Sublight journeys between the planets of Subsector Cadia were always short affairs. The fortress worlds of Sonnen and Partox were the longest, but those were tolerable voyages. But never had Marsh Silas gone without seeing sunsets and dusks, dawns and sunrises, and the twilights in between. Even after several days in the Gatekeeper, he still struggled to sleep through the night. Ruo’s steady supply of sleeping tablets were the only assurance of a few hours of true rest. Dry sheets were welcome, too. Trapped abed thinking of Faye, Ghent, Sydney, and Isabella, however, was torturous.
Time passed slowly aboard the grand cruiser. There was little to occupy the men and women of Bloody Platoon or Avalanche Company as a whole. Visits to the range were routine; the clatter of hellguns made marksmanship practice all the more enjoyable. A great deal of fun was to be had watching, betting, or participating in the sparring matches between Kasrkin and Imperial Navy Breachers. Although there were many taunts and jeers, it was all in the best of humor, for Bloody Platoon had fought alongside those brave scions before. Naturally, many found their way to the shipboard chapel to pray or enjoy a place of quiet.
Drifting through the halls, Marsh Silas came abreast of the chapel. The hymns from within should have been pleasing, but their fading echoes throughout the corridor felt strange. He felt small within the ship. Instead of narrow passages and low ceilings, the halls were high and wide. Such enormity engulfed an individual even as large as he. The space from bulkhead to bulkhead was so wide he could stand in the center and fail to touch either wall if he reached out. He stopped, his last footfall reverberating through the metal. Marsh Silas raised his arms and found himself far, far from either of the black bulkheads.
“Sir?” Marsh Silas turned around. Cornelius ventured out of the chapel, his bright violet eyes curious then. “Are you alright, sir?”
“I’ve got little else to do but read and attend briefings that are as useless as pissing into a strong wind,” grumbled Marsh.
“Ah, there’s the old sergeant I heard about,” laughed Cornelius, who wrapped his arm around Marsh’s as they walked. “When I was in the Shock Troops, I used any excuse to skip our briefings. Dreadfully boring affairs that were just an excuse for officers to show off how smart they thought they were.” At this, the preacher made a fist and jerked it back and forth a few times.
“Still a lotta that these days. Alas, I thought I’d take a long walk before I go to the bridge.”
“I would join you but alas, I’ve got to attend the Ogryn’s prayers. Seegar insists they pray six times a day. Sir, if I may, I care for the prayers of the Kasrkin, Jacinto, the Ogryn, Ratlings, Sororitas, and even Commissar Seegar separately. The Imperial Creed should do away with such distances between us and the barriers we divide ourselves with. Would it not be best if we prayed as a unit?”
Marsh Silas could only imagine what would happen then. Ogryn fumbling their hymns, Ratlings growing distracted, and the Sisters acting as would-be Inquisitors to ensure no one made a mistake all spelled disaster. “A fine suggestion, but this is not the time. Besides, what would we do about that enginseer?”
“Macrae?” asked Cornelius. “I would happily tend his spirit if he showed himself. That chap keeps strange hours, speaks little, and collects equipment to repair at his own time. He keeps to his chamber, wherever that is.”
“And there he should stay,” muttered Marsh Silas.
“You should speak to him. He might be affixed with mechadendrites but he is still a man.”
“This journey will be long and tensions will arise, let us not use the Emperor’s house as a place for our trials,” said Marsh, curtly.
“The God-Emperor’s chapel is a place of peace,” was all Cornelius said as he departed. Marsh Silas nodded in agreement as he continued. He wandered through the quarter reserved for Bloody Platoon. A jaunty chorus of voices rose from the observation deck. Peeking in, he found the armored blast sheeting covering the window. Candles and lamps lit the room rather than the tumult of the Warp. Nonetheless, many members of Bloody Platoon now sat in a square as Color Sergeant Babcock directed them in weaving the new banner.
Four Ratlings, Commissars Seegar and Fremantle, and Jacinto were also in the room. Errol the Genius crept up to Babcock and observed his deft hand movements for a moment. “Oi, who is tis’ Carstensen everybody talks about?”
“You will say her name with some respect, Ratling,” grunted Lance Sergeant Olhouser. The bulky, scarred anti-tank gunner glared at Errol but Babock waved him off.
“He’s just curious, settle down. Well, Carstensen was the greatest of us, you see. She was the bravest, greatest warrior of the platoon. She saved us many times and like Marsh Silas and Captain Hyram, she toiled for the common soldier. This banner was commissioned to commemorate her sacrifice and to remind us of her fortitude and why we fight.”
