Chapter 41

"Only a month has passed since the council," Solomon muttered as he overlooked the battlefield from a safe vantage point. "Yet it seems as if we have been fighting for this world for much longer, with no clear end in sight just yet."

A vast sprawling expanse of hab block ruins and manufactorums, intermingled with the dilapidated remnants of the cloning plantations and cybernetic implantation chambers made for the production of servitors. The current battleground, it was a subcontinent unto itself amidst the ruins of greater structures. Here, orks had thoroughly dug themselves in, being far more numerous and increasingly better equipped than the previous campaigns had endured. These were no mere tribal orks anymore, scattered and eking out a living amidst the barest of orkish ecosystem development. Now, they were larger, fiercer, bearing more weapons and armor from the scavenged ruins. Almost completely surrounded by the Imperium's continued advance, yet unable to be dug out at this point. A grueling war of attrition, days of progress being lost in an hour to sudden counterattacks, or the guardsmen's unrelenting fury breaking a chokepoint that had seen more bodies than the first continent seized.

All of this displayed aboard Solomon's flagship with a great holographic projector, in his newly designated "War Room", designed specifically for strategy and the necessary planning for the continuing conflict. All around, at newly refurbished terminals, communications were sent and received by servitors to other ships, command centers on the ground, and to the frontlines themselves. Those few in the room that were not lobotomized sacks of flesh and cybernetics tended to their own duties, compiling reports, issuing updates and coordinating with other gathered Imperium forces either arriving or leaving the system. A baseline and far less impressive form of the future governing council body, to be sure, but still incredibly important.

"War tends to make the days bleed together," Titus replied. "Especially to those whose lifespans are so much shorter than my own."

"It's hard, not being down there, isn't it? To be leading your soldiers, the men and women fighting and dying for you. I know space marines tend to not work so directly with guard regiments as I have with my own troops, but it mustn't be easy."

Titus gave a nod. "I must admit, ripping into the orks with a chainsword is something I once found cathartic, as it was both my duty and one more xenos ended, one more human life potentially saved. It shall remain as such for myself, though it stands to reason that my current role of protector is achieving far more lives saved than by my previous duties. I take it the events on Woebus and other worlds has solidified your reputation as leading amongst your troops, rather than above or behind them?"

"That's how most people see it," Solomon shrugged. "Still, the number of people telling me I'm too important to be down there to help them out is growing by the day, despite how I feel. I should be there, but for my sake, as well as that of countless others, I can't be risking my life like that anymore. I'm doing everything in my power to see them properly supplied, fed, and trained, but in the end I have to let go of my need to oversee everything and delegate where and when possible."

Titus gave a smile at that. "It seems you are finally learning something that, dare I say, you've been repeatedly ignoring since we've met."

Solomon gave him a mild glare, an eyebrow raising. "Oh? What's that?"

"Delegation. Despite all you've done so far for your own troops and their ability to wage war, all you've done for so many others regardless of your connection to them, and all you've struggled towards, you cannot do all of this alone. This burden you carry has crushed far greater men in the past, men who could not see beyond the need to control as much as possible. Delegate, Solomon, you must delegate matters as much as you can. I would not see you burn out and keel over from heart failure so soon into your personal crusade."

"Well, when you put it like that…"

"I could be much harsher in my terms, but I shall refrain from that unless you force my hand," the space marine replied. "While it is not suited for me, given my training and general lack of need, when was the last time you took a sabbatical from these endeavors? Being as involved as you are with all of this must certainly be taking its toll. Don't try and tell me you're getting enough sleep either, remember I can hear you when you sleep and it is not a restful one at that."

The Rogue Trade sighed. "Obvious to you, isn't it? I'm not at my wit's end, not yet, but I'm starting to feel the strain. How do the generals and admirals, who have trained or spent their whole lives doing even half of what I am, deal with it?"

"As I said, delegation, though they also find alternative means. Many take to drinking amasec or recaf to power through their woes, while others indulge in narcotics of some kind to take the edge off. Some pursue pet projects, ones whose deadline does not mean the life or death of an Imperium world, as apparently so many of yours do to yourself. Others yet take up more relaxing hobbies, or take paramours to their beds to relieve the stress of such day to day functions, or go on some sort of sabbatical to ease the strain. What would be of most benefit to you?"

"Probably a hobby of some kind, or a vacation," Solomon muttered. "Most of my current projects are either directly tied to the war efforts on a dozen fronts, or will be in some way, either through increasing production and efficiency or by safeguarding those sources. There is no telling when some will be completed, or if ever. Time is not on our side, as every day the enemy down there potentially grows stronger, as will any world held by or under siege from orks. That's not even mentioning the other threats out there, corruption and seditionists and hostile xenos aplenty."

