Chapter 5
Thousands of well-wishers gathered on the orbital docks to see off the avenging crusaders of the Lysandrian Armada depart. Ships filled the void. It was not the controlled chaos of typical orbital traffic, but an arrowhead formation of vessels, every prow pointed towards the same goal. At the head of the armada flew the Unshakeable Will. The ancient, formidable grand cruiser fired a bombastic salute to the people of Lysander at it passed, gun after gun sounding off in perfect sequence.
Following her flew the next largest ship in the armada, the Yolenna Symphony. The light cruiser's squadrons of bombers and fighters ran fly-overs of the docks, swooping so close that people in the crowd swore they could see the pilots' faces, despite the impossibility of this being true through the darkened viewports.
The Portentia glided smoothly in to form up on the opposite flank of the Unshakeable Will. As she passed, she fired all thirteen of her rear thrusters simultaneously, creating a white hot glow that momentarily blinded the crowd. As the irradiated exhaust fell towards the dockyards, it caused the yard's void shields to flare with rippling auroras of dancing colour that drew gasps from the appreciative crowd.
The Siren's Wail came next, with possibly the best trick of them all. As ancient control moment gyroscopes rotated in their shells, she performed a slow, stately aileron roll, rotating all the way around on her axis in a manoeuvre that sent the crowd into rapturous applause. Few ships still possessed the ability to roll on their axis in such controlled fashion and the Siren's crew were particularly adept at the trick.
The rest of the armada, slaves to the tyranny of reaction mass equations, were more conservative in their departures, but they received no less acclaim as they left. These were the real ships of Lysander: a motley assembly of brigs, couriers, haulers, and miners that had each been retrofitted with whatever armour and ordnance they could safely carry. Following them came the support ships, tenders and fuel haulers, receiving the same send-off from those watching as the great warships at the fore of the armada.
All were headed to do battle with the ancient foe. The Dark Kin, Eldar slavers that had been allowed to commit their depravities within the Lysander system for too long. They departed with the hopeful cheers, shouted well wishes and fervent prayers of the Lysandrian people in their ears, voxed in from the dockyards and broadcast across every deck on every ship so that all on board from the captains to the bondsmen could hear.
In his great cabin, Jak flipped a switch on the vox, silencing the cheering crowd. He drummed his fingers on the solid wood of his desk, restless as he contemplated his most recent impulsive decision. Finally he flicked a button and voxed the bridge.
"Ms Jate, have Mr Yurghan and Mr Sinkmoss join me on the Yolenna at their earliest convenience."
The two men stood before him within the hour. This was Jak's first opportunity to have the captains of the Siren's Wail and the Portentia standing before him since taking command. Neither had ventured any unprompted opinion so far on his leadership or the suspicions that still surrounded his father's death. Indeed he had found both easy to deal with in day to day matters of fleet logistics, and exemplary in their undertaking of his orders during the fleet's first clash with the Eldar. That gave him some comfort, as they would be vital for the success of the Lysandrian armada and the crusade that Jak had committed them to.
Looking at the two captains, Jak reflected on the fact that these were the men he would need to rely on implicitly in the action to come. The two could not have been more different.
Bream Yurghan was a hunched, vigorous, older man, with wild white hair sticking up in loose tufts from his head, and eyes permanently roaming as if looking for some unknown threat. Half his face had been wrecked in some long-forgotten battle, and was held together with unvarnished metal augmentation. He paced as he spoke, even in front of his commander, and had a tendency to look at you over his shoulder as if from some better vantage he would see your true form.
In his later years, he had been written off by the Admiralty as a victim of warp-madness or the loneliness of command; an aging, addled casualty of the demands of naval life. The late Admiral Velasquez had seen something more to him though, had seen those eyes snap to attention when addressing the Captain's throne, and the wheezy quaver leave his voice as he barked out perfect orders.
In battle Bream Yurghan became something more than the sum of his broken parts. Yurghan wasn't mad, it was the world around him that was, and when it revealed its true depravations, he thrived amidst chaos that would sink lesser captains.
Yurghan had been appointed first officer beneath Mustek, but with his brother still out of action, Jak was more than happy to see the old warrior in charge of the Siren's Wail. He had taken to the Captain's cupola capably and efficiently.
Gerdal Sinkmoss could not have been more different from Yurghan in appearance and background. The young nobleman was old Scintillian aristocracy, and in any other situation would likely have treated the benighted Velasquez name with scorn, despite the breadth and history of Jak's House. The Velasquezs were a much reduced family, spread across three segmentums, with only a handful of survivors remaining. The Sinkmosses on the other hand were old Scintilla, rich, proud and multitudinous.