“She seems like a real heroine,” said Cary, marveling as the first image of Lilias started to appear. “Oi, if I lend ya a helpin’ hand, will ya tell me bout’ her a little more?”
Babcock grinned up at Marsh Silas, who now stood entirely in the hatch way. Marsh, in turn, nodded. The color sergeant tapped the deck beside him. The Ratlings paired up on either side of him and sat down. As he started to lecture them about the needlework, Jacinto, who lingered by the blast window, approached Fremantle timidly.
“S-sir? May I a-assist them?”
“You needn’t ask permission, my friend,” said the Commissar. Jacinto’s smile brightened and he eagerly joined the others. With over a dozen Kasrkin and now the Ratlings crowded around the growing banner, all passing needles and spools of different colored thread, there was hardly a place to sit. But Cary and Markey paused and glanced at one another. The former shrugged and the pair of scruffy Ratlings slid apart. Jacinto cautiously sat between them and Markey handed him a needle.
“Ever use one o’ t’ese?” he asked.
“N-not really. C-Commissar Fremantle h-helps me w-with my uniform.”
“Oh, easy that is!” exclaimed Cary. “Ere’ love, hold tah needle right like tis’...”
Marsh was about to continue his walk when he heard Seegar snort. “That you would let a psyker put his hands on a standard sacred to your platoon is outrageous,” she said quietly. Standing back in the doorway, Marsh cleared his throat, caught her attention, and pointed at her. Fremantle stepped aside and Seegar stood sharply before him. “Sir.”
“The Commissar who appears on the flag would not have let you get away with that comment,” he said strictly. “You are responsible for the Ogryn, that is true. Although you are strict with them, I do not sense malice.” Seegar’s cheeks grew bright red. Marsh Silas held up his hand. “There is no shame in it, and I am glad for it. I only wish you would extend that understanding to every man in this platoon. You are a Commissar for all.”
“Lilias Carstensen was a hero,” said Seegar. “I have taken to reading her curriculum and I respect her for it. But what if we go too far? What will happen to discipline if we gray the lines of rank and hierarchy?”
“An officer should learn that a good leader remembers that their soldiers are men. Those men, in turn, will remember their leader is an officer.” Marsh Silas stepped away from the hatch and kept walking. “Oh, by the way Commissar,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll say your prayers with Bloody Platoon, not alone.” When he was out of earshot, he shook his head. “We shall see how that goes, Cornelius.”
He checked his chrono-cuff. It was almost time to go to the bridge. He turned a corner and heard laughter and swearing ahead. Walmsley Major came by with Wulff, clad only in their undershirts. Behind them, a filthy Crazy Stück hooted in great delight as Holzmann dragged the man into the shower rooms. Before Marsh could even ask, Walmsley pointed after the breacher.
“Prince Constantine brought his horses aboard and that crazy son of a bitch thought it’d be funny to raid Holzmann’s stimm supply, then rig a tripwire trap filled with shit in a bulkhead door!”
“Respectfully, sir, I request permission to beat that man into paste,” growled Wulff.
“You ought to be careful where ya walk, gunny!” shouted Stück.
“Holzmann, lock up that supply better next time,” yelled Marsh Silas, then turned back to Wulff. “That’s a negative, gunnery sergeant,” he replied, waving his hand by his nose as the pair passed by. “But you may make him push until his arms give out, after you’ve cleaned up.”
Bloody Platoon still does not lack for character, do they? Barlocke’s fragment sounded wistful and distant. “That they do, old friend,” whispered Marsh and he chuckled. Oh, those were the days, were they not? It truly was so simple when I was around. “Not for me.” The ghost’s warm chortling bounced around Marsh’s skull and sent a pleasant ripple down his spine.
Up ahead was the door to a chamber Lord Captain Rhodes had afforded Sister Rup to conduct her exams and to train Holzmann. Marsh was about to step through the open bulkhead door when it suddenly creaked closed. It didn’t lock and the door drifted from its latch. He might have barged in, if a hushed voice hadn’t given him pause.
“If it is a special order issued directly to you from the regimental staff, then you must obey,” came Lada’s voice. “We are seconded to their command, their orders bear the same weight as the word of a canoness.”
“It is true but this is a very crude sterilization treatment. This could cause greater damage,” replied Ruo, her voice heavy with concern.
“They demand an act of you yet supply you with a substance unequal to the task?”
“Clearly, they’ve little regard for the Ratlings.”
“They are just Abhumans, sister.”
“But the oaths I swore when I joined the Emerald Ameliorate decreed that those I tend for should receive the best care, and care that is offered open-handed, not forced upon them.”
