A/N: The King of the Wasteland has a home. www dot the-king-of-the-wasteland dot tumblr dot com
DeMoss bit his upper lip and held it a moment. "So, have you got any acolytes running about?"
Deacon Manuellus Panhominae of the arched mitre[1] and fiery robes while on duty, Manuellus of the shabby black garb[2] while not, shook his head. "Theoretically, I guess. I suppose someone has to refill the incense when it runs down."
"Mmm," DeMoss bit his lip again. "I do."
Manuellus blinked. "Really?"
"More or less. The entire religious services department is partitioned by duty. I think," he checked the timepiece on his wrist quickly, "Ingrid Sacerdos is the present Head Acolyte, and she reports to me. Only they aren't really part of the clergy; they're just people hired to refill the thuribles."
"I didn't know that."
"But back to the matter at hand," DeMoss leant backwards and laid his arms along the back of his couch[3], "What of physicians and the like?"
Manuellus shrugged. "There are a few medical bays. I am sort of in charge of those."
DeMoss raised an eyebrow.
"They mostly take care of themselves."
"So, let me summarise," said DeMoss, "you are a ranked clergyman with no responsibilities, no influence, and no real function aboard this ship save the daily masses and occasionally as a fighting man. You're the 'spiritual leader', but this translates into no official function, and you're also somehow Salieri's right-hand man."
"Mmm," said Manuellus, "mhm, yeah."
"I suppose asking why would be irrelevant," said DeMoss. He thought a moment, then abruptly jumped to his feet. "Come on."
"What are we doing," asked Manuellus, bemused.
"You'll just have to wait and find out," said DeMoss.
Callista,
As promised, I have written you, hopefully, the first of many letters.
The Salieri's Shadow is an old ship, small when compared to even some of the merchant skiffs that stop by Scintilla Prime. I don't think you'd have enjoyed it much here; it's beautiful, to be sure, and as needlessly decadent as is fitting for one of my position. It's also dark, dusty, musty, and dreary. All the walls are black, and all the ornamentation is gold. I feel as if I were trapped within an enormous wasp.
Salieri also seems to favour piled black carpets and draped sable velvet. I've already ordered my quarters redone in shades of cream and white, and had them lit sufficiently. Yes, it's childish, but I'm sure I'll be more productive when I can actually see what I'm working on.
And such work! Within the first day I've been informed that the Lord Captain intends to acquire a legion of soldiers. As such, it is up to me to dust off the barracks, talk to the galley and the quartermaster, et cetera. I haven't actually found the barracks yet, but the Shadow encompasses a rather large area, so I wouldn't be surprised if I've simply missed them.
You should be happy to know that Matthias and his men have settled in nicely; he sends his regards. Pustulio has made it aboard safely, and is now packed amongst my things, as well as the special grenades you found for me. I sometimes wonder what I'd do without you, my dear.
Sadly, the Lord Captain appears more interested in my skills as a mercenary than as a seneschal or financial advisor. He thinks my men, the Cranesguard, are simple mercenaries and sellswords, the sort that can be hired for a pittance. Our Lord Captain puts his faith in fighting men and armies rather than money and power and clever words, though his words are indeed clever, and he has a quantity of both power and money. Time will tell exactly how successful he is, but I choose to have faith.
Besides, now that I've secured my position in his crew, even if I but earn a single Throne in all my time here, it will be one Throne I hadn't had before. I should be quite safe from any assassination attempts.
Wait, Callista, and have faith. Upon my return, I shall bring my enemies to their very knees.
Yours in health,
N
"This," DeMoss spread his arms wide, "is the Armoury. A larger collection of tools of war, weapons of peace, and seeds of destruction I should not find within a hundred thousand miles."
"Because we're in deep space," said Manuellus[4].
DeMoss shot him a dirty look, and continued as if the missionary had not spoken. "Only one of several aboard this starship, this is the repository for the Command Crew. You may recognise it."
"Well, yeah," said Manuellus who had lived aboard this ship for a few years now. "Why are we here?"
"Because," DeMoss spun around and began ticking things off on his fingers, "you've basically no function aside from a few religious duties that take little time," tick, "as a man with a small quantity of medical knowledge aboard a vessel with no fewer than twelve fully-stocked medical bays," tick, "and as a mercenary," tick. "Yet, you are one of the highest regarded members of his crew. Now, either Salieri is religious on a level rivalling that of the Ecclesiarch[5] himself," tick, "he and the entire command staff are haemophiliacs," tick, "or you are one hell of a mercenary. Catch."
Manuellus caught.
"This is the Nomad Widowmaker Mk. II. It fires a .308 calibre solid projectile round at about fifteen hundred metres per second, and it's accurate enough to catch a Tarsan goldwing dragonfly in the left eye at eight hundred metres. That is in no way exaggeration, and any failure to do so is on the part of the gunman. It features a floating barrel, a muzzle brake, and a sterling silver inlay on the stock. Enjoy it, because this is the only time I'll ever let you touch it without breaking your hands."