"Which is why you must take a step back, and trust in those you have assigned to their tasks," Titus replied. "All of this work will be for naught if you drop dead from stress before you can truly begin to accomplish what you have set out to achieve. It would be a great loss to the Imperium if you were to do so, as the squabbles over the remnants of your infant ideals and ideas would likely cause even greater damage to the unity we are so desperately clinging to."

"Then I'll take a vacation… after the planet is secured, that is." The Rogue Trader rubbed his face. "I heard Bob is nice this time of year."

"If I recall, it is a pleasure world, it is nice at any time of year. It is also one of the only remaining such worlds in this region of the Imperium that has not fallen, nor is it beyond the reach of ships. It will likely see a greater influx of important officials in the coming years, being a great source of relief from this sudden calamity we find ourselves in."

"Yet it's usually only available if you're one of the fabulously wealthy or Imperium nobility, or incredibly important in some way."

"Of which you happen to belong to the former group. Your wealth certainly became scarcer as time went on, judging by your records, but the numerous revenue streams you've been accruing have made returns on your investments tenfold or even more. In a few years, you'll likely be one of the wealthiest men in the entire Bastionus Segmentum, able to rival a small sector's worth of planetary governors and their ilk. That much wealth would go a long way towards your ambitions."

"Which, like you said, will do me no good if I just drop dead from this stress. I should take some time to focus on the repopulating of the planet instead. Civilian matters usually tend to cause less stress for me than the military ones."

"-and as such, the current population dynamics will be skewed towards Crenon settlers intermixing with the established Wharan and Starthite communities, the populations of which are still currently isolated from one another but will grow rapidly during the initial courtship periods. The issue of mingling will likely resolve itself shortly, especially amongst the unattached settlers, but the ongoing rebuilding process will still see many families in close proximity to each other, thereby opening up the opportunity for cultural diffusion as well as conflict."

Solomon suppressed the urge to rub his head. As it turned out, no, civilian matters did not tend to cause less stress. At least, if the operations were running smoothly, which many of them were not, and especially when he had to deal with self-important leaders or those with the disposition to see themselves as far above those beneath their station.

This one leader, a pompous and rather cylindrical blob of a man whose name Solomon had forgotten even as he had learned it, chuckled at the plight of the "filthy peasants" he was in apparently in charge of. The living conditions were utter shit to start, and the rebuilding process would eventually see them elevated to "decent" conditions, but that was still a long time coming in the more recently reclaimed portions. The influx of so many people was likely to offset the balance of power over the forge world itself, as Syngra's associates tended to not like sharing influence on their worlds. Not to mention that, in a few generations, most of the descendants of these settlers would likely all be turned into servitors by some bureaucrat or inducted into the Machine Cult if found worthy by their forge world overlords.

Come to think of it, how did the Machine Cult reproduce? Was it all vat-grown cloning, or were they selected from prospective underlings? Did they have their children early in life before they replaced most of their reproductive organs with spark plugs, mechandrites and barometers? Or did they simply download their consciousness into new bodies when the old ones were beyond repair?

That last one might explain why some of the older ones seemed to be increasingly desensitized to external stimuli or were suffering from bouts of confusion bordering on dementia.

"Captain?"

"Oh, sorry, lost in thought for a moment. What were you saying?"

"The magsled transit networks are being reclaimed and repaired by returning Adepts, with the ones directing supplies to the front line taking precedence over those for transport between hab blocks and the skybreaker space elevators."

"The magsleds, are there still enough transports to supply everything so far?"

The fat man shook his head. "Most trains are barely patched up, many of them being stripped for parts for other trains. Their carrying capacity remains, as does their speed, but there is currently no known manufactorum still standing that is capable of making them."

"What of the ones that did used to make them? Have they begun scavenging the machinery needed?"

"Yes, but we've no place for such a facility. There is enough power and other utilities near the hab blocks being reclaimed, but it would be far too expensive to-,"

"Then build by the hab blocks."

"But, the expense-,"

"I'll pay for it, Manperor knows I have the funds for it these days. I've been funding a good portion of this war effort anyway, might as well throw some more in the pot where it can be of use."

The jowls of the man seemed to throb in surprise, before he nodded. "Indeed, I'll have someone gather enough of the part to begin. The settlers will need the jobs anyway, but what of the trains themselves? There is no network yet leading to the site you are proposing."

"Then I'll have to have one built, won't I?" Manperor, it wasn't that hard to think, was it?

"If that is all, I will return to-,"

An idea blossomed in Solomon's mind, bringing a smile to his face. "Build two facilities, there's another thing we'll need."

"With the transit-creating parts?"

"Indeed."

"Whatever for?"

"That's for me to know, and for you to carry out. Now, I thank you for your time, but return to your work, I have other petitioners waiting and would not wish to dally with specifics at this moment. Another time, perhaps."

With a suppressed huff, the man walked off, the line behind him slowly trickling in.

