Chapter 22

The cows were going to be a problem.

The herd had bunched together into a nervous, stumbling mass, their bellows echoing about the cavernous vaults of the launch bays. They were a skittish group at the best of times, and the ship's head wrangler usually tried to load and offload them only when the launch bays were all but empty. But now a riot of activity had taken hold of the bays as the crew of the Yolenna Symphony prepared to abandon ship. The captain's beef herd were having to learn the hard way that when the crew of an Imperial vessel abandoned ship, everyone had to move in a hurry.

With great difficulty and an above average degree of swearing even for sailors, the cattle were convinced to keep moving onto the heavy lifter ships, but they'd left behind a slick mess on the decks that made the Sentinel pilots nervous about loading their cargo. No one wanted to tell the captain that they'd crashed one of the ship's bipedal war machines because it had slipped in manure.

Jak watched the preparations with some amusement from his vantage point on the catwalk. Sailors nodded and touched their forelocks deferentially as they passed him, but most were too consumed by the controlled chaos of moving the ships supplies across to the Stallion of the Empire to pay much attention to their captain amongst them. Mechwrights hauled piles of salvaged ship components to restore those failing on the Stallion. Tech priests piloting power loaders carried loads that wobbled dangerously over the heads of sailors darting below. Carto-artifices and librarians stumbled along with piled armfuls of charts, scrolls and books from the ship's collection. Stewards and priests jostled over every crate as it loaded, arguing over whether counting the contents or consecrating them should take priority. Armsmen patrolled with shock prods, keeping a keen eye out for light-fingered opportunists. Weaving in between everybody's legs were the ships 'plasma monkeys', the youngest children of the crew. They carried coils of wires, handfuls of candles, potted plants and boxes of rivets, anything they could fine to prove their worth to the ship.

As he watched, Jak reflected on the miracle, that not a single crew member had declined the opportunity to join the Stallion of the Empire and attempt the dangerous voyage home. Certainly, they'd had little choice in the matter if they'd wanted to live, but it was more than that, he thought. The tale of the single shot from the Yolenna's lance that felled a Heldrake had spread through the ship like wildfire; already the older sailors had changed their tune about 'Jakky Young Crow' and were making favourable comparisons to his father's exploits. There was a great deal of tension within the crew still, and Jak knew that it could still threaten to bubble over in the draining weeks to come, but for now those who had only a week ago been at each other's throats seemed willing to work together.

It had been as busy a week as Jak could recall in his life. In the battle against the Heldrake he'd sustained a broken rib, a fractured cheek, second-degree burns to his arms and back, and a gash in his scalp that had required twelves stitches. The Chief Chirugeon had recommend five days bedrest; Jak had allowed himself five hours.

They'd returned to the Stallion of the Empire –entering via a loading deck as the command deck launch bay had been almost completely destroyed by the lance fire Red Rhoda- and attacked the Ryleth in force. The chaos-worshipping xenos had been driven from the Enginarium and slaughtered in great numbers. Many had escaped and were holed up in one of the Stallion's cargo holds, where the ship's sensors and automated defences could not aid the armsmen in hunting them. Jak was happy to leave them there for now, and had ordered that section of the ship sealed off and warded with purity seals. The loss of the portside cargo hold was not too great; there was always the starboard hold, and the Yolenna Symphony did not have enough supplies left for both holds to be needed.

With the Stallion of the Empire under his control, Jak had sent in the tech priests. Lattemba's people had worked all shifts conducting the necessary repairs to get the galleon flying again. Adamantium had been stripped from the Yolenna, melted down and recast in her foundries, to be plated onto the Stallion's damaged hull. Cogitator circuitry, ceramite insulation, thorium wells, plasma conduits and countless other components had been scavenged and inserted where they were needed, using only the most rudimentary rituals to sanctify the repairs. A team had been sent deep into the ship's Warp Drive to investigate her core; strangely they had reported back that it was in perfect working condition and the Stallion's Warp Drive and Gellar Fields were as functional as any they'd ever seen.

