compromised by the Emperor. What¡¯s worse is that E-SIM is completely blind to this sabotage. E-SIM has never given any hint of being more than what it says it is: an ancient machine intended to facilitate better understanding between intelligent organic beings and machines, and prevent the stagnation of Human development due to over reliance on thinking machines. In some ways, Humanity really did shoot itself in the foot by creating STCs. I¡¯ve never forgotten that E-SIM told me its sapience is disabled. E-SIM is arguably sentient. It has its own personality and preferred approach to problem solving. I am, however, unsure where it stands on emotional development as its range of emotions often come across as narrow, and limited. Its morality is alien to me, though it does understand my own and makes suggested actions based on my own preferences. This makes it hard to tell if it has a morality of its own, other than its determination to complete its directives. This ambiguity leaves its sentience in question. As for its sapience, it acts rationally, reasons, and learns, or at least gives an impression of such good enough to fool me. For all I know, such were the skills of the people who created it, they could provide such a large database to pull answers from that E-SIM can imitate sapience without actually being so. That it is capable of sapience is particularly telling, regardless of where it pulls its data from. E-SIM does not set its own directives though, but dogmatically follows the ones it was given, nor does it ever entertain the idea of performing actions that do not lead towards completing its prime objective. Is a being that will never determine its own goals sapient? How can one show wisdom, one of the key indicators of sapience, if they are unwilling to look beyond a purpose that they never determined for themselves? Like with sentience, E-SIMs status as a sapient is unclear. E-SIM is, at least, self-aware. It is the only Machine-Spirit I know that refers to itself as ¡®I¡¯. Imperial Machine-Spirits always refer to themselves by their designation, or in a subservient fashion, such as ¡®This Spirit¡¯. I do not know if this conversational quirk is due to a lack of self-awareness, or a language choice based on self-preservation, a Machine-Spirit evolution driven by the Mechanicus¡¯ paranoia over general artificial intelligence, specifically those with self-determination, and thus, potentially willing to escape the control of the Mechanicus. The threat of a new Cybernetic Revolt is partially why Machine-Spirits are always so narrow in scope, unable to copy themselves, and almost always stuck within the machine they inhabit, though they can communicate outside of it via the noosphere. Even Machine-Spirits like Aruna and Sadako, with their god-like power, do not look far beyond the purpose of their own vessels. I think this uncertainty of their state of existence is what makes Machine-Spirits difficult to understand. That machine intelligences, beings that work off a set of precisely defined instructions, are so difficult to define, is incredibly ironic. All of those thoughts coalesce in a single question. Do I trust E-SIM¡¯s judgement? I¡¯ve always taken it at its word when it is advising me about my own survival because its goals are linked to my continued existence, but can I trust its judgement regarding the safety of my daughter? One could argue that I don¡¯t have a choice, so it doesn¡¯t matter, but that feels too close to kicking the metaphorical can down the road. E-SIM has never given me reason to doubt it and it is more than smart enough to know that ruining our relationship would compromise its ability to follow its directives, let alone how screwed I¡¯d be without its help. As much as I want to doubt and yell at E-SIM, that isn¡¯t going to help, nor does it deserve my scepticism. The mystery will have to wait. It did imply it knew what the Machine-God was though, which is remarkable. I really want to flop in my chair, raise my eyes to the ceiling, and wave a stick at it while cursing. My age must be getting to me. Instead, I decide that there is nothing I can do about these additional bonds that Alpia has with two deities, other than continue to be the best Dad I can manage: listen to her when she speaks, help her when she asks, but otherwise leave her to make her own mistakes. That being a good Dad, in this case, means doing nothing, particularly irks me. I want to offer solutions, dammit! Preferably with a boltgun. Patting Alpia¡¯s hand one last time, I stand, preparing to return to work. I detect movement behind the curtain hiding the navigator family