As it was, with his growing reputation for both fairness, willingness to invest in ventures of all manner, and his heroic deeds being spread far and wide, Solomon was often meeting with people of all stripes these days. Diplomats, bondsmen, colonists, Adepts, Ecchlesiarchial members, admirals, and even the representatives of several planetary governors.

Yet this was a first.

"State your name for the record," one of his autoquill-wielding servitors droned, ignoring the looming presence before it.

"Chapter Master Myrmidius, Steadfast Wallbreakers Chapter, former captain of the 1st Company, now stationed on the hive-world of Whara IV."

Solomon was impressed. He'd met very few astartes, almost entirely on Woebus, Titus being one exception, and none had yet to come to him for any reason. More often, any he had come into contact with since expressed more of a passing greeting on his behalf, or a coordinating effort on one of the campaign's many frontlines. As it were, this man was part of a chapter whose homeworld had been lost, apparently, and had set up shop on one of the major worlds in the Whara system.

"I can't say I've met chapter masters before, let alone in these circumstances. Most I have met have merely been temporary companions or confidants, never ones seeking my counsel. What brings you to me, lord astartes?"

"It is my understanding that you possess the means and motive of aiding those that come to you, regardless of affiliation, often expecting comparatively paltry compensation or exchanges in return for great gifts, honors and favors. Is that correct?"

"Indeed it is, though I wouldn't exactly call anything I receive as 'paltry', lord astartes. We won't last long if we're not cooperating, so lending funds, materiel and other resources will pay dividends of its own if money is out of the question. How may I help you?"

"My chapter was crippled recently in a series of increasingly unlikely yet incredibly devastating events. I was not always chapter master, but have assumed on the request of my brothers to continue the legacy of our chapter, as we are down to nearly a quarter strength. We have in turn gathered our survivors to Whara IV and are in need of assistance to fill Terra's call to rebuild our numbers. Rumor has it you are developing the means of screening those for genetic predispositions of certain types, as well as developing weapons of war suited for certain soldiers."

Rumors? Solomon could have sworn he'd released something akin to a press statement on such developments of his. Oh well, at least it wasn't the rumor he had a harem of xenos wenches or some malarkey like that. "Indeed I am, on both accounts. I take it you are in need of new wargear, having lost the facilities your chapter once possessed, and would like to see if my screening programs could lead to a greater success rate for astartes recruitment. I am actually surprised you are the first astartes to come to me with such an idea, surely it would be a great cost effective measure to screen candidates to ensure no loss of gene seed if the recipient is incompatible?"

The towering man gave a nod. "Indeed. However small our numbers are now, during our darkest hour, we will not shy away from conflict nor ignore the calls of our allies, and as such will require your assistance posthaste to regain our strength."

"All right then. Screening for genetic similarities for aspirants and current astartes means I will need samples from all of you, at your discretion of course, to see if there are similar characteristics that separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. I know astartes value the of their cultural heritage in many ways, including discretion and the need to be sure such information may not fall into the wrong hands. How do you propose for this to occur?"

"A representative would travel to wherever you call your inner sanctum and deliver such materials," Myrmidius replied. "As for our materiel and support, where would we acquire it? We were not a fleet based chapter before these trying times, and much was lost when our chapter world was consumed by the Rift itself, requiring us to relocate and rearm ourselves from the hive world we are now a part of. Add to that our rok woes, and we are precipitously low on everything required to perform our duty, even defending the world we now call home."

"Then you shall be equipped as befitting an astartes chapter, as the hive world of Whara IV will undoubtedly provide you with more than enough recruits, as it has myself. However, the materials you will likely require are not something I currently possess in the required numbers. I shall have to inform my associates of your plight, and see what I can do on that end. As it is, however, your name, the Wallbreakers. You are specialized in sieges, correct?"

"Indeed, in the breaking of the enemy strongholds. We find the weakness in any enemy line or structure, and exploit it in a great burst of precision and ferocity, to tear apart their defenses and render them open to our allies, as well as assaulting such openings to both break the enemy's cohesion and render them ill-able to continue their defense. It is an oft-dangerous specialization, more so than most, but one we take great pride in accomplishing to the best of our abilities."

"Indeed, a skill we could certainly use at this venture," Solomon added, thinking to the orks currently holed up in the great impromptu fortress of junk and ruins. Orks were not known for defending, instead preferring to plow into the enemy with utmost glee and haste.

Plow into… hmm, an idea continued to take root within him. Possibly crazy, but well within the means of production and execution, especially here. An active warzone was an equally terrible and excellent testing bed for any sort of wartime creation, and thankfully, the situation was not desperate enough to consider holding off on such ideas.

"So, for your sieges, or specifically, for breaking sieges, you will need vehicles befitting your stature, as well as the weapons to wield once engaging the enemy. I believe I have a solution to this conundrum, though it will take a few months to come to potential fruition."

"I thank you for your aid, captain," the space marine replied. "I would also wish to offer aid, should you need it, when we have regained a great deal of our of chapter strength."