The newly designated Chief Enginseer, Lattemba, had personally orchestrated the consecration of the freshly installed machine spirits and had spent some time communing with and soothing the Stallion's ancient spirits. They were not corrupted, he had explained to Jak, but wary and agitated after centuries suffering the deprivations of the Immaterium. However, he had added, these ancient ships had been designed for long range exploration and voidfaring; their spirits were resilient and were recovering quickly under the tender ministrations of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

All the machine spirits were responsive except for the gunnery spirits; Lattemba was unsure if they would ever be able to quell those guarded, volatile spirits of lance and cannon, at least not until the ship was properly restored by the priests of a great Fleet World such as Mars or Ryza. They would not even respond to the captain's mind, although Jak had spent many an hour trying to cajole the Stallions guns to let him operate them. If he was going to fly the ship back to the Lysander System and then on to Calixis, he would have to rely on outrunning rather than outgunning any enemies that they encountered.

Still, with great satisfaction, Jak reflected on the fact that he had done the seemingly impossible. Stranded out in the uncharted fringes of the galaxy, facing desperate mutineers, alien horrors and daemonic abominations, he had found a way home and a priceless treasure.

"Not too bad, Velasquez," he said to himself.

"Indeed, Sir," came the deferential reply at his shoulder. Jak managed not to start, but he had not heard Al Dessi coming.

"Ms Al Dessi," he greeted her. "How go the preparations for the crew transfers?"

"The deck wardens have all in order, Sir, and we can begin a full transportation by the next watch."

"And the crew will come?"

"All of them, Sir. The Yolenna Symphony will be fully abandoned."

Jak looked away for a moment, considering that.

"Any regrets?" He asked, to cover his own emotions.

"Only one, Sir." Al Dessi was looking at the bustle of activity below them, the sea of earnest, tired, grubby faces. "We never caught the bastards who murdered the Admiral."

The Admiral. A man who had risked everything to purchase the first ship that had truly belonged to him, named it for lost wife, and never lived to see his son abandon that ship to the mercies of the void. Jak had no choice of course, but still, he wondered what his father would have thought. Jak recalled the conversation that he'd had with Maternin Shyendi in the fire bunker; perhaps he would forever be grappling with his father's legacy.

"You have my permission to begin the crew transfers," Jak said, keeping his voice gruff to hide the sudden swell of emotion in him.

"Yes, Sir."

A blur of black wings overhead caught Jak's eye. Even the crows were preparing the leave the ship.

The next crewmember who came to him was Merry Servant #7. The servitor looked almost nervous as it approached, as much as any lobotomised cyborg could show any emotion. There was a wideness to its eyes and a half pause in its voice. The Merry Servants were blasphemies, some muttered, but they were bloody useful blasphemies and the Admiral had never been one to turn his back on a sailor who could follow orders perfectly, never spoke back and would do all the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs on the ship without question.

"This one has requests and, or, clarifications to make of Designate: Captain," Seven said, in the stumbling formal language the servitors always used when they were out of their linguistic comfort zones. Repeating orders and performing diagnostic checks tended to be the limit of the conversational skills. Requests and (or) clarifications were unusual. Jak turned to give the servitor his full attention.

"What is it, Seven?"

"Ship, Designate: The Yolenna Symphony is to be abandoned. All non-vital components are regarded as, quote, 'dead weight'. My clarification: Are Merry Servants dead weight? My request: Merry Servants to be transferred to new ship. Opportunity to seek more existence through service is an imperative, both biological and mechanical."

Jak took a few moments to make sure had understood what the servitor was saying. Then he smiled. He clapped Merry Servant #7 heartily on its shoulder. It made a clanging sound and Jak had to shake the sting out of his hand. "You're worried that you're not coming along with us, Seven! Of course not! You're always welcome with me, all your people. You're crew."

The Merry Servant did not smile, or sag with relief, but Jak could see a loosening of its shoulders, an ever-so subtle release of tension.

"Thank you. Clarification brings thought comfort. This one had been informed servitors would not be a requirement aboard new vessel."

Something was nagging Jak's mind, a half-remembered thought, but one of great importance. An epiphany lurked in his subconscious like a monster fish beneath the ocean waves, but he couldn't land it, couldn't bring it to the surface.

"You're not the same as the other servitors. I thought you knew that." Jak smiled still, but distantly now, working the line of thought carefully. The Merry Servant nodded and thanked him again, turning to leave, but Jak took Seven by the shoulder. "You're not the same as the other servitors."