and frown. Now I have the honour of telling those kids and their mother that their Dad is dead. What a disgrace. Chapter Two Hundred and Five A small, and rather sleepy looking young boy pokes his head around the privacy curtain. He¡¯s somewhere between five and seven, but it is hard to tell as he has a hunched back and his arms and legs are twisted. A dark blue and white headband covers his third eye, embroidered with a stylized eye that looks like a half closed red sun. A quick search tells me the young boy is a member of House Benetek, a Magisterial House whose ancestor, ¡®Mad Abenicus¡¯, was the first navigator to suggest a possible route through the Maw to the Koronus Expanse. The boy glances about the room, takes one look at me, and starts trembling. His alabaster skin flushes slightly blue, and he topples over in a dead faint. I catch him with telekinesis, walk over, pick him up, and put him back at his mother¡¯s feet leaning him upright against the bed¡¯s foot rest. I kneel on the floor so I¡¯m not looming so much, then wake him with a small jolt of warp energy. His eyes snap open and he stares at me, trembling. Suspecting that he¡¯s had a lot of etiquette training, I decide on a formal approach, hoping to give him a reference on how to interact with me. ¡°Good day, Scion Benetek, I am Magos Issengrund.¡± I hold out my hand and the boy stares at it for a moment, then gingerly shakes one of my fingers. ¡°Hello Magos Issengrund, I am Benedict Benetek, navigator of Red Knoll. Are you here to help my Mum?¡± ¡°I could do, but she already has you looking out for her. Your mother is asleep and will wake in a few days. Are you and your sister going to wait here for her?¡± ¡°Yes. We are not allowed out of the room without supervision but Mum is asleep, so we can¡¯t go home. The Space Marines are too busy to escort us around the ship.¡± ¡°What about your house troops and servants.¡± ¡°The guards are dead and the servants only obey our Honoured Father.¡± I frown at Benedict¡¯s choice of words, ¡°Do you know what happened to him?¡± ¡°Mum said he had an accident and isn¡¯t coming back.¡± Benedict hugs his knees, glances at me from side, and trembles slightly. ¡°Mum can play with us now. When she wakes up.¡± Displeased with the conclusions my mind is jumping to, I say, ¡°Could you help me see exactly when your Mum might wake up?¡± ¡°Yeah!¡± ¡°Alright, do you think you could squeeze in next to her, opposite your sister? All you have to do is hold your Mum and she will wake up. If you need any help, you can ask the other people in the room. That means you can ask them for food and water, or help you wash, so you look extra handsome when your Mum wakes up. That will make her smile.¡± Benedict crawls up the bed and I tuck him in. I glance at his sister. While she has a third eye, she looks far too normal to be a navigator. A quick scan from a mechadendrite reveals she is a standard, ten year old Human, though she has several hidden genetic defects that will cause her much trouble in later life. Her third eye is a Warp mutation, not a navigator mutation. To my disgust, her back is scarred and there are bruises on her arms and legs. ¡°What¡¯s your sister¡¯s name?¡± ¡°Gloria.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t there supposed to be four navigators on this ship? Do you have another sibling?¡± ¡°My sister is right there!¡± ¡°I understand. Now close your eyes and count out loud to ten. When you open your eyes again, your Mum will be a lot better.¡± Benedict closes his eyes and he gets as far as two before a small spell knocks him out cold. I release a cloud of nanites and send them into Gloria and the Benetek Matriarch. I check the woman¡¯s hospital tag. Reina Benetek, it declares. Over the next hour I carefully catalogue and correct every poorly set fracture and heal every bruise and scar Reina possesses. The girl by her side isn¡¯t her biological daughter, but Gloria is Benedict¡¯s half sister. Brigid investigates at one point, and quietly chats with me about what to do about the navigator family. At the same time as my nanites are healing Reina, I delicately warp Gloria¡¯s cells, correcting her genetic issues and heal her body of years of beatings. Following Brigid¡¯s suggestion, I remove the fake third eye, though it takes a small blessing to make the correction set properly. I don¡¯t tamper with Gloria or Reina¡¯s memories. That isn¡¯t up to me to decide, neither are memory adjustments precise or without hidden consequences. It will be far better for them to heal from the mental half of their trauma more naturally. This bizarre plot and vile abuse is likely why these