"Of course, of course. As it is, I do have some specifications for items that would most likely be usable for you in the meantime. As it were, the orders I placed for my assembly cruisers of Vaeria Primus are nearing the final stages of construction. Come their completion, I should be able to have one specifically configured to produce astartes weapons and equipment from the raw materials it collects, to aid your chapter and any others that find themselves in need of such materiel. In time, with enough of these ships built, I might be able to equip each chapter with such a ship, specializing in that chapter's most prevalent needs."

"What would you wish for in exchange?" Myrmidius asked. "It is no simple task to supply an astartes with his wargear and weapons, with some worlds fighting tooth and nail for such an honor."

"If at all possible, I would wish for a small contingent of your remaining soldiers, likely a squad or two, to set up ship within my base upon Talmanjir. They shall be dedicated to testing the weapons we have been working on for some time now, as well as serving as liaisons between your chapter, my troops and other astartes chapters. It would do no good for either of us to solely benefit, when other chapters are likely in similar states to your own."

"A fair compromise, though do you have any requirements as to the character of these astartes?"

"Calm and collected if possible, or at least those least prone to murdering their lesser for perceived slights. I've invested much in what I'm doing, and will continue to do so, yet I cannot allow troops, even astartes, into my sanctum who may cause harm or setbacks that could cost the lives of millions."

"I shall seek them out from our survivors and screen these individuals personally, captain, on that you have my word," the chapter master replied.

Solomon bowed respectfully. "Then, by your leave, chapter master, farewell, until we meet again."

Confessor Morias prided himself on his history of faithful worship of the Emperor. It was a staunch, unbending one, not influenced by the wealth allotted to him as some others were, or by the temptations of the flesh afforded by the stream of youthful converts and disciples often under his care. Where there was wealth, he gave generously to those in need of it, and where there was temptation, he denied it with great vigor.

Yet a single doubt had found a means of working its way into his heart, a doubt that neither grew nor waned, but remained, like a stubborn thorn in one's side. The declarations from Terra were beyond joyous, the return of communing with the Emperor personally beyond compare to the dreams he had once had. Now there was a chance, a return of hope, but in this dark portion of the galaxy, cut off from most of the Imperium, and surrounded by darkness and uncertainty, the fact that a growing unification, solidarity and Imperial resurgence brought great relief and happiness to him.

However, the fact that it centered primarily around one man disturbed him greatly. Captain Solomon, a man whose profession was not the noblest in the galaxy, but was certainly important in some regards. Yet, he was not a mere trader and explorer, but an aid to the Imperium in times seeming most bleak, breaking xenos and rebellions with both mighty weapons and skillful diplomacy.

A strange man who, as of yet, seemed to lack any real connection with the Ecchlesiarchy. Reformed or not, such an increasingly-powerful individual could not be allowed to stray from the Emperor's light, lest he turn this portion of the Imperium into his own personal empire, as other Rogue Traders had done in the past. Or, Emperor-forbid the thought, turning to far darker ambitions, of deeds so dark better they never see the light.

As such, disembarking from his shuttle upon arrival in the Terra's Scion, he was immediately greeted by a small throng of people from all walks of life, disembarking from their own craft. From Mechanicus adepts trailed by servoskulls to a squad of asartes, ships captains to what looked to be representatives of various planetary governors and tagalong nobility, down to even the simplest of soldiers and, dare he say, colonists? Here he was, one of many, coming to see this man, but unlike those who sought favors and deals, riches and glory, he sought something far more important.

Influence. An offer to be by the side of such a man, to peruse his forces and command structure with initial restrictions, but eventual impunity, he would be behind the scenes of Solomon's growing network. He could seek out those with doubts, and return them to the light, expose heretics, gain favors, and most importantly, be by the side of Solomon. Whether to watch him for sign of trouble, bestow upon the man his own wisdom and representation, or bring the light of the Emperor to him fully, it would all be worthwhile.

Ah! A familiar face amidst the crowd as they all moved, many flanked by their own cadre of bodyguards or scribes. Unexpected, for sure, but not unwelcome in the least.

"Prioress Absinthia! I would never have expected to meet you here, of all places."

The prioress gave him a polite bow as they walked. "Confessor Morias, a surprise as well. I believe the last time we spoke was upon my last visit to Valdonius Primus, correct?"

"Indeed, overseeing a pilgrimage to a cathedral world is no less of an important task than bringing aid to the Emperor's many followers," he replied. "Did you arrive just now?"

"Indeed, I have been in-system for a scant few weeks."

"How fortuitous that we meet at such a juncture in time. What brings you to this ship?"

"I have journeyed from my convent to seek an audience with Captain Solomon. You?"

"Much the same, though I do believe for different reasons. I am here to offer my services to the man, to bring the Emperor's light and wisdom to an increasingly, and strangely, influential man. Tell me, sister, are many of the rumors true?"

