PRFS Chapter 42

"An excerpt from the latest voxcast publicae, Ecchlesiarchially-approved and originally broadcasted from the world of Hevis Primus."

The beginning static feed gave way to an image of a rather handsome man, well-dressed by most standards, wearing some armor that was likely decorative, surrounded by piles of ammunition crates and standard hab-bunker building supplies. All around, small whorls of dust flew about, and the background was a constant churn of distant lasfire and artillery bombardments. Soldiers marched past, some on guard whilst others were hauling a variety of supplies from a landed shuttle in the distance, and from a bunker emerged a small squad of finely-dressed individuals.

"Greetings, Arch-Delator Calidus Crawn here, out on the frontline with the troops of the Gronadan 112th Grenadier Regiment, currently stationed on Halfast Primus. Colonel, how goes the reclamation?"

"We have progressed far faster than we thought we would, the wretched xenos of the world have been giving us one hell of a fight but it clearly isn't enough to stop our brave men," the similarly well-dressed man replied, only the colonel had small wear and tear of his uniform from the fighting and was far more grizzled than the shaven correspondent.

"Word has reached of a standoff between a large group of the xenos and your troops. Other regiments have stated they are assisting along the flank, but your line seems to be one of the more readily-engaged lines so far. Your comments?"

"The other regiments have been holding their own, just as my men have. At this rate, we should have the bastards purged within a standard month or two. They're too close for orbital bombardment, or else a stray shot might vaporize us all, but I'm confident my men will be among the first through the breach to end their sorry existence. Thing is, they're repairing those damn holes we make with artillery almost as fast as our boys can shoot at them."

"What of the rumors of assistance coming from the rear lines? Word has it a major player in the campaign is promising a break to the siege shortly."

The colonel growled as he lit a cigar. "The rumor mill would have you believe that Rogue Trader has something cooked up for this siege, like he always does. Captain Solomon might have a head for rebuilding and fighting from inside a command ship, but this ain't a simple skirmish or line battle, it's a siege. These aren't quick, tidy fights where one side charges and either wins or dies. These take time, where we wear down those damned xenos with artillery and whatever other shots we can put into their nasty green-,"

Whatever else the colonel was going to say was drowned out by a roar from the rear of the camp, like that of a great wave of missiles barreling straight towards them. The wind kicked up fiercely, sending dust and errant debris everywhere as the vox screen panned up in time to see a massive shape pass perhaps a dozen meters overhead.

The magsled trains that had ferried them to these front lines, across the remaining and repaired networks crisscrossing the planet, were as spacious as they could be and utilitarian to a great extent. These that flew overhead were like their older, angrier, and far more grizzled veteran cousin.

The front of the train, from what they could see, seemed to be a mishmash of shimmering air, crackling energy and a massive wedged slab of metal built into the front like the prow of a cruiser. An audible hum, loud even over the sound of the magsled train roaring overhead, made their bones tremble and teeth rattle in their skull. A power generator, built into the front of the train, to weaken the bonds of whatever its fields would come into contact with.

The rest of the train seemed to shimmer just the same, though slightly reduced, but the bulk of armor and redundant madsled generators running along the undersides was a sight to behold. Glowing bright gold, they were almost too intense to stare at, and jutting from points along the train's body seemed to be as many weapons as could be crammed into such a space. Large lascannon turrets, boltgun emplacements and heavy flamers lined the sides, and as the train roared overhead, more joined it along the flanks, in a line spreading far and wide across the frontline.

As they landed on the ground in front of the frontlines, barreling straight towards the enemy lines, they sounded war horns that seemed to crack the ground beneath them from the sheer concussive blast. Atop these armored trains were even larger turrets of varying nature, some of them rivalling those of tanks, and all along were countless other turrets of seemingly every variety that could be fit.

All rushing straight towards the large ruins that constituted the stronghold of the xenos.

The colonel managed to shout into his vox hailer to cease the artillery barrage as Crawn's vox feed zoomed in on the speeding behemoths. "What are those?" he called, all of their ears likely still ringing after such a display.

"Must be that something you heard the Rogue Trader's been cooking up," the colonel replied, attempting to relight his cigar. "I don't know what he's thinking, we've tried assaulting with transports but the damn orks just keep firing their damn rokkits and we'd never make it far enough to do anything other than set up a new line of trenches and bunkers. That open field is a killing zone, that's why we've been sending as much artillery at them as we can."