Whip thin and smarter than his chinless scowl made him look, Sinkmoss stood with a ramrod straightness that could convince you he'd served in the navy. But Gerdal was the fifth son of a minor branch of House Sinkmoss, and his parents had not been able to secure a commission for him. He had only ever captained freighters, and although by all reports he'd captained them well, it was a mystery to Jak why his father had offered the young man a position in the fleet, not to mention why the nobleman had deigned to accept it.
Nevertheless, Sinkmoss had acquitted himself well over the voyage, and despite his pride and prickliness, Jak was confident that the young captain could manage his destroyer in the heat of battle.
"Gentleman," Jak said, spreading his hands across the table as he'd seen his father do so many times, "the situation is this: The Eldar possess a Warp Gate, a solid-standing portal to whatever foul plane they dwell in. It is based deep in the asteroid field between Lysander VII and Lysander VIII. Captain L'Tarvius has its location as well as the disposition of the enemy, and he is confident that the Unshakeable Will is up to the task of destroying them, removing the Dark Kin's access to the system. But until our arrival he had lacked the escort ships necessary to secure the Unshakable Will's path to the Warp Gate."
"So he needs us," Sinkmoss observed. Yurghan seemed to start at the younger man's words, but continued pacing silently.
"Indeed." Jak continued. "The path to the Warp Gate is protected by artificial asteroid headwaters, two fortresses and three torture cruisers, not to mention a dozen or more smaller vessels."
"How does L'Tarvius know this?" Yurghan asked.
"He has spent the last three years building up intelligence regarding the source of the Eldar threat in the system. I have personally looked over the work of his intelligence agents and it seems credible, highly credible."
"Sir, the Eldar only let you see what they want you to see," Yurghan's face twisted as he spoke, a spasm in his jaw tugged at the edge of his bio-circuitry, perhaps in reaction to some dark memory that had bubbled unbidden to the surface.
"L'Tarvius lost two of his escort ships in recovering this intelligence, Yurghan. I am as sceptical as any man, but he got this information the hard way. As I said, he is confident that together the Unshakeable Will and Yolenna Symphony can manage the Eldar ships and destroy the Warp Gate. Your roles will be in reaching and destroying the two fortresses that guard our approach to the gate."
He continued. "I believe the Siren's Wail and the Portentia will be the perfect vessels for dealing with these forts. Whilst the Unshakeable Will and Yolenna Symphony engage the greater part of their force, you will each take on the task of destroying one of the forts guarding our approach. With those threats neutralised, we will advance to destroy their warp gate, and banish the Eldar from the system personally."
Sinkmoss clicked his heels together, and Yurghan gave a smile. Jak had gauged their response to his plan correctly. Their last battle with the Eldar had left them eager for more, and the opportunity to be involved in such a fleet action, against three cruisers and with the fate of a system at stake was too enticing to pass up.
"Gentleman, I offered my assistance to the Lysandrian people because it is our duty, but also because I believe that it is our best chance for advancement. Captain L'Tarvius intends to remain in the system after the battle. He will not begrudge our returning to Calixis with the holo-logs of the action."
Both men were too well mannered to let their emotions show at that, but Jak could see whatever resistance they still held to the crusade leave them. The acclaim that would attach itself to whoever brought word back to the Admiralty in the Calixis Sector of a successful fleet action this size, well, that might just be enough to see both men in navy blue and promoted to post-captain.
"An unusually generous gesture for a Rogue Trader," Sinkmoss observed.
"Yes. I'm afraid I don't see what Captain L'Tarvius intends to gain from all of this." Yurghan said.
"Gentleman, I rather gather that he intends to gain little, if anything. He seems to be aiding these people from a sense of noble duty. He genuinely believes in this Crusade."
Yurghan gave a start at that, and blinked violently at Jak. Sinkmoss looked sceptical. Jak raised his hands.
"Gentlemen, I know. Believe me I know. But I take him at his word. He truly seeks no profit in this. Insane that may sound, but I believe he is genuine, if eccentric. He wants a crusade. He wants to save the system. And I believe it is in our interest to assist him."
Both men nodded in agreement. They had taken gambles with their careers and with their very futures by agreeing to follow Oberon Velasquez. If Jak lost the Letter of Marque, there was no knowing when they might command their own ships again. But if Jak returned as the saviour of the Lysander System, with Sinkmoss and Yurghan having played vital roles in the destruction of an Eldar Warp Gate, there was no telling what opportunities for advancement might await.
"Gentleman. We are the bayonet that will be thrust into the heart of the Eldar slavers. I don't need to tell you that this battle could be the making of us. So tell me, what is the state of your ships?"
Yurghan spoke first.