“Perhaps, those oaths did not include the treatment of Abhumans.” Although her words were of defense, Lada’s tone did not match it. She sounded as uncomfortable as Ruo sounded distressed. The latter Sororitas groaned. There was a shuffle of paperwork, a metal clatter, and the loud bang of a shutting drawer.
“All who find themselves poor, tired, ill, and hurt. All. Those are my Order’s words. I believe in them. But now the God-Emperor tests me.”
Marsh Silas rapped his knuckles against the hatch door and pushed it open slowly. Ruo and Lada stood up from their seats on either side of the examination room. Although neither were expected to stand at attention, both held themselves with the poise characteristic of the Adepta Sororitas. Neither seemed outwardly perturbed, but they regarded him with wariness. He might not have appeared as an officer then in his simple khaki trousers and green shirt, its collar loose and top buttons undone. Tall and strong, he was still small in the large bulkhead passage. But his brow fell heavily over his eyes, he set his jaw firmly, and his violet eyes pierced them. It was enough.
“Sisters, it is time we find our way to the bridge,” he said curtly. Lada hurried out while Ruo quickly covered her short black locks with her habit. Both fell in behind Marsh Silas as he briskly led the way. “Were I with some of my Kasrkin, I would remind them Lord Captain Rhodes is not only the master of the Gatekeeper but our most amiable host. That is because they become rowdy and ill-mannered, even when they should not. But, I needn’t say such things to you two.”
“Begging your pardon, you do not appear to loathe mischief and skylarking,” said Lada.
“As long as there is no great crime or lie before or behind me, I tolerate it but some,” said Marsh. The lack of reply indicated his tone had landed correctly. “Hospitaller Ruo, Holzmann’s training proceeds well?”
“He learns steadily, but he needs more time before he takes up all of Honeycutt’s duties.”
“We rely on you now more than ever to fill that void. I am confident that he can gauge the health of our new Astropaths. I need the examinations done quickly.” He glanced back. Ruo’s eyes searched the deck and she clasped the twenty adamantium beads of her chaplet-ecclesiasticus that hung from around her neck. Her manner was not nervous or fickle, but studious.
“I may stand in as he performs his examinations,” she said.
“Very well. Sister Lada, have you quill, ink, and paper?” Lada responded by slipping one of the rolled scrolls she kept in a custom leather carrier. Attached to her torso was a metal plate that she unfastened. The front of the plate descended, revealing itself to be a mobile typewriter. Clipping the unfurled parchment to it, she rolled up her dark green sleeves and cracked her knuckles.“Good. Record all that you see at this meeting, I don’t wish to forget my first meeting with a Navigator, now do I?”
Ruo murmured a short prayer as she gazed between the walls of the cavernous corridor. “I detest this voyage, Lieutenant-Captain. We are engulfed by the Warp with only the thin veil of the gellar fields to protect us. All save the enginseer have headaches, restless dreams, and pain behind their eyes. I pray daily for our survival.”
Marsh Silas stopped short, spun on his heel, and found himself face to face with the sisters. “I could not agree more,” he said. “It has only been days but I am already tired of this journey. I pray I could wake up and find myself above Hydraphur. I fear constantly that if we do not perish that we will be driven mad.”
“All rests on the Navigator. We must trust a mutant whose power and image deviates so grossly from the God-Emperor,” said Lada. “All is brittle. I do not understand them.”
“Which is precisely why I wish to meet one. That I do not understand, I wish to,” said Marsh constantly. “I do not wish to be a prisoner of my fear.”
Two Naval Security scions, clad in black carapace and armed with heavy shotguns, stepped aside as the bridge entrance slid open. It was a place of chugging cogitators, aching augur arrays, shimmering screens, and hovering holograms. Tech-priests and Mechanicus adepts, junior officers, petty officers, and menials constantly toiled behind their stations. Always, the bridge buzzed with conversations, orders, and reports.
Hyram and Lord Captain Rhodes, clad in his richly decorated blue officer’s uniform, waited with two astropaths. One wore gray robes and the other lavender, but both wore long, hooded, black velvet shawls that extended to their waists. These covered the majority of tubes that ran into the back of their skulls, necks, and backs. Both clutched golden staves with wired heads shaped in the eye icon of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Each head had an aquila atop it and golden tassels hung from the bottom.
Before Marsh Silas spoke, the elder of the two drew forward. Blood red hair flowed from underneath her shawl and she curtsied as if she were a royal. When she rose, Marsh found himself looking into her white eyes. “Greetings, esteemable knight,” she said in a gentle, regal voice. “I am the Astropath Merriweather. With me is my blood, Aaralyn.” This short psyker had a rounder face compared to her older sister, but her skin was just as pale and her eyes too were snowy.