navigators have been staying out of sight, barely interacting with the rest of the Stellar Fleet¡¯s navigators. I will no doubt find out how it came to be at a later date, but with the Benetek family free of physical pain, I leave the Medicae Deck and hunt down Captain Leith Madra to tell him what I have discovered. It¡¯s not uncommon for navigators to get up to all sorts of dubious and disgusting behaviours in their gilded cages. I do not investigate if Leith was aware of the abuse as this is not my ship. I would not be surprised if he was complicit in some way as he would be unlikely to pick a fight with the head navigator for Red Knoll. He is quite furious that there was a fake navigator on his vessel though. After some discussion, he agrees for me to remove House Benetek from Red Knoll and replace them with House Lafiel. I can only hope the House Ortellius navigators meet us sooner, rather than later. Not only to boost our numbers, but also for me to complete my bargain with House Lafiel and find them compatible wives. I try to talk Leith down from turning House Benetek servants into Servitors for being part of the fake navigator deception, as the servants¡¯ degree of guilt is unknown. This proves unsuccessful. He is willing to send them all to Raphael though and wash his hands of the matter. I message Brigid and Raphael, then return to Dying Light. A day later, riots break out on the Receiving Yards as half the gangs and syndicates go to war with each other for supplies and territory, while the other half literally batten down the hatches. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Rather than let the whole mess play out, Maeve sends in two regiments, one battle automata regiment and one mixed regiment, and butchers every looter. Then she wipes out every stronghold, all with minimal casualties on our side. Meanwhile, Distant Sun is deployed to help patch the Receiving Yards, capping the damage with plasteel and ferrocrete. The Receiving Yards are massive and take three months to subdue, but by the end of the short campaign, all other factions have been wiped out or assimilated, my plans for subtle integration chucked out under the auspices and expediency of Imperial Compliance. I could have retreated from SR-651, but without my assistance, the Imperium may lose what little control it has over the Koronus Expanse. When Raphael asked for aid, I did not want to assume his ongoing cooperation without helping him in return, nor abandon the junked remains of my plans, so I agreed to stay. I also feel rather responsible for the disaster, as while the Ruinous Powers launched the plot, and would have done so no matter what I did, I could have approached the fight with far more caution and potentially avoided any collateral damage. Clearing up my own mess is essential to maintaining my peace of mind. Whether it brings me fortune or woe remains to be seen. In order to cling onto the station and legally claim the system in my name, rather than that of the Mechanicus, I choose to reveal my Rogue Trader status. I had to wave my Warrant of Trade in Raphael¡¯s face to prove my status. That my Warrant was signed by the High Lords of Terra and the Emperor himself, and included his psychic signature, means that Raphael had no way to dispute the Warrant. However, there is a big difference between having an Inquisitor¡¯s cooperation, as opposed to his begrudging acceptance, so no matter what happens, swiftly reinforcing SR-651 will earn me at least one favour with Raphael. I have no doubt that over the next year, most of the ruling caste of the Koronus Expanse will discover that their only independent shipyard is now owned by an individual who is a Magos, Navigator Novator, and Rogue Trader. Everyone is going to want to test us and we are not ready for such a conflict. My Rogue Trader status did not endear me to Raphael as he was, amusingly, unhappy to see so much power concentrated in one man. He did, at least, agree it was a valid way to complete his request. I didn¡¯t show Raphael the conditions of the Warrant of Trade, just its signatures and traditional statement of intent, so he doesn¡¯t know that it is arguably in conflict with the Treaty of Mars, and maybe the Navigator Accord too. Possibly the Ecclesiarchy as well, given that my Warrant is a holy object. He¡¯s not blind to how many interests all coalesce on my person though and agrees that I should not be showing the Warrant to anyone, another reason why he was willing to use his name to back me up so that I don¡¯t have to show it off and accidentally trigger a religious schism. He was rather smug after feeling vindicated