"Which ones?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "Forgive my apparent confusion, but I do believe I have been around long enough to have heard most, yet not all of the rumors swirling around the captain."

"He has defeated orks in numerous engagements with his forces, sometimes with so few casualties as to be called miraculous?"

"Some, for certain, though several of these engagements were before we met."

"You've met him before?" Curious, he had not expected that.

"Indeed, we have been… acquaintances in the past. We have not always been on the best of terms, but I will endeavor to remain cordial in our dealings, and if possible I seek to rectify our earlier disagreements, for the betterment of us all."

"A Hospitaller would undoubtedly be useful to the likes of this Solomon, as I doubt the medicae in his care could be up to the task of overseeing their fellow's injuries of both body and spirit," Morias said with a sagely nod. "Have you considered becoming a part of his council, or at the very least, sending another sister to do so?"

"Some of our convent have already joined with his cause, but have refrained from leaving his moon base, citing far too much work to be done and far too little of a need for them to journey with the captain," Absinthia replied.

"That was another rumor, he actually owns a moon?"

"Indeed, and it is becoming a hub for various organizations and allies of his. Fellow traders, rogue and otherwise, guardsmen regiments, fleet captains, planetary governors, the list Sister Hannais has sent me of those coming and going continues to intrigue and, dare I say, concern me."

"Concern? You worry for the power he is accruing?"

"Only for the fact that he seems to so freely dispense with it to others, appointing those without the proper birth to positions of power or influence. He called it a "form of meritocracy" the last we met, I believe, and my greatest concern is those he surrounds himself with." She paused as the group, far more spread out by now, halted at a checkpoint, where a group of soldiers and AdMech were scanning and searching everyone in line. "The pious and the faithful have their place at the top, as the designated guardians of mankind's spiritual strength and safekeeping, and the fact that he has yet to appoint one of such illustrious faith draws my concern."

"Perhaps he is following the edicts from Terra, from our glorious overlord?"

"Regardless, we cannot let those whose faith remains strong be tempted by forces beyond his control, as sedition, schisms and more sinister whispers are always seeking their way into the hearts of mankind. As such, I have indeed come to him to offer my services, as an equal, not a subordinate. I realize now the errors in my past judgement of his regarding... issues, blinded me to my purpose by his side. What of you, confessor?"

"Much the same, though in this I find myself lucky. He would be foolish to disregard either of our petitions to join his council, as a Confessor and a Prioress both carry significant weight in the Imperium's upper and lower echelons. With our combined influence, perhaps we may be able to stem the tide of our worries, and bring Solomon into a more favorable course of action? It would seem that, if even half of the rumors are true, he will be able to call for a crusade of his own, should he so wish."

"Which would be wisely suggested and overseen by us, of course, as close allies to the captain," Absinthia concluded. "Indeed, Morias, a sound plan, but one we must partake in with extreme caution. Solomon's antics on and off the battlefield have earned him a great amount of loyalty and worship, thankfully of a non-heretical kind, but we must be ever vigilant in our steadfastness. It would not do for us to have a falling out with the captain over an issue that could be construed as willfully ignorant or minuscule in scope."

"Has that happened? Between yourself and the captain already, that is?" What in Terra could the prioress have realized was a miniscule issue, despite all of her faith and steadfast will to carry out the decrees of Terra and the Emperor?

"Very nearly, over something you will have to find out for yourself. Come, we are almost there, we will return to this at a later date. I must warn you, Morias, the captain is far cleverer than you may think, and far more inclined to accept those who are most likely to aid his cause. Your services, unlike mine, may not be an easy sell to the man, as he seems to distance himself from those he believes to be zealots."

Every regiment of the Imperial Guard, much like the chapters of astartes, carried with it its own culture. Whether a remnant of the original founding, a change due to a massive influx of new recruits, or a unique blend of the cultures of those throughout its history, they all carried with them a unique signature in the grand tapestry of the Imperium.

This regiment was no exception. The Azyrvan Armored Heralds were the only regimental guard assembled from their world, a grand affair that had seen patriotic fervor spur hundreds of thousands to join during the initial stages, bringing a great number of troops to several needed fronts. Yet, within a matter of decades, something occurred upon the world that brought catastrophe. Some claim it was an unsanctioned psyker of immense power ripping open the veil, others claiming an ancient Mechanicus artifact had been unearthed and unknowingly unleashed. Still others claimed it was a sign from the Emperor for the transgressions of the Azyrvan's failures on the battlefield, of which there had been few.

Regardless, a rift to the Warp opened up, and within days, swallowed the entirety of the planet. Those few who managed to escape the cordon and be declared free of taint joined with their kin in the regiment, creating a roaming nation of exiles. Over the centuries, through recruitment of all manner, the regiment remained primarily Azyrvan, though with smatterings of smaller cultural significances scattered throughout.