"The Siren's Wail has been running more smoothly since the restock, Sir. We've had serious issues with the underdeck mutant population all voyage, but those have calmed somewhat since we reached Lysander and I have instigated a thorough purge to lower the mutant levels. Similarly, the aggravated machine spirits appear to have been calmed and we are reporting far fewer malfunctioning systems across the ship. Still, the restock was far shorter than was required to make all the necessary repairs, nor were we able to replenish our numbers of bondsmen from the planet's population. Our gun crews are not what they could be."
Jak nodded. This was all known to him and positive news for the most part. But Yurghan went on.
"I mention, without complaint, Captain, that a significant portion of my ward room has moved to the Yolenna Symphony in recent times, including my Master of Vox Reliquary Jate, Chief Chirugeon Erasmus Borelyle, and my Keeper of the Purse Rollyk No-Koll."
Yurghan placed the list of names quite gently on Jak's desk. Jak waved a hand dismissively, as he glanced at paper.
"Jate is essential aboard the flagship, Captain Yurghan. She's the best Vox-master we have and I want her where she'll do the most good. I also want to keep the Chief Chirugeon with my brother here on board the Yolenna. He's our most experienced doctor, and the Yolenna has the best medicae vault. Nothing is more important to me than my brother's health. I will discuss with Erasmus sending over more of his assistants to make up the Siren's complement."
He considered the last name for a brief moment.
"It was my father who brought your purser over. I honestly don't know why. You may have him back, but we'll organise that transfer after the fleet action."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Sinkmoss, how fares the Portentia?"
"The only concern to register is our torpedo allotment. The Portentia is a torpedo boat with only three operational torpedos left."
"Then we will have to use them wisely Mr Sinkmoss. Lysander may be more advanced than we had expected but they certainly do not have the manufacturing resources to provide us with torpedos. One will be sufficient to destroy your target, and you will have support from the gunships in our little armada to keep any Eldar irritants off your back."
"As you say, Sir" Sinkmoss gave a small bow off acknowledgement. "Apart from that, we have kept a tangibly tighter ship, with no issues in engineering or personnel to report."
Sinkmoss was too aristocratic to be subtle. Jak could see Yurghan visibly bristle at the obvious slight. From the reports that Al Dessi provided him, it was all a front as well. Sinkmoss was struggling with an aging destroyer, far past her prime and ready for mothballing before his father had swept her up at a discounted price. Her officers were an uninspiring lot, who'd agreed to join the privateer fleet because they couldn't imagine leaving the ship they had served all their lives on.
Still, if Sinkmoss wanted to tell his commander that all was well, that was fine with Jak, just as long as the young captain wasn't naïve enough to believe it. He'd seen ships in far worse shapes pull themselves together when the rigours of war demanded it, but this was entirely dependent on the leadership of a strong captain. He would just have to hope that Sinkmoss was that captain.
"Very well gentleman. I'm glad to hear the Siren is tightening up. I'm authorising the transfer of two torpedos from the Siren's Wail to the Portentia. I will leave it to your Ordnance Masters arrange the logistics. I will let you return to your ships. Keep the gun crews training daily, and I would recommend that your officers review our last battle with the Eldar."
Jak wished that all those who served him had responded as enthusiastically to this crusade as Yurghan and Sinkmoss. His wardroom had been a sea of poker faces, except for Stieg, who had no talent for hiding his emotions and had openly scowled at the news. Jak knew what this meant. He didn't have their full support yet. Sinkmoss and Yurghan had their stars hitched to Jak's and would rise or fall with him, but the wardroom didn't yet trust his judgement.
He'd delivered the colony fleet safely, defeated the Eldar in ship-to-ship battle and taken a valuable prize, but he still hadn't won over his officers. The thought played on his mind as he walked the ship's passageways, alone for once. He hadn't wanted his bodyguards with him for the visit that he was about to make.
"Mr Velasquez!"
Jak turned to see the hunched figure of the Keeper of the Purse following behind as he walked to the ship's sick bay. The little man clicked and clattered frantically as he walked, the cheap augments of his trade banging against each other as they bobbed behind his head.
"Lord Velasquez." Jak said.
The man hesitated. "I'm sorry?"
"Or Lord-Captain Velasquez if you're feeling formal. I don't mind either way, but you're aboard a rogue trader vessel now, Mr No Koll, not in some dusty merchant hall on Scintilla." Jak grinned, looking about the Yolenna's cramp and grimy passageway. "Well, we're not too dusty. It's Lord, not Mister."
"Ah." The Keeper seemed to take a moment to process the casual reprimand. Not all rogue trader captains demanded that the title be used, but the Keeper of the Purse annoyed Jak for reasons that he could not put words to. "Well. Yes. Lord Velasquez. I wanted to speak to you regarding this, ah, crusade."