Marsh Silas found he could not look away from Merriweather’s blank eyes. No iris, no pupil, just a small white nothing. “You are blind,” he said softly, his voice awash with sad astonishment.
“Like many of our kind, we are bereft of sight as you understand it,” she explained. “But the power the God-Emperor grants us makes you as clear to me as I to you. I see you, Marsh Silas, and the violet of your own eyes. They are the color of the Warp.”
“Yet you could not gaze into it as we do,” added Aarlyn, who approached cautiously. Like Merriweather, she too had dark red hair, yet, it was shorter and many locks were dyed a rich sky blue. “It is fractured glass, a thousand-thousand shards of armaglass, each reflecting the face of man and monster, each etched with passions malevolent and benevolent.”
“All raise their voices in cries unimaginable,” finished Merriweather. “Enough to render you deaf, enough to cause you to tear your ears from your head.”
Marsh Silas became acutely aware of the prayer beads he kept wrapped around his right wrist. A small, golden aquila hung from the string and he turned his hand over so it fell into his palm. He clutched it tightly, focusing on the pricks of cold metal in his palm. Even with his heart in his throat, he thought of his friend Barlocke and Jacinto, so gentle and diffident. Those officers and bridge crew who had been so occupied had stopped to listen. They gazed upon the astropaths with fear and suspicion, and the hush of voices added to the thick air. The sisters themselves drew their shawls tighter around them and stood closer together, as if guarding one another against their gazes.
“I thank our holy Emperor that you are here to brave these perils on our behalf.” Growing braver, he drew closer and took each of their hands in his, and kissed them. Although their eyes bore no expression, he could see by the parting of their small lips that they were surprised. At once, their shoulders eased.
“Many tales pass through the regiment’s staff of your exploits, but we have been assured by master Hyram you are a man of virtue. Much like the good captain, himself,” said Merriweather. Marsh Silas looked at his brother, smiling, although it stiffened somewhat. Hyram’s violet eyes had lost their luster and everything about his face was sunken and tired. His mind was still on Cadia, in his manse with his boy. Placing a heavy hand on his shoulder to rouse him, Marsh jostled him kindly.
“He is the best man I know,” said Marsh.
“He claims that man and psyker are equal in your unit,” said Aralyn.
“A rare thing, don’t I know it?” said Marsh, proudly. “The Imperial Cult decrees we must beware the psyker. But what does it say about humans, Sister Ruo?”
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
The hospitaller, still clutching her chaplet-ecclesiasticus, raised her chin. “The God-Emperor has created a divine order and all humans have a place within it.”
“Amen,” said Marsh confidently. “Psykers you may be, but you are humans first.”
Merriweather and Aralyn reached out and took one another’s hand. Despite their lack of sight, they turned their faces to the other and smiled. The former uttered something in High Gothic and the latter responded in kind. It seemed as though it were a prayer of some kind.
“We looked forward to this cooperation,” said Merriweather.
Marsh Silas touched her shoulder, then turned to Lord Captain Rhodes and shook his hand. The officer motioned towards a chamber at the back of the bridge. It was sealed and guarded by a dozen men. Each wore immaculate, mirror-sheen, bronze carapace armor and hooded, flowing, midnight blue uniforms. All were armed with a pair of heavy pistols, power sabers, and shotguns.
“An envoy shall appear soon. Those are the guards of House V?, a Nomadic House of the Navis Nobilite,” said Rhodes, noticing Marsh’s lingering gaze. “Navigators of the V? family have served upon the Gatekeeper long before I took command. They know her better than I do.”
“I pray that they make this journey swift and safe,” said Marsh, lightly. “I do not wish to be lost within the Wrap.” He looked searchingly at Hyram, his eyes dull and face sunken.
“Not all Navigator Houses are alike,” explained Rhodes. “Some wander among the Imperium, holding no property. Some might find a landless noble unsavory, but in my experience, they are the most capable of all Navigators.”
The door to the sanctum opened and the formation of guards divided in half. From the steamy white light within, a short figure emerged. Wearing the same robes as the guards, he instead wore a white vest with many straps and buckles. Shooting stars were depicted in ornate etchings across the back and shoulders. A silver chain hung from the figure’s neck which conveyed a series of small, golden, eye-shaped medallions. The icon of his house, emblazoned on the abdomen of the vest, depicted two comets, one of gold and one of purple. The former arched upwards, the latter downwards, and their following vapor trails met in the center.
“Lord Captain,” he said in a young, light voice. He bowed, collapsed his hands together, and looked up. The boy was not out of his teenage years yet and his richly colored skin was smooth and unblemished. Long black hair flowed from under his hood. Although the eyes were dark and shimmering with power, they appeared anxious. “I wish to report that my father carries us through the Empyrean with greater haste than expected. No shoal or reef appears upon the spirit sea and out tether to my grandsire…the Navigator Primaris remains strong.”