They remained the Armored Heralds because that was what they did best. They heralded the Imperium wherever they went with strength of arms through artillery, tanks, and whatever other vehicles of war they could arm themselves with. Just as often they were gifted junk on tread as much as they were granted far more pristine weapons of war.

Colonel Advern Rheden proudly traced his lineage through the regiment's long history, his ancestors being among the very first of those to join the regiment in its founding, forming the backbone of its aristocratic-style officer corps. In the history of his people, the remnants of their world's destruction, they had witnessed battles against xenos, heretics, rebels and worse, always emerging stronger for it. Now, with communication from the Imperium reduced to only a short distance, it behooved him to maintain discipline in the ranks and seek out the enemies of man, wherever they may be, to continue the eternal crusade of the Azyrvan people. Though their world may have died, they would not die until their last breath was spent, and the last of their people died fighting the good fight.

It came as a great shock to him, then, that as soon as they had arrived at the staging point, some moon called Talmanjir, he received a vox transmission offering supplies to his regiment. Understandably, he was cautious, as some governors would readily provide him with substandard materiel and troops, often dumping barely-functioning vehicles upon the few ships they called home.

Yet the shuttles landing in the bay of the primary ship, Spirit of Azryva, unloaded things he had never seen before, and in his time, he had seen quite a bit. Tanks and transports with turrets and angled armor, infantry weapons the likes of which seemed unusual, even to him, and hulking machines similar to a smaller, sleeker astartes dreadnaught.

"Greetings, colonel," called a pair of voices.

He turned to find a pair of female officers approach him, having exited one of the shuttles. They seemed young for officers, in his experience, but knew that age did not always grant wisdom.

"Greetings," he replied, returning the salute. "Your names?"

"Sergeants Farella and Fellara, of the Mastuonus First Expeditionary Force," the first replied. "We have been assigned to tag along with your regiment as part of an exchange of sorts."

"Indeed?" This was nothing new, the colonel had seen other regiments do the same. "What sort of exchange?"

"We are primarily an armored division consisting of Crimson Mechs, courtesy of our benefactor. We will be assisting you in the integration and spread of these machines of war to your regiment and others, as both a sign of goodwill and to aid in increasing the versatility of your regiment."

Not one to look a gift equine in the mouth, the colonel nodded. "Very well then, I accept your assignment. Will the two of you be joining by command structure as adjutants?"

"In a sense, though we will be primarily in charge of training whichever troops you deem capable of operating the machines. They are fairly 'user-friendly' according to Captain Solomon, and contain flash-training programs within the control helms."

"Captain Solomon?" the colonel asked. "I must admit I'm not knowledgeable of the man, a Rogue Trader I believe?"

"You've only just heard of him?" the first asked.

"Indeed, I've not been near this portion of the Imperium before, especially before the opening of the Rift. My forces and I became stranded soon after, thankfully in one piece, but word reached us that the go-to hub for information and primary resupply was becoming the Mastuonus system first and foremost, followed by others. I take it he is important?"

Volkus willed himself not to move, as still as the void outside the hull of his raider dropship, restraining the imminent feeling of excitement that would undoubtedly fill his soul. The hangars were never to be taken for granted, their ancient machinery often malfunctioning at random times and pumping out breathable atmosphere at the most random of times.

The depths of the void were indeed deep, the cold dark between stars stretching in all directions like a thick blanket of perpetual night. Here, great beasts of the galaxy lived and died, might void whales and void krakens oft far from the bright warmth of starlight. Between the worlds and stars, where gravity was at its weakest, and all other forces seemed miniscule, the only constant was the passage of time.

The galaxy was a vast place, for all its billions of years of existence and its millions of worlds both barren and inhabited, yet there remained innumerable places where nothing was known. The Imperium, in its long history, had lost countless void vessels to countless more accidents and terrors, as had other polities, other species, throughout the eons. Any agglomeration of these lost vessels would be repurposed by survivors and made into a home, one they would dwell upon only because there was no other choice.

This was one of such islands amidst the great ocean of lonely darkness. Voidhome. An ancient subspace accident that had resulted in the marooning of a small Imperium fleet in deep space. How long ago, nobody knows, but these original ships were far too damaged to seek rescue. Powerless, they crashed upon the surface of a large errant asteroid, likely a small moon ejected from a doomed world being swallowed by its star. These first few ships were to be joined over the centuries by other such lost vessels, some landing relatively unscathed and others crashing with enough force to render them into hulks of twisted metal and leaking coolant. As none could leave, the countless survivors tore apart and rebuilt their ships across the surface, tunneling into the great asteroid like ants forming a new colony. In time, it became like a hive unto itself, separated by whatever shipwrecks and airless expanses between these outermost outposts, much of the rest being buried deep beneath the surface.

For a time, there was unity amongst the survivors, as for every conflict that arose between newcomers and Imperial remnants, there were many more successful integrations. Yet over a thousand years before, something had occurred that drove such a unity apart. The clans rebelled against their overlords, exiled to live in the few ships that orbited the planetary body, unable to escape its pull but strong enough to remain in orbit. Of these, there were many, ranging in size from small corvettes to a great number of cruisers.