"Now isn't the time to discuss budgets, Mr No Koll."
"It is not a matter of budgets, my Lord. We should not be doing this at all! This crusade lacks any kind of sensible cost-benefit analysis!"
"Cost-benefit analysis?"
"The loss of crew and munitions! The waste of valuable resources! Risking the ships! I cannot recommend against it strongly enough. There is no sensible profit assessment of the potential benefits that would lead you to invest your resources in such an uncertain enterprise."
Jak looked at the Keeper in shock.
"Sensible assessment? How can you think like that man? Where's your sense of adventure? Of destiny?"
The Keeper frowned.
"Destiny? This is simple mathematics my Lord."
"Mathematics?"
"It can help to think of it like that."
Jak shook his head, still baffled by the calculating, passionless little man. "Your reluctance is noted Mr No Koll, but seeing as Keepers play no role in my decision making regarding where my ship goes and what it does when I get there, it doesn't really matter a damn. I would suggest you go back to counting your beans."
He turned to leave, but the Keeper was not done. Her grabbed Jak by the elbow frantically.
"Mr- Lord-Captain Velasquez, my Lord, I must insist! I cannot be of assistance to you as Keeper of the ship's purse, if you will not heed my advice."
Jak looked at the little man, sweating profusely and leaking lubricating fluid around the valves where his bionics met the skin.
"Mr No Koll. Take your hand off me immediately before I break it and have you in front of the Board of Judgement."
The Keeper gave a gulp of shock. His hand left Jak's arm like it had suddenly caught fire.
"Good." Jak continued. "Mr No Koll, I will have you shipped back to the Siren's Wail immediately."
If Rollyk No Koll had looked pale before, his face went positively grey at that news.
"No, my Lord, please. I am the fleet Purser. Please don't send me back to the… no. I apologise, I have spoken out of turn I see that now."
The little man was backing away down the corridor. Jak pointed a finger at him.
"Pack your bags Mr No Koll." He called out. "After we've destroyed the Eldar warp gate, you're going back to the Siren."
He turned away, ignoring the expression of anguish on No Koll's face. He had little time to wonder at why the Keeper so dreaded being return to the frigate. His meeting with Captain Yurghan had reminded him of how long it had been since he had visited his brother. Guilt propelled him forward as he went to check in on the former captain of the Siren's Wail.
Mustek still lay unconscious, and on life support, but he looked better than he had after his accident. Burned, ruined flesh had been replaced by puffy pink new skin, and his face had taken on an appearance of peacefulness. Jak looked down at him through the murky green window of the sarcophagus.
"Can't you lift the lid, just for a moment?"
Erasmus Borelyle, the chief chirugeon, shook his head. "It's a hermetically sealed environment, Sir. It's highly oxygenated and free from disease. If he were to be exposed to the outside environment he would be vulnerable to infection. I keep him sedated, to save him the pain. He will not awaken until his skin has knitted fully."
"It will knit?"
"If we were planetside, with resources available to properly rejuvenate him, I would tell you that he could be back on his feet in a matter of days. But here?" He gestured to the dark, cramped confines of the ward and let that speak for itself.
"With rest and stability he will heal. But if there is another battle, we might see damage to the sarcophagus or an interruption to power. I can make no promises that your brother would survive it."
"You don't need to lecture me on the risks Mr Borelyle, I am well aware of them." He responded with less irritation than he had to the Keeper of the Purse's nonsense. Lecturing the captain about safety was a ship chirugeon's prerogative.
"Of course, my Lord. Then permit me to mention one more thing. Your newest crewmember, the young priest that you rescued from the Explorator vessel."
"What of her?"
"Have you ever heard the term Genitari?"
"No."
"I had to ask around myself. It is an obscure sect within the Adeptus Mechanicus. They revere parenthood."
"What?" Jak glanced up from staring down at his brother's sleeping face. "What's the relevance of this, doctor?"
"You are aware of the many divisions within the Adeptus Mechanicus?"
"No. Are there? Funny, I always thought that a red robe was a red robe."
"Yes, and when I first became a naval chirugeon I didn't know the difference between a guncutter and battlecruiser. Do not let lower deck prejudices blind you, Captain. There are as many divisions within the Cult Mechanicus as there are within the Imperial Navy. Our Enginseer Prime, for example, is a conservative. And since your father's contract was with him, the vast majority of the Engineering deck are his people."
"But the new girl isn't."
"No, the young woman is a Genitari, one of the most radical sects with the Cult. The Mechanicus clone their children. Some may know their parents perhaps, but few ever really have a relationship with them. They are taught from a young age that the Omnissiah is their true father, and that family is a restriction of their purpose within the Great Machine. The Genitari reject that. They believe that parenthood is vital in the moulding of a young mind into a worthy tool of the Omnissiah."