Merry Servant #7 looked at Jak vacantly, unsure of how to respond. But Jak was following his own momentum now.

"You're not the same as the other servitors!" He repeated, almost yelling in his excitement. "Seven, you're on your own network aren't you? You and all the Merry Servants. The night my father was killed, were any Merry Servants working on the command decks?"

"Yes, sir. Four of the Merry Servants were assigned tasks on the command decks."

"The logs were wiped from the primary servitor network that night. Do you still have them?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"This one was not asked, sir."

"Seven," Jak said, practically shaking the servitor. "Do you know who gave the order to dim the command deck lumens directly prior to my father's assassination?"

"Yes, sir. Authorisation code belonged to: Master at Arms, Officer Garian Sykarin."

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Jak ran the passageways of the Yolenna Symphony, a man possessed. Later, those closest to him would ask what was going through his mind in those first moments of awful knowledge. He would answer honestly; nothing. He ran without thought, without even attempting to process the enormity of the betrayal. He was running away as much as he ran to.

But still he ran, and his running brought him to the Medicae Bay. And it was at that point that he realised he was running to hear a denial. To hear an explanation. Someone had taken Sykarin's authorisation codes, that was the most obvious explanation. But the servitors logged identities, not codes. Had someone posed as Sykarin? Of course. What would be better cover than the Master at Arms, a senior officer and a man who had followed Oberon Velasquez as long as any on the ship?

In the Medicae Bay, the officers' vault was empty, the beds unmade. In a fit of madness, Jak threw over the bed and tossed the medical equipment aside, searching frantically for the Master at Arms.

"Bloody hell, captain. You lost your wheel?" Stieg was in the doorway, balancing gingerly on his new stump, a two pronged, cheap metal prosthetic plated to the remnants of his thigh. Jak swung on him, finger outstretched.

"Where Sykarin?" He barked. Stieg looked nonplussed.

"He said he was going for a walk about an hour ago, said he'd been in bed too long and needed to take care of things."

Jak stormed out the room, almost knocking Stieg over in his, but his mind was starting to work properly now, pieces of a long dormant puzzle clicking into place and he turned back to the old Gunnery Master.

"What's happening, sir?" Stieg asked. "What's got you so fired up?"

"Do you know what Azakhil means? Does that word mean anything to you?" Stieg gawped at him.

"Are you serious, captain?"

"Stieg," Jak said in warning tones and the old man hurried to explain.

"It's a town, sir. Was a town, I mean. That story I told you, about the reavers and the sailors getting captured and all. That was Azakhil. That's where Sykarin and all the rest got taken. What's this mean, captain? What's going on?"

Jak didn't answer. He was already running again.

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Jak received a vox from Reliquary Jate as he was leaving the Medicae Bay.

"Sir, I have some information that I need to present to you."

"It will have to wait, Ms Jate," Jak said into his microbead.

"It is in regards to the private vox network that we discussed. I've recorded a new message."

Jak did not break stride as he processed that information. "Meet me at my cabin."

Borjean was on duty, he was the only person Jak could trust to have by his side when confronting Sykarin. Jestross wouldn't understand, he might try to kill the Master at Arms on the spot. The HateFearLove might drive him to madness. Jak wasn't sure that he could trust himself, but Borjean would know what to do.

Strangely, there was no guard posted at the door of the great cabin. Jak drew his sidearm and kicked open the door to find Borjean sprawled on the carpet. He ran to the man's side. "Borjean, no!" But Borjean's was warm to the touch, and when Jak shook him he belched a blast of grog-stinking air into Jak's face.

Jak pushed away from him in disgust. Borjean had gone back to his old habits since the Warp Storm, and had gotten worse after the Heldrake, but Jak had never expected this; a drunken stupor whilst on duty. He kicked out at the man's flanks in frustration but Borjean barely roused.

Jak left quickly, leaving Borjean insensible on the floor. Jate was arriving as he closed the door; the Master of Etherics looked flushed and out of breath. "Another message, Sir," she panted.

"They're meeting." Jak said, and Jate nodded enthusiastically.

"One demanded the meeting, sounded very forceful about it. Not aboard the Yolenna though."