Volkus was a son of Clan Starshadow, named for a vessel whose current reclaimed terrariums could barely sustain them all, and likely would not be able to until they'd been fully repaired, an ongoing struggle for any clan home territory. He was a member of the Roamers, those tasked with scavenging as much as possible from the ships declared uninhabitable. It was a prestigious, revered but highly dangerous job, as the void was as unforgiving as the wrecked ships they raided.

His dropship entered the opened bay doors, the shields flickering slightly as the repurposed lander drifted through the still air towards an open spot. His fellow Roamers, veterans all, gripped their weapons tightly as the vessel came to a rest on the floor.

"Sensors are saying there's atmo in here, thin but breathable," the pilot replied, one of the few Mechanicus among their group. The techies, as they were known, were some of the most valuable members of any clan, as their wisdom could keep a vessel running long after others would have winded up as scrap. As such, they were often never on such raids unless no others were able to pilot the ships, and wielded the most power after the clan leaders themselves. "Good luck, and good harvests."

"Good luck and good harvest," they all echoed, Volkus included. The ramp lowered to an eerie silence, the clamp of their boots giving a series of light echoes off the far walls. All around, small piles of dust were disturbed, likely the settled remains of whatever airborne detritus was carried through the ship's ventilation ducts.

Ships like these were deathtraps to those too likely to be lost in their winding ways, unable to follow the trails of fresher air or locate the echoes of other living things to have traveled through. All Roamers possessed the Sight, the gift that enabled them to traverse these halls without falling afoul of hidden dangers, as one had to in order to survive their way of life. Any not born with this gift were traded to the denizens of Voidhome, often in exchange for those who developed the Sight there. The Children of the Void, as they called themselves, had little need of the gift, having long ago determined it to be an affront to the Voidking, He Who Watches From Afar.

To Volkus, there was only the Thronelord, He Who Guides From Within. To some, they were one in the same, but for those with the gift, one that could aid in their seeking was to be worshipped as such. Thankfully, the religions tended to coexist in that those that worshipped lived separate from those that did not. If they were forced to share the same space, conflict would surely erupt.

They split into two teams, one headed towards one of the unmarked storage bays further towards the ship's defunct engines, their own destined for the center. "Volkus, take point with two others," one of the other veterans of their group said. "We'll watch your back."

A tried and true path lay before them, whose markings had been made long before his own grandparents had been born. With his Sight, Volkus readily scanned, his heavy autogun at the ready just in case, the two flanking him bearing an ancient lasgun and a small flamer, respectively. Each of the abandoned ships were different in some way, with the terrariums in one often too small to support permanent habitation, many of them damaged in some way. Even in the more intact ones, the atmo generators were not operational, or only sporadically functioned, meaning some enterprising colonists in the past had all perished when the atmo suddenly ran out, or so the tales went. Rely on the reliable, shun that which was not.

They encountered nothing of note, the soft echoes of their hardsuit soles the only noise other than their breathing. None spoke, their eyes and ears working in tandem with their Sight as they moved further and further into the ship. The occasional bit of scrap lay here or there, but the tunnels had been cleared over the centuries, anything useful being salvaged long ago.

After several turns, they reached the open air of the main terrarium, the largest and often most plentiful of them all onboard. Whether by design or ancient hubris, the more numerous, smaller terrariums were designed to grow plants in small spaces, to utilize maximum space for minimal expenditure of resources. The main one, however, remained a large, open area, with the ceiling no less than twenty meters high, designed to be more of a piece of the world it was based upon.

All around, lush plants filled fields, all in neat rows of finely-grown vegetable and cereal crops, and in the distance, trees bearing ripe fruits masked the walls. The streams teemed with small creatures, many in small ponds kept apart from one another and connected by crude gangplanks.

"This isn't right," one of the others said. "This ain't wild and untamed like the others." No other terrariums had been organized, many of them thick with undergrowth and in many places overgrowing into whatever hallways they could get a purchase in. This, this was too clean, too beaten back, too… civilized.

"Someone lives here," Volkus said, motioning towards the far fruit trees, where a few plumes of smoke could be seen. "When was the last known Roamer party sent?"

"From our clan? Not in decades, the right for this cycle of harvest was a hard fought one. Clan Parallax was the last before us, but caused the incident to begin with, the previous Roamers from Clan Hammerhound having overharvested their own turn. If nobody has been here since the Parallax…"

"Then the ship has been undisturbed for near fifty years, assuming no Roamers have been sneaking in for their own share," Volkus said. "Have we any reports of colonists seeking this vessel? Children of the Void, perhaps? Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to expand power or find their own plot to call home."