"That's fascinating doctor, truly, but why are you telling me all this?"
"The Genitari are not well thought of by Dhukov and his people. They consider it one step above outright heresy. Moreover I think that he is making life difficult for the little priest."
Jak rapped his knuckles in irritation against his brother's sarcophagus.
"So, Dhukov doesn't like Genitari."
Archmagos Dhukov was a difficult man to deal with. Like most Chief Enginseers, he was protective of his territory and indifferent to the captain's authority. Moreover, Jak had recently learned that the contract which Dhukov had signed with his father had been front-loaded, and badly miscalculated by the Adeptus Mechanicus. The longer the fleet stayed out, the more money the Archmagos was losing, and he had been spiralling into debt since before they had reached the Starveling System.
His Keeper of the Purse should have told Jak all of this. Instead it was Ravenna Al Dessi who had uncovered it, and warned him that it would be rankling the Chief Enginseer, particularly with the announcement that the fleet was joining the L'Tarvius crusade.
Jak had instructed Dhukov to treat the survivor of the rescued Explorator ship as one of his own. If there was a chance the Chief Enginseer was using this as an opportunity to flaunt his independence then it was a problem. For a moment he was tempted to treat it as someone else's problem. But if there was one lesson that he had learnt since his father's death, it was that everything was the Lord-Captain's problem.
"Thank you doctor. Leave it with me."
Maternin Shyendi stood in front of the geometric knot of right-angled piping that made up the Waste Retrieval Network Junction Shrine 16-75-14. Head bowed over her prayer book, she read from the Invocations of Gaseous Spirits Under Duress.
"We look, oh Machine God, to the dial for guidance. We trust in your hand to make its needle show true. Sixty shall be the number that it points to. Fifty shall not be a number that it falls below, nor shall it lift above seventy. Strong shall be the flow and clear shall be the pipes."
Across from her, a second priest, Sharpeii Rho 40, monitored the choler of the junction's machine spirit via the wobbling dial of the pressure gauge.
"And lo, the number is Sixty Six. So it shall be written and we give thanks for the peace of the Omnissiah upon this humble shrine to the spirits of flow."
There were tens of thousands of systems aboard the ship that needed to be monitored each watch. It was a constant drudgery of log keeping and maintenance rituals any one of which might highlight a critical failure that could threaten the survival of all the crew, not to mention the ship itself. The crew worked in pairs, either two tech priests together or a priest and a mechwright, to ensure that the work was done properly and to the book. One would hold a copy of the prayer manual and read from it, whilst the other would perform the required maintenance ritual. Every component of every piece of equipment was maintained by a specific chant, the rhythm, pitch and wording of which was essential to the proper conducting of the maintenance ritual.
Maternin could not delude herself that she was a welcome member of the Enginarium. She was ostracised at meals and during prayers, and her fellow priests would happily throw a kick her way if they thought no Lachrimalli were watching. But she did the work, competently and without complaint, and nothing was more important than that aboard a void ship. She did not believe that she would ever be accepted, but perhaps she would be tolerated.
A thunderous roar from a distant weapons battery sent the whole ship shaking for a moment. Sharpeii Rho 40 straightened up in irritation, the sensory icons across her facemask flickering as she directed her attention to the noise and vibration.
"They drill the ship for battle daily," she said to Maternin, as if this were some grave sin.
"She is a war ship," Maternin said. "Battle is her purpose."
Sharpeii Rho 40 gave her a long look. Her lower jaw had been removed and mechanical parts covered her face to her nose, but her eyes remained human and deeply expressive
"The Enginseer Primaris teaches us that the ship is to be revered for its perfect nature, and that to risk it in war for anything less than the attainment of new knowledge or technology is a grievous waste." In Sharpeii Rho 40's accented binary, the word waste held the same meaning as the word evil. "We will all serve penitence when we return to the Iron Realms, for we have contributed to the decay of this most noble of machines."
It was the most words that any tech priest had said to Maternin since she had been taken aboard the Yolenna Symphony, and she felt compelled to answer honestly, with her own beliefs.
"Machinery's nobility is in its purpose. A ship is only truly a ship when it is in flight. A warship is only truly a warship when it is in battle."
Sharpeii Rho 40 shook her head, sadly. "I should not have expected understanding from a Genitari. Your kind has no use for perfection. You believe that the Omnissiah did not gift us the knowledge of the ancients to preserve and cherish. You believe that we have to go and create new knowledge, spitting in the face of all that is whole and true."
"That's not true."