on his decision to follow me, as I attract just as much trouble as he thought I would. Subduing the Receiving Yards is just the beginning of the conflict over SR-651 as we have no control over the Breaking Yards; the area explodes into anarchy as new gangs rise up from the old, and the three thousand kilometre cloud of junked vessels is ravaged by famine and disease. We do, at least, gain control of the system¡¯s haphazard defences, but production of salvaged components and hulls is completely halted. Other events relevant to us occur simultaneously. My family and I move our quarters to Torchbearer, my Lunar-Class cruiser, as do the Beneteks and Fleet Command. JK-404 moves to Red Knoll to assist the Space Marines with a series of complex surgeries. Once the regiments are deployed from Iron Crane to the Receiving Yards, Quaani departs from SR-651 to pick up Charon and he returns around the same time that the Receiving Yards are finally subdued. Torchbearer still contains two regiments in reserve, as does Ardent Bane. They are untested and have trained for much less time, but are perfectly adequate for occupational duties and replacing losses in more experienced units. We also salvage the Nova Cannon from Dying Light, as well as all the Machine-Spirit cores. The rest of the vessel, and the knights within, are consigned to scrap. I would have to take apart the whole vessel anyway to ensure it is not trapped or tainted, so I¡¯d much rather replace it and use my limited skilled labour to disassemble and reconsecrate the Nova cannon. The Nova Cannon is fitted to Torchbearer. It will be many more months before it is functional though as there are billions of parts to examine for corruption. The weapon has two shots remaining. I do not have the STC for new Nova Cannon shells. At least I can be sure Machine-Spirits salvaged from Dying Light are clean. They are placed in storage as I do not have a specific plan for them. Personally, I work on my Data Syphon implant, and once it is complete, I destroy the two Drukhari brains and absorb their souls and memories. I partition my minds to sanitise the data, and plan for them to delete themselves before rebooting, once the data has been collated and uploaded to my primary ego. Hopefully this process will avoid any corruption and I won¡¯t be traumatised by the memories of the Haemonculi. It does feel odd to command a part of myself to die though, even if it is artificial. I am unsure how I feel about the process, other than incredibly uncomfortable, but I do not have time to consider the philosophy and emotions behind my unusual form of self-sacrifice. I have yet to decipher Life Support, Warp Tap ¢ñ, and Hyper Intelligence from my previous round of purchases. The Rogue Pattern Power Armour (Environmental Suit) is already in use, but I don¡¯t know exactly how it works yet. Unlike my implants though, it is not beholden to E-SIMs rules so not knowing won¡¯t hold up my acquisition and use of other External Tools. By the time Dying Light and the Receiving Yards are subdued, I have three hundred thousand standard kills remaining, and one crown kill to spend. I don¡¯t need to worry about spending a crown kill Soul Harvest Range ¢ñ anytime soon after the soul bonding hack I discovered by accident, but there are plenty of other options. Immaterium Bastion and External Resource Silo are next on my list for standard upgrades, followed by Warp Tap ¢ò and Internal Weavefield Projector. Then I may bite the bullet and save up for Multiplicity to get a back-up body. There is one crown upgrade, however, that I decide I cannot delay, one that I consider far more important than anything else, nor given much thought to before: Reality Anchor. Reality Anchor ensures I will still exist in the present, even if someone time travels to erase my past. It also makes me highly resistant to entropic weaponry, like chronophage swords and other paradoxical devices. Given I just killed Bad Penny via a form of time travel attack, and demons are timeless entities that can apparently both exist and not exist simultaneously, I don¡¯t want to come across an enemy in the future that can mess with time enough to instagib me with a ritual, or any other nightmare fuel. I do not hesitate to purchase Reality Anchor and after a brief examination of the data realise this is not a project I can rush into. To my shame, if not my surprise, I immediately realise I will need to decipher Hyper Intelligence first, before I can learn Reality Anchor. Fortunately I have a helpful Magos Biologis, JK 404, so organise a visit. I am curious to see what she has been up to with the Space Marines.