“Thank you, Prince Huy. It is my pleasure to introduce two companions of mine; Staff Captain Seathan Hyram and Lieutenant-Captain Silas Cross, both Knights of Cadia.” Huy barely came up to the chests of the two Cadians. His eyes flitted nervously between the two. Eventually, he bowed courteously, causing Marsh and Hyram to glance at one another in confusion.
“It is an honor to know you. I speak for my father, Nhung, who rudders the Gatekeeper.”
“The honor is ours,” said Marsh and he extended his hand. Huy took a step back and looked at his outstretched palm not in confusion or disgust, but almost as if he were startled. The movement had caused his hood to slide back enough that Marsh glimpsed his third eye. It matched the color of his robes and it was strikingly vibrant. An energy seemed to spiral slowly within the iris.
Huy gingerly grasped Marsh’s hand. His grip was so light that the Cadian was gentle as he shook it. Hyram was even more delicate with him. After a moment, Huy slid his hands back into the long, drooping sleeves of his robes. He remained red in the face and unable to meet their gazes. “Forgive me, sirs, I am unused to such gestures. Although the Lord Captain makes me welcome, most others treat me with distance and distrust, as they do all psykers.”
Suddenly, he grew alert. He looked around, hearing something neither man couldn’t. Eventually, Huy faced the astropaths. Both craned their necks and gestured towards the two Cadians. The young navigator approached, albeit stiffly. Hyram suddenly smiled, drew closer, and sank to one knee so he could look Huy in the eye. “We have known psykers for years,” said Hyram, kindly. “I’ve known these astropaths for some time. A dear friend of ours was quite a powerful one.” Indeed, I was. Marsh Silas rolled his eyes at the fragment’s proud tone. “We have another psyker in our platoon named Jacinto, a pyromancer. He’s a tender soul.”
“Aye, a psyker has much power, but during our soldier’s lives those we know hold the Emperor and the Imperial Creed to their hearts just as any human with a heart,” added Marsh.
“So you see, Huy, there are those who are used to your kind, just as I am,” assured Rhodes. “Perhaps, you can teach these officers about the intricacies of our journey, seeing as how they are unused to such things.”
Huy led them over to a small hololithic projector. He pressed a few keys and an image of Hydraphur and its surrounding planets appeared. Another click and strange, twisting, white lines appeared across the green hologram. “The routes between these worlds are well-traveled and charted. My family has plied these routes for centuries as well as those of Segmentum Obscurus; they are imprinted on our minds. To find the Astronomican is always a delicate task but it is easier to part the layers of the Warp here.”
“We, and the other astropaths throughout the fleet and the regiments, have placed beacons along the navigators’ paths. While the lights are small and impermanent, they illuminate other voidships and make them known to one another,” added Aralyn.
“Hydraphur’s Warp Towers are well-kept, the Runecasters have foreseen no storms, and the sextants constantly feed data to my father. He and Grandfather Trai have centuries of experience.”
“Then it appears we are in good hands,” said Hyram, softly. He touched Huy on the shoulder, causing the lad to flinch slightly. But the Cadian officer smiled warmly. “I thank you and your family for their guidance.”
“You have my thanks as well,” said Marsh Silas, then spoke over his shoulder briefly. “I feel more at ease already. I shan’t take up more of your time, Prince Huy. Merriweather, Aralyn, please follow me, I need you to meet Mister Holzmann.”
“I’ll escort them.” Marsh Silas turned around. Both stared at the pyskers, perplexed, but without the usual expression of revulsion. Summoning breath, Ruo finally let go of her necklace. “Follow me, please.” The psykers both bowed and followed behind the hospitaller, their long robes making them appear to glide across the deck. Lada slid her quill back and slid the sheet from its dock. Blowing on the ink, she wordlessly turned away and followed, but her head hung as she became absorbed in her thoughts. His own expression, hard against their backs, softened and his eyes fell to the deck.
“They reacted better than I believed. More time is needed, surely,” said Hyram.
“We all require time to learn. It is strange what moves people,” mused Marsh Silas. “Some require a push, others a word, an act, a sight. Sometimes, we might learn from our lessons.”
***
Navigating the ship's halls was a meticulous, tedious affair. Every corridor was labeled and marked, each deck possessed its own alphabetical and numerical code, and there were colored-coded maps at every hatch or ladder. Efforts were made to ensure no crewman or guest could ever become lost upon the Gatekeeper. But the grand cruiser was a massive relic and it all seemed too much for just one man to take in. Such an overwhelming amount of information could make one pause where he stood and wait until someone more knowledgeable came along.