"It is, Experimentor." Sharpeii Rho 40 said, but without the same malice that others had used the insult. She went back to studying the pipe system intently. Maternin knew that her views regarding the ship's current purpose would be shared by much of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Their guarded hostility towards their captain was obvious to Maternin everywhere she looked, although perhaps you had to be Mechanicum to see it.
A Noospheric tag above the sewerage flow direction lever bore the words The Machine Endures the Poor Workman; a piece of graffiti that Maternin had seen in numerous places about the ship. It seemed obvious to her that the words were aimed at the ship's captain. But few aboard the Yolenna Symphony who weren't of the Cult Mechanicus possessed the technological augmentation necessary to see in the augmented visual information field known as the noosphere, so perhaps the captain and his officers remained unaware of this unrest.
"Experimentor!" The word had not come from Sharpeii Rho 40 this time. It had come from the hatch leading down from the upper deck. Maternin took a step back from the altar where they had been working and looked both ways down the passageway.
It was Timmon. Maternin had not seen the overseer since the discovery of the gun in the plasma vent chamber. He seemed to have fallen out of favour with Enginseer Primaris since then, and been assigned lower duties. Now he stood at the base of the ladder, carrying a shock prod loosely in one hand as he pointed the other at Maternin in accusation.
"Experimentor!" He called again. "You think you've beaten me? Humiliated me in front of my Archmagos?"
Maternin felt her stomach tighten, and her brain begin to cycle through rudimentary threat analyses and combat protocols. She gave a signal of confused denial in binary. "How have I humiliated you? When did I do anything except attempt to undertake your orders as instructed?"
He blasted a static roar of rage and accusation at her, lurching forwards. The shock prod sparked a vicious electric purple in the dim light of the passageway. Maternin's combat wetware was basic and she was unprepared for this attack. As Timmon leapt to strike her, she froze. But before Timmon could reach her, a great shape dropped down from the hatch above, unfolding into a creature so tall its head scraped the deck above. With one great, clawed hand it snatched the tech priest out of the air and hurled him against the bulkhead.
Maternin gaped, stunned at how the beast in front of her could have moved so quickly. It was at least seven and a half feet tall and covered in thickly matted fur, approximately 80% of which was brown and green, suggesting a primarily arboreal or perhaps troglobitic origin. Its legs, jointed for springing, and its lightning fast speed suggested a predator, as did the long fangs in its trisected jaw. Its four upper limbs each ended in opposable digits, suggesting that it had evolved for tool use if not true sentience.
A xenos. And a fascinating discovery, one that Maternin would have been eager to learn more about, if not for the sheer terror of watching it pluck Timmon mid-stride and hurl the overseer violently into the bulkhead.
The Lachrimallus bounced off with a shuddering metallic clang, but to his credit managed to stumble to his feet after the immense blow. The xenos caught him on the rebound with a punch to his faceplate that lifted him clear off his feet, and a second to the solar plexus that left him a crumpled heap on the ground.
The xenos seemed to experience no ill effect from punching the tech adept in his armoured chest plate. It barely paused as the groaning overseer collapsed to the deck. It turned to Maternin, and opened its slavering mouth. Ropes of thick saliva drooled from its long, prehensile tongue.
"Art thou the Adeptus Mechanicus, Maternin Shyendi?"
Of all the things that her threat analyses had suggested would come next, this polite question, in oddly accented gothic, had not been considered a possibility worth planning for. Temporarily at a loss, she could think of nothing to do but answer.
"I am." In her current state of confusion and fear, it came out more like a question than a statement.
"Thy captain has required attendance. Art to come with us immediately."
A second figure appeared behind the xenos. He was a far more reassuring sight, an elderly, overweight man wearing the jacket of an Imperial Guard officer. He had a red, round face, and great moustaches that hung down over his jowls. He slumped forward like he'd been stuffed in a sack, and to an unaugmented eye might have looked completely harmless. But Maternin's gaze took in the thick insulating cables that ran from the back of his skull to his shoulders; Primary grade muscle reflex boosting augmentations, if she was any judge. They looked well cared for. This man might be just as dangerous as the xenos.
"We're under orders to take you to meet the captain Miss," the fat man said. "You're excused from your duties for the rest of the watch." He looked down with casual curiosity at the folded heap of Timmon's body.
"Take that man's name, hey?" He murmured and then shook his head. He turned to Sharpeii Rho 40. "This one's to come with us. She'll be back by eight bells. Tell your chief to keep a tighter lid on his whip-crackers," he pointed at Timmon's prone form, "or they'll be by the Board on Judgement Day. Clear?"
Sharpeii Rho 40 nodded wordlessly.