Manuellus hefted the weapon, sighted down the end a moment, and then nodded appreciably.
DeMoss took his weapon back and strapped it to his back. "This," he said, fingers lingering on the silver design a moment, "kills you."
The next object to be tossed at the missionary was a familiar and trauma-inducing shape which he just barely managed to avoid batting away. The pin was still in its familiar position, so he forced himself to relax a moment.
DeMoss smirked. "This is a standard fragmentation grenade, the sort used by the Imperial Guard[6] on a regular basis. This kills you and everyone else in the room."
Manuellus tossed the grenade back at DeMoss, who caught it deftly and put it away.
"This is a lasgun. I think it's yours," he tossed the weapon irreverently at the missionary. "Congratulations; you are the proud owner of a flashlight[7]." He rummaged around in the cabinets again. "And a chainsword[8], it seems. Well, that's a respectable weapon."
Manuellus took his arms without comment. DeMoss stood there and thought for a full minute.
"I suppose in the end it depends on how good you are with the chainsword[9]," he said with a frown.
Manuellus bowed his head. "Well, I try to avoid Pride. As the Word of the God-Emperor[10] says, act with humility at all times, for pride goeth before the fall."
DeMoss snorted. "A flashlight and a presumptuous paper-shredder. You must be a very good clergyman."
"I can only do my best," said Manuellus, whipping the end of his chainsword in figure-eight motions. "What about you? Have you a sword?"
"The valiant and the fool fight their foes from where they can be seen," quipped DeMoss. "I aspire to remain entirely unseen if I can help it." He smiled tightly. "And when I can't, there's always the bolt pistol[11]."
"And the grenade," said Manuellus. "I suppose it is time to re-learn how to dodge shrapnel."
DeMoss chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't bother about that," he pulled a laminated-looking sphere from his coat. "My grenades are all non-lethal."
Manuellus was rather sceptical, and voiced his concern. "I have to say, I'm rather sceptical."
"Oh, that reminds me," said DeMoss, "next time we're at port, I'll have to buy some gas masks for the lot of you." He smirked.
The missionary stayed well away from those laminated grenades from then on.
[1] A hat of a sort of design taken from an Ancient Terran root, traditionally then worn by a pre-Emperor pagan leader known as the "Pape", though certain texts translate that as the "Pope".
[2] Little white rectangle on the collar sold separately.
[3] He had a particular way of lounging that seemed to almost defy common sense. For most people, it's very difficult to slouch while still keeping the shoulders straight, but the physics of the room seemed to bend around DeMoss rather than the other way around. He filled the space available. Manuellus would have been jealous if it weren't for the fact that (a) he been a deacon of the Imperial Cult, and trained to avoid such petty sins as Envy, and (b) DeMoss looked incredibly effeminite.
[4] Warp travel, while clearly faster than space-travel, has been known to take months. It generally takes more time to get there than passes in realspace, leading to the amusing tale of the Ork captain who arrived before he left, and killed his past self in single combat for two copies of his favourite gun.
[5] Head of the state religion, the Imperial Cult
[6] The Imperium's major military arm and infantry base.
[7] 'Flashlight' was the standard slang for lasgun, the traditional standard weapon of the Imperial Guard, due to the relatively low damage and high rate-of-fire. Lasgun barrages were known colloquially as laser light shows.
[8] Most accurately described as the insane lovechild of a chainsaw and a sword, chainswords are relatively expensive and rare. DeMoss had forgone them as they were also rather noisy, and the missionary's choice of weapon was rather more apt than could be seen at the present moment.
[9] DeMoss had little respect for melee combat.
[10] The God-Emperor of Mankind was a historical figure at one point, and is viewed in much the same was as Jesus in the Pre-Imperial era. Little is actually known about him, and even less can be easily sifted from the propaganda. The Emperor appeared during the Age of Strife, as various warlords were fighting over the surface of Holy Terra. He united the planet and led it out into space, conquering and expanding the newborn Imperium until betrayed by his son Horus, something of a devil-analogue within the greater part of the Imperium. Mortally wounded, as the story goes, the Emperor ascended his Golden Throne, which some assert is an ancient device, and others believe to be the seat of power in the Emperor's Heaven, and still others see as more a metaphysical state. He waits there, preserved by its power, slumbering until his foretold return at the End of Days.
[11] The closest pre-information age equivalent would be a hand-shotgun. The sad thing is, there were other things in the forty-first millennium closer to a hand shotgun than was a bolt-pistol. The Imperium believed very much that bigger was better, at least, in terms of solid-projectile ammunition. As well as in certain other areas.