Marsh Silas would not hesitate, however. At the deck’s sparring hall, he found members of Bloody Platoon resting while members of the ship’s breacher unit dueled. Kasrkin made use of numerous melee weapons, from simple trench knives to chainswords and power swords. But Imperial Navy Breachers equipped themselves with hatchets and powered axes that cut through the hardest hatches. Two breachers, both lacking protective gear, swung hatches at one another. Each swing was accompanied by a grunt of effort or an angry roar.
“Swing harder, will you!?” That was a familiar voice and it belonged to Chief Petty Officer Tanzer. A solar year ago, when Bloody Platoon rescued Rhodes, he had sent the Sergeant-at-Arms and her breachers to assist the Kasrkin during the retaking of the oceangoing battleship Lance of the Torium. Her squad proved invaluable in breaching the ship’s heavy doors and manning the deck guns when traitors launched an aerial counterattack. She and her men had also fought at Station Rapitur, securing the egress route at the beach and clearing enemy positions. For that, she had been promoted and awarded a number of medals.
Still appearing posh with her neatly pulled back blonde hair and prim complexion, as befitting her noble birth, she was nonetheless a stout voidsman with the scars to prove it. She sat alongside Staff Sergeant Metcalfe, Drummer Boy, and Rowley. While Tanzer and Metcalfe readily cheered the match, the other squad leader and vox-operator were content with their own conversation. Drummer Boy leaned down and whispered something into Rowley’s ear. She suddenly giggled in a rather ladylike way instead of her typical bawdy cackle. It was almost unsettling.
“Tanzer,” greeted Marsh Silas. She and the others jumped to their feet and saluted. Marsh hastily returned the gesture and shook her hand. “It is good to see you alive and well.”
“I could say the same about all of you,” she replied in kind. Tanzer punched Metcalfe in the shoulder, earning a scornful glare. “I had thought this one would have been pasted, though.”
“Yes, well, after surviving Doom Wing attacks I like to think I’m hard to kill.”
“A strong gust of wind would topple you, staff sergeant,” teased Rowley. Tanzer snorted as she shoved an offended Metcalfe into silence. Marsh Silas chuckled but his smile soon fell.
“Yes, well, I am glad some of us are enjoying the voyage,” he said curtly. “Tanzer, I was told my enginseer removed himself to a chamber below our deck. I would humbly ask you to escort me before I lose myself in this old ship.”
“Aye, sir, I forget you landsmen are unused to these void coffins. I’ve seen the red robe prowling around, I’ll take you to him.” She drew her bolt pistol from her holster and checked the magazine before returning it. The others gazed at her in surprise. “We should be safe but one can never be too careful among the lower decks, even if it is just one level. You never know when a bondsman might lose his temper or a group of them and some press gangers attempt some foolish mutiny.”
Marsh Silas, wearing his own holster, checked his ripper pistol. As he followed Tanzer, he realized Metcalfe, Drummer Boy, and Rowley had all risen to join him. He put up his hand, stopping them. The two squad leaders started to protest but Marsh turned his shoulder on them before they could speak.
Exiting the training hall, Marsh and Tanzer marched their way through the long halls towards the nearest ladder. “I’m surprised you want anything to do with that enginseer,” the petty officer said over her shoulder. “We have tech-priests and other adepts of Mars all over the ship but I never say a word to them. I think they prefer it that way.” She paused at the hatch well. “They’re not like us. We’ve worked together before—Astartes, Navy, Astra Militarum, Militarum Tempestus. It was you who brought us together. But there’s far less mechadendrites and bionics between us.”
“The Astartes are descendants of the Emperor,” said Marsh Silas as he passed by her. He clambered halfway down the hatch and then looked up. “Mortals and transhumans have little in common.” He hopped onto the lower deck and checked his corners. Tanzer slid down the well and turned sharply on her heel.
“Take the armor away and they at least appear human. Bigger, taller, stronger, aye, but human-looking nonetheless. Adepts of the Adeptus Mechanicus are often more machine than man. Why pervert the flesh the God-Emperor gave them?”
Boots thudded on the deck and Tanzer raised her arm. They stopped at a passage where two halls met perpendicular to one another. The running feet grew louder and there were many pained shrieks and angry shouts. A party of bondsmen were driven along by crewbosses clobbering them with clubs and striking them with whips. Naval Commissars brought up the rear, snarling orders and brandishing bolt pistols and stub revolvers.
They passed by, their boots echoing back down the hall. Marsh stepped forward and watched them disappear. The party was so large they had to squeeze their way down the yawning corridors. Some were trampled over, others rendered unconscious, and these unfortunates had to be dragged along. Bodies of the feeble had been left behind.