"Good." The armsman pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long swig from it, still thoughtfully examining the unconscious tech priest on the deck. "Bloody well done though, Jestross. You're not getting any slower in your old age."
The horrifying creature gave a snuffling, clacking laugh. The guardsman shrugged and took another swig from his flask.
"Right, time's a-wasting. Let's go see the captain."
To her surprise Maternin was taken to the armsmens' mess, a cavernous vault lined with cramped tables, half of which were filled with hunched and hungry sailors wolfing down rations as quickly as they could before their next watch started.
She recognised the captain, of course. She didn't think she would ever forget the moment of their meeting. An instant away from her certain death he had appeared, streaked with sweat and smiling as he stood over the Eldar corpse.
Now he sat, sprawled at ease at one of the tables. All the tables around him were empty except for the one directly behind his back, at which two armed guards sat, eyes watchfully scanning the mess hall. When he noticed Maternin, Captain Velasquez gave a broad, crooked smile and gestured to the stool across from him. She sat, and her escorts took seats with the two bodyguards at the other table.
"Tech-adept Shyendi isn't it?" His smile, Maternin realised, was genuine, not feigned. Adepts of the Cult Mechanicus rarely smiled, if they even had their original mouths left. If they did smile, it was in a cold, calculated fashion designed to put those not connected to the Great Machine at ease. But the captain's smile reached his eyes, and made Maternin want to smile herself for the first time since her parents had died.
"I never had the opportunity to thank you for rescuing me, my Lord. I was not sure if it would have been a breach of propriety to attempt to contact you."
He waved a hand airily, dismissing her anxieties.
"Think nothing of it. How have you been faring since you came aboard? Has my Chief Enginseer been taking care of you?"
"Very well, thank-you, my Lord. I have received a most sufficient succour in the Enginarium."
"You had those, what do you call them? Metal tentacles. You had those before, didn't you?"
"Mechadendrites. Yes, I did, my Lord."
"What happened to them?"
Maternin hesitated, but she could not see a reason to lie to the ship's captain.
"The Enginseer Primaries decreed that they be removed. He disputed my rank and right to wear the augmentations."
"Your rank, yes. You're a Lexmechanic third rate, am I correct?"
"Tertiary grade, yes my Lord. I sat at the fifteen tier, aboard the Vonaznaniya-17.8. If I may ask, my Lord, how did you know that?"
"I might not know a lot about you red robes, but I do know a wasted asset when I see one. I had my people look up the ship's list on your former vessel. And Dhukov has you doing what?"
"Duties commensurate with my rank and seniority aboard this ship, my Lord."
The captain tilted his head back, his long black hair hanging down the back of his seat as he addressed the men behind him.
"Borjean, what was Adept Shyendi doing when you found her?"
"Backwashing a shit pipe, Sir," the man with the white moustaches raised a cup as he spoke. The captain barked a laugh and swung his head back up to look Maternin in the eyes, flicking his hair out of his face.
"You're wasted on sewerage distribution, adept. I think we both know that."
"I serve however it pleases the Enginseer Primaris, my Lord."
"Sir."
"I'm sorry?"
"It's Sir to you, Shyendi. You're not some civilian Keeper who needs to call me Lord all the time. You're crew. And so is the Enginseer Prime for that matter. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
The captain paused for a moment, considering his next words. He didn't appear to be a cautious speaker, just a curious man who was deciding what to ask about next.
"I didn't realise Mechanicus had parents."
Maternin blinked.
"Where did you think we came from, Sir?" The captain laughed. Maternin regretted her quick tongue, but it seemed that the Captain did not mind direct responses. She found herself warming to him.
"Borjean?" He called out. "Where do tech priests come from?"
"I always thought a randy fabricator machine spat them out."
All those nearby, except for Maternin, laughed. Even the xenos gave a harsh, clacking laugh, a couple of seconds behind the others.
"Procreation is a messy, organic process," Maternin explained, "and many of the Cult Mechanicus do not have time for it, let alone for parenting. New members are vat-born and neurally implanted with relevant education. My people, Genitari, reject that approach. We believe that the Great Machine Spirit is born between component pieces working towards a shared goal. Rearing the next generation, doing so personally, is a crucial part of that. My parents believed that the forging of a young mind is as delicate and important as the forging of a tool."
"Your parents were aboard the Vonaznaniya-17.8?"
"Yes, Sir. The Eldar murdered them just before you arrived. My parents were… good people, Sir." She felt an obligation to make that clear. "They died in service to the Cult Mechanicus and the Omnissiah."
"I know. And I'm sorry I couldn't get there sooner. But I may be able to make some small amends." He leaned forward, across the table. "Adept Shyendi, how do you feel about helping us to kill every last Eldar in this system?"