"The Stallion?"

"Aye, 4-25-A, the other one said that was the only place they'd meet."

"The cargo holds? That's right where we've sealed off access. Damn him! Ms Jate, I want you to arrange two squads of armsmen. Have Shadlo and Worral lead them, they know the ship best." He was already setting off

"What about you, Sir? Where will they meet you?"

"I'm not waiting. They can meet me on the Stallion."

"Sir!" Jate protested, but she did so to his back. Jak was not waiting for anyone.

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The lifter pilot hadn't asked questions when the captain had him take off for the Stallion of the Empire with only a half-full hold. Jak didn't speak a word on the voyage over, but stared silently through the viewport into the void, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Lattemba was coordinating the crew who were already on board the Stallion, and greeted his captain effusively on arrival. Jak didn't waste time on formalities or explanations.

"Have you seen Sykarin?"

"Indeed, sir, not long ago. He said he wanted to inspect the security of the sealed sections of the ship. I offered him a guard but he…" Lattemba finished his sentence to the empty space when Jak has been standing, "didn't want one."

Jak's hurried down tight, dimly lit passageways, moving downwards, deck after deck. The path to Frame 25 of the cargo holds was a not a well traversed one, and lacked the ostentatious design of the more public areas of the ship. Its passageways were cramped and utilitarian. On the fourth deck, he followed a passageway for approximately two hundred metres, slowly down as he came closer to the meeting place, trying to soften the sound of his boots on the metal decking. He tried to rehearse in his mind the confrontation with his mentor and Master at Arms, but the words slipped away from him. Some part of his still rejected the very idea of betrayal, was able to even comprehend confronting Sykarin.

The passageway met at distribution junction, where five corridors met around a wide, circular space, bare but for a statue of the Emperor, his sword outstretched to the deck above. In the shadow of the statue, Garian Sykarin stood, facing away from the light of a single flickering lumen, his back turned to Jak. The old man had put his uniform on, and was fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. His body looked as spindly and ravaged as Jak remembered but his senses had not dulled. He spun around as he heard Jak approach.

The look on his face was a fear Jak had never expected to see on the hold man. Not fear for his life, but fear of disgrace, fear of shame. Danger had never unmanned Garian Sykarin, but perhaps guilt could do what physical threat had been unable to. Something in his expression outraged Jak, and he strode out of the darkness.

"You killed him!" Jak roared. "You killed my father!"

"Boy," Garian said. He raised his hands, almost in supplication, leaning forward to Jak. "I can explain."

Jak shot twice from the hip, whipping his sidearm from his holster and driving two lasbolts into Sykarin's midsection before the old man could so much as reach for his own weapon. He collapsed to the ground with the softest of gasps.

Feeling suddenly numb, barely comprehending what he had just done. Jak let the gun drop to the deck. It hit the metal with a clang that echoed down the passageways, and then there was silence. Jak fell to his knees. He watched the life seep out of Garian Sykarin, in the shadow of the Emperor of Mankind.

The silence was broken only a few moments later by the sound of a single pair of hands clapping slowly.

"Oh well done, brother," a sharp female voiced chided. "The one man who was going to explain the whole thing to you and you've gone and killed him. That's so very like you." The voice sounded exasperated, perhaps even a little amused. It was a voice that was distinctly familiar to Jak

Jak stared, dumbfounded, as his sister stepped out of the shadows and looked down at him.

"Retta?"

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End of Part 3

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Next: Part 4- The Betrayal at Lysander

Jak Velasquez has defeated a Heldrake, salvaged an ancient treasure galleon and discovered his father's assassins. But his challenges are far from over, as he must decide what to do about the awful truth behind the Velasquez family killings, a truth that could tear apart his fragile crew just as they prepare to set off on the dangerous voyage back to Imperial Space. And that threat is nothing compared to what awaits them upon their return to the Lysander System. The first great adventure of Jak Velasquez will conclude in Part 4 of The Very Devil of the Stars…

Authors' Note: Three parts down, only one to go! I cannot thank enough everyone who takes the time to read, and particularly everyone who's left a review. The story will be going on hiatus again so I can give some focus to other projects, but it will recommence in the New Year with the fourth and final part of the story.