“Lord Captain Rhodes permits this on his ship?” asked Marsh.
“No ship in the Imperial Fleet lacks for bondsmen,” said Tanzer. “Most of them are ex-cons. They should be grateful to have a place in the Emperor’s holy fleet.”
“What of the freemen aboard? The people born into it?”
“The Emperor will know His own.”
Marsh Silas forced himself to look away. He and Tanzer made their way down the hall, finding more voidsmen and armsmen heading to their stations during a watch change. For a time, the crowds grew thick and their pace abated. Yet, a familiar form towered above them further down the hall, forcing many to flow around him.
“Sorry little’uns,” said Wit, carefully sidestepping his way through. “Da Empra made me a big fella, sorry bout’ dat.”
“Sergeant Wit!” exclaimed Marsh. The Ogryn looked around, unable to pinpoint his voice. Marsh waved his hand and finally caught the Bone’ead’s attention. He flashed a big toothy smile and waved back. As the crowd streamed by, Marsh and Tanzer ducked into an alcove large enough for Wit to squeeze into. “I thought you were at your prayers.”
“I was but den we finished’em.”
“But what are you doing down here? Are you lost?”
“He ain’t lost!” Tolly suddenly appeared between the Ogryn’s legs. She stepped forward and waved her hand in front of her nose. “Oh, big fella, ya got tah wash more often.”
“Sorry dere’ little’un,” said Wit, sheepishly. “Commissah Fremantle don’t let us wash up wiff da other boys and by dah time dere’ done, we’s got somethin’ to do.”
Marsh Silas rubbed his forehead while Tolly patted Wit on the knee understandingly. “I have tah find odd times tah wash, too. Fremantle’s probably afraid I’ll turn too many eads’.” She confidently swept her hair over her shoulder. Noticing Marsh’s displeased expression, she held up her hands defensively. “I asked tah big fella to come wit’ me!”
“You shouldn’t be down here, Sergeant Lightfoote. It’s dangerous down.”
“Worried about me, luv?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. Marsh groaned at the deck above them and Tolly cast her eyes to a bewildered Tanzer. Her green eyes flitted up and down the petty officer’s immaculate blue uniform. “Oi, yer quite tah pretty one.”
“You better have a good reason for being down here,” grumbled Marsh Silas. Tolly started to speak but Marsh noticed something irregular about her black tank top. Part of it was rolled up her pot belly but the back seemed to be too bulky. He swiftly reached back, lifted the shirt causing Tolly to squeak, and drew a naval autopistol.
Larger and more heavily constructed than the typical sidearms afforded to Imperial Guardsmen, it was a sleek prize. Marsh glared down at Tolly but the Ratling held up her hands again. “Now I know what yer tinkin’,” she said. “She’s a Ratling, she probably stole it. But I didn’t—you said no stealin’ so I made sure t’ere ain’t no stealin’. I bought it. Cost me two weeks wages.” Marsh’s snarl fell and the Ratling motioned out towards the ship’s hall. “It’s a big ship, it’s dangerous, I want something to protect me-self if it comes to it.”
Marsh glanced at Tanzer, expecting to find her furious. Instead, she gazed down sympathetically at the Ratling. Her violet eyes caught Marsh’s and she nodded down at her. The platoon leader shoved the pistol back into her hand. “I shall deal with you later. Tanzer, where?”
“Your enginseer’s two doors down that way, starboard side.”
“I humbly ask one more service of you: escort these two up to the deck they should be on.”
Tanzer quickly complied and the two Abhumans hurried after her. Marsh Silas inhaled and breathed deeply for a few moments before he ventured back out into the hall. He did not want to bring his frustration with him. Waiting until the last remnants of the rushing voidsmen had reached their stations, he found the door. Even through the heavy bulkhead he could hear the whir of drills and hot snaps of flash torches.
He knocked as hard as he could. The noise stopped, a latch was thrown, and the door opened slightly. “It’s Marsh Silas.” The door widened and the enginseer revealed himself. Little Mac gazed down at him, his upper face hidden by his long hood. He clutched a laspistol in his cybernetic right hand. “Before you shoot me, I do apologize for my previous actions,” said Marsh, acerbically.
Little Mac handed the pistol tone of his servo-tendrils and retreated back into his chamber. “Theft is common in any Imperial facility,” he said, his voice deep. “On a ship, all the more.” Marsh Silas stepped through the hatch and closed it behind him. Much like his quarters back at Kasr Proelium, the room had been converted into a workshop. Shelves and crates lined the bulkheads and there was countless equipment spread across them.