Jak studied the little tech priest as she considered his question. She possessed was a sharp, elfin face, with an upturned nose and fine, pale features. The only hint at all that she was Mechanicus was her eyes. They were grey. Not a soft, natural grey, but gunmetal grey. Irises made of fine plated discs set in concentric circles spun, almost imperceptibly, as her gaze shifted and her focused changed. She seemed have been struck by his question, and took some time to answer.
"I would like that very much, Sir." She said.
Jak grinned and pushed himself to his feet. Behind him, his guard and Jestross stood up as well.
"Very good." He said. "Then I'm assigning you to the bridge. We'll need all hands to the targeting cogitators against the Eldar and I think you've got the eye for it."
"Yes, Sir." The little tech priest didn't smile, but she stood up and bowed from the waist, in the Machine Cult style. "Ave Deus Mechanicus."
"Ave, indeed. Any questions, Lexmechanic?"
The little priest blinked her disarming grey eyes, and then suddenly her attention swung to Jestross.
"What are you?" She asked, abruptly.
Everyone seemed to freeze. Jak turned to look at his chef; all eyes were on the lanky, hulking xenos, even those of armsmen from six tables away. It seemed that a lot of people had been eavesdropping on the captain's conversation.
"You want to know what Jestross is?" Jak asked, surprised. People generally shied away from the xenos in fear or tried to pretend that he didn't exist. Direct questions were out of the ordinary.
"I am aware of over 4500 sentient and sub-sentient species, but yours is not one of them. To remain ignorant when the opportunity for enlightenment stands before you is a sin."
Jak glanced from Borjean to Jestross then shrugged.
"Tell the young lady about your abominable self," he said to his chef.
Jestross leaned down to study the face of the tech priest.
"Thy Imperium knows my species as Jerikyl. Jerikyl home wast xenocided by one Oberon Velasquez. Our planet made a wasteland. Our people a diaspora."
"Why would you agree to serve on board a ship with a captain that destroyed your planet?"
Jestross made a snuffling sound of confusion.
"Why wouldst one not travel with the captain? He ordered that one serve so one served. Now one serves his son."
"So you did not hate him for what he did?"
The xenos gave a complicated four-armed shrug. Many of the crew were leaning in to listen. No one had dared ask these questions before, but many had thought them.
"On my world many lived as one pride, thousands led by the pride-leader. Thy pride-leader rules with strength and will. He will kill thou if thou makes him angry, or if thou art from the wrong litter, so thou hates him. He makes thou fight and will tear your head off if thou art a coward. So thou fears him. But he will lead the fight as the strongest warrior and he will keep thou safe as well, in the dark caves. In the deep caves. So thou loves him. It is HateFearLove. Thou canst smell it, on each and every member of the pride. It is a fine smell."
His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth as he explained the emotion.
"So you served Captain Velasquez because he smelled like a pride-leader."
"Admiral Velasquez? Yes. Smell ist important. Thou can taste truth in a smell better than thou can see it. Thou can tell true leader from false leader in a smell. So one was happy to be aboard."
"But everyone on board hates you. They think that you're an abomination. They're glad that they killed your world."
Jestross shook his head, and gave his coughing laugh.
"One does not mind the taste of hate. Hate ist not a bad smell. Important thing ist that all in the pride smells the same way. Everyone hates together, everyone fears together. Everyone loves together, like a pride." He raised two of his hands to the ceiling, and reached two out to the tech priest. "It ist a good thing, this together smell."
"Right, question time is over, I think," Jak said, finding himself feeling uncomfortable and not quite knowing why. "You are dismissed, Adept Shyendi."
Jak returned to his great cabin in silence. He had never heard Jestross say so many words at once. Hate, fear, love. The words played on his mind repetitively, like a drumbeat.
At the door to his great cabin, his guards left him to take their place watching the threshold. He and Jestross entered alone. Before the xenos could depart to his kitchen, Jak took him by the elbow. For any other person to do this would probably earn them a dislocated shoulder, but Jestross simply looked at his captain curiously.
"Jestross, tell me. This HateFearLove. Do the crew still smell like that? Do they smell of it around me?"
The xenos didn't have it in him to lie or dissemble, but Jak could see him hesitate.
"Yes," he said, finally. "HateFearLove is there but not in everyone the same. Some smell of love for son of captain, friend of armsmen. Some smell of hate for murderer of Admiral. And some fear. Fear that thou will be death of all. Not easy smells, not together smells. Thy crew is not a pride.
Author's Note 19/2/17: My apologies for the appalling number of typos in the first upload of this chapter, and thanks to the person who pointed it out. Hopefully, the majority of them are taken care of now.