"None that I've heard, but the clan heads tend not to talk about that with us," another said, hoisting her gun. "Despite the Roamer's Code forbidding it, sometimes a Roamer or two go off on their own for glory or profit. What we have here might be a settlement from one of the other clans."

"Trying to make a new clan, perhaps? Or attempting to add a ship to their own clan's powerbase?"

"We'll assume the former, but be ready in case the latter rings true. Such an abrupt power shift will have the other clans in an uproar, they don't take kindly to such clear breaches of etiquette. Come, let's fall back."

"We must not go back empty-handed," Volkus replied. "Even if the others found something, we must have something to show for our efforts."

"Then we take a look at the Hall," another replied. "We only just got a look at it last time our forefathers were here, there's bound to be things of worth in there."

Volkus would have agreed, but a buzz on their vox silenced that line of thought.

"Back to the ship, priority alpha. Grab what you can but return with all due haste."

Not a word of argument from the group, for such calls were rarely given, unless in circumstances most dire. Volkus raced back with the others, running as fast as he could as other sounds began to buzz over the vox, of their fellow group relaying information of something they'd disturbed.

They arrived at the shuttle in time to see the other group racing from the far side of the hangar, the lander already preparing to take off. Some were covered in some kind of liquid, hopefully just water, though none seemed to be injured save for…

"Garrek," Volkus muttered, reaching the lander as the wounded man was pulled in. A wet stomping noise faintly reached their ears in the gloom as the lander closed, the last of them piling in with whatever they had managed to find just as the stomping grew louder.

He grabbed his cousin and immediately looked over his wounds as their craft left the hangar. Deep lacerations, broken bones, and blood leaking on the floor. Wordlessly, two others began to apply whatever kits they had with them, patching him up as best they could. He would need to see the medicae back on the ship for certain, or he'd lose a limb or two.

"What did you find?" he asked, turning to the secondary expedition's leader as his cousin labored for breath, the shock likely rendering him mute.

"Found some tech parts the techies might like, some weapons, and a good deal of scraps that might be useful but… there was something else back there."

"What?"

"Remember how some of the ships have large, open areas, where storage was its primary function and thus were able to be sealed, in case of hull damage?"

Volkus nodded.

"It was flooded with water, right up to the gangplank leading into it. We didn't see any evidence of damage to the water networks of the ship, but all the same, the lake before us was massive, probably hundreds of yards deep, maybe more. Whether it reaches other levels through some of the other tunnels, we know not, but we do know it is not uninhabited."

A tremor of fear went down his spine. "What lives in the water?"

"We only caught a glimpse of it, but it attacked fast enough to leave those marks," the man said, pointing to the pained man. "Never seen anything like it before. Burst from the water in an instant. Thought for sure it was going to drag him under, but the Thronelord was with him this day. His Sight had him moving just as the creature made for him, and if not for that, I'm sure he'd be a goner. It dove back into the water immediately, but we heard it emerge after we started running, and never looked back."

"What was it?"

"All I saw was teeth, lots of big, sharp teeth, black eyes, like those of the void, and a smooth body, huge and rippling with muscle. I couldn't see much else, we hauled out of there before it could try again. What you see was all just a glancing blow, and it gets worse."

His cousin looked like utter shit, and whatever was in the water had just missed. A direct hit must be lethal, then. "How could it be worse?"

"There were dark eyes, like its own, off in the water, shining as our lights pierced the gloom in our retreat, before we rounded a corner," the man said as he slumped into his seat. "On the far side, we could just make out what looked like battle damage, as if something had rammed into the ship and stuck itself in there."

"So these things were not always in the ship."

He nodded. "Whatever they are, they are now, and let's hope they stay where they are."

"We will have to tell the clans, investigate this new danger. If there are indeed settlers on the ship, we must find a way to reach out to them, offer them safe passage or protection, for the life of any with the Sight is one who is touched by the Thronelord, and must be kept safe."

"Aye, I'll let the clan heads know. Might see an alliance like there hasn't been in ages, not since the Great Schism. Thronelord, it'd be good to not have to squabble with the other clans for a change, and all it'll take is them believing what we saw and regard it as a threat."

"It could be worse," Volkus said. "The Children tell tales of the shadow-smiths and the dark lurkers and other, worse things in some of the broken ships of Voidhome, many of them declared off-limits to anyone who doesn't have a death wish. Let us hope those hidden there, in the great recesses of the dark, do not find a way to our own territory. It could be doom for our people."

The others made the sign of their god, clasping their overlaid wrists across their eyes in prayer. "Then let us pray for the Thronelord to give us a sign, to bring us closer to his light, that we might find our way away from this darkness."

A/N: kudos to those who can figure out some of the references made in this chapter. Took a bit of research but I feel it'll bring more to the story in its own unique ways. Send a PM my way if you have any thought, comments or concerns, or leave a review! On another note, recently I've begun going back and making changes to some of the earlier chapters (so far, working on 1-10) and likely will have those updates published sometime before the next full chapter.