Marsh toured the room observing the various pieces of gear. “Our vox-arrays, auspexes, and slate monitrons are all supposed to be stored in the ship’s depot,” he said.
“This wargear is too sensitive to leave in the hands of a clerk.” Little Mac placed a hellpistol on the table and disassembled it with frightening speed. With both hands, he used small tools to clean the interior parts while his servo-tendrils, one equipped with a drill and the other a torch, made minute repairs.
Going back to the enginseer’s work table, Marsh sat on a crate beside it and watched him work. “Everyone assumed you wanted nothing to do with the platoon. But you’ve just been safeguarding our most important wargear.”
“It is my duty.”
Marsh Silas nodded slowly. Little Mac finished, quickly assembled the weapon, and set it aside. His arms, tendrils, mechadendrite servo-arm reached in different directions, fetching tools, materials, and a helmet. It created a subtle, swaying affect, as if he were moving to the rhythm of a song only he could hear. Although his lips moved, he said nothing—was he murmuring some Mechanicus incantation or whispering to the piece before him?
Leaning back until his back touched the cold bulkhead, Marsh folded his hands on his chest. “Some find your habits odd. I admit, I share the sentiment. But I suppose you’ve taken initiative all along. I can appreciate that, Little Mac. Surely, the red priesthood does as well.” The enginseer just grunted doubtfully. It was a familiar sound to Marsh. “What did you do to offend your masters?”
Little Mac finished working on the helmet and then retrieved an armored facial mask that belonged to Marsh Silas. It was bone-white and took the shape of a skeleton’s smile. Two holes on either side allowed for respirators and the mask itself had a seal.
“This is a custom piece,” said the enginseer as he scrubbed the filter ports. Marsh chuckled.
“The last night of my furlough before you joined us, my mama told me a story about when I was a boy. It was just before I started training as a Whiteshield. She asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said a soldier, like all Cadians. She said no, that is what you are going to do and. I thought and finally answered, I do not know, but I wish to be good.”
He chuckled, remembering Faye giggling as she told the story in front of the roaring hearth. Marsh’s sleepy gaze fell back on the enginseer. Little Mac had paused his work to watch him. “I do my best to be a good man. But there is nothing that says a good man cannot look mighty fearsome on the battlefield. It took a bit of money and some toil by artificers, but it was worth it.”
“You had something forged anew,” said Little Mac. “My people pursue the Quest for Knowledge, to seek lost technology and lore so that we may improve ourselves. But for such rhetoric, it seems as though they prefer otherwise.” He held the mask up to the lamp he had fixed to the table. “I know tech-priests much more skilled than I who would refuse to look upon this. They care not for the new nor seek to educate themselves about what we already possess.”
Little Mac set the mask aside and started working on one of the assault shotguns Kasrkin breachers carried. “To test and tinker has been my way, always, for it is to learn. It can yield positive results or reveal problems unpredicted. If I can find a problem, I can repair it.” He extracted the barrel, recycled from anti-aircraft cannons. “There are several hair-line fractures,” he stated. “If a round were discharged, it could cause the weapon to explode in the user’s hands.”
Little Mac placed the barrel down and gripped the edge of the table with his hands, one of metal, one of flesh. Marsh Silas chewed his lip. “Enterprise should never be punished,” he said.
“Complacency or inventiveness matters not in the end. We enginseers are disregarded by the priesthood as mere minders and maintainers. We possess their ire whether we deviate or not.”
“Yet you still risk it,” murmured Marsh. Little Mac looked up and the flash of his tool momentarily lit up his face. There was a brief blue eye and a gaunt, pale cheek.
“All Machine Spirits, no matter how large or small, are worth understanding,” he said. “My duty is to them.”
“Then I am grateful. You just might save a few of our lives as well.” This made Little Mac’s hands pause. He turned in his seat, as if he were about to look back at Marsh, but then he swiftly returned to his work. Marsh Silas swung his legs out and jumped off the crate. He went to leave, but paused. “It appears you do have a voice, after all.”
“It is quite useful for the instances I am spoken to,” said the enginseer, dryly. “Not that many ever do.” Marsh Silas chuckled and opened the hatch. “Lieutenant-Captain?” Little Mac turned in his chair, and raised his left hand. “Do not tell that Dialogus I am here. She is after me for all the forms she believes I must pen for. If she presses me, she may find her quills filled with joint lubricant instead of ink.”
A laugh escaped Marsh’s lips. “Sarcasm and a joke to boot,” he remarked. “I thought humor was as lost to all you red robes as much as an STC.”
“Much like an STC, we may surprise you on occasion.” Little Mac then said, thoughtfully, “Just as you surprise us.”