As if on cue, rokkits began to spew from the ruins, many exploding randomly or veering off in some random direction, sometimes straight back at those who fired them. Yet many, far too many, continued straight towards the armored magsled trains, seeming to hone in on their forms like a swarm of angry metallic bees.

The air shimmered before the trains, explosions rocking the exterior as the rokkits seemed to detonate prematurely, the trains continuing unimpeded, unscathed, kicking up clouds of dirt as their war horns blasted once again, like the bellows of a charging herd of great and terrible beasts.

"Void shields," the colonel whispered, his stump of a cigar dropping from his mouth. "I'll be damned, those things have void shields! How in the fuc-,"

The magsled trains slammed into the ruins, some seeming to bounce up into the air like a serpent striking at a bird seconds before impact. All at once, their weapons began to fire, ripping into the structure as the trains continued through, shearing through rockcrete and steel like tissue paper, visible shockwaves emanating from each impact. Their mighty forms continued unabated, worming into the orkish fortress like aggressively parasitic worms, burrowing in spite of all the orkish firepower attempting to pierce their armored hides.

In an instant, the trains had emerged and swung around the outer edge, turning back towards their immobile and damaged prey, like wolves circling a wounded grox. Their weapons continuing to fire at the orkish horde within, the trains slammed into the massive structure once more, seemingly losing no momentum as they burst out from the sides, emerging as if parasites emerging from the corpse of their host.

Again they swung around and plowed through the structure, their weapons never letting up as they continued to blast away at the gathered orks, the greenskin counter-barrage slowly but surely lessening with each lethal strike. The massive structures rumbled and groaned, like mighty beasts being felled by a hungry pack of smaller but far more maneuverable predators.

The trains burst through the structures one more time before a great series of tearing noises echoed across the battlefield, and to the stunned amazement of all present, the great structures began to crumble in on themselves, sending up vast dust clouds across the open area. The trains came to encircle the crumbling structure, like a group of serpents circling dying prey, their weapons still firing into the crumbling mass.

The vox crackled to life. "Attention all Imperium forces, this is Conductor Luqas of the siegebreaker engine squadron, designation Golden Auger. The enemy fortress has been crippled, all forces are to converge on location to mop up remnants of xenos filth. All artillery batteries, resume firing upon target for now, but don't hit us, all right?"

Crawn, dusting himself off as best he could, turned back to his own vox. "Well, looks like I'll be moving towards the frontlines. Prepare yourselves, loyal viewers of the Imperium, this could get ugly."

Space is immeasurably vast, spreading in quantities completely incomprehensible to any mind, mortal or otherwise. Add to the fact that the universe only grows in size with each passing moment, crossing thresholds unseen before, only added to that maddening realization that, whilst not infinity, it most certainly would never be a static constant. This did not even take into account the possibility of parallel universes, spreading ad infinitum throughout realities both true and false, potential or never imagined.

The lights of galaxies were the bright pinpoints in this cosmos of utter darkness, like the lights of cooking fires of villages, scattered throughout a jungle in the midst of night. They represented a chance at life, a chance where the utter emptiness of space may be one day bustling with life forms evolved from primordial soup of otherwise unassuming collections of differing elements.

The hive mind of the horrid creatures known as the Tyranids knew of this well. The collection of biomass, to expand and strengthen the hive mind and the fleshforms it called its host, relied on the navigation of the stars to find world where they might find sustenance. Like a great group of fishes swimming through the depths of a great, cold ocean, they moved with the intergalactic currents, making a beeline towards the stars where they might find nourishment. They felt nothing for those they consumed, for they were as specks, mere plankton and krill to be consumed for the greater mass, pieces to become part of a greater whole.

Yet the very same stars that represented their food amidst the great migrations was also a sign of their undeniable weakness. They depended upon the biomass to survive, converting anything they reliably could to be used for their own, but in order to do so, they had to go dormant, flinging themselves towards a target and relying on the presence of life to awaken them from their slumber naturally, lest they be forced to by other outside factors.

Those of the living metal, terrible parodies of life given flesh, were a foe potentially true and terrible. A mockery of the hive's own existence, created by the corruption of reality and the debasement of ones that had been old before many stars had been born.

The green fungi battled endlessly, many times far too troublesome to deal with until far greater numbers could be marshalled against their squabbling, uncoordinated ranks. Perhaps if the Tyranids had too once been destroyed enough to lose their way, to become far lesser than their progenitors, then perhaps they might share a kinship. Yet these morsels only served to delay the inevitable, to become part of the whole and bring greater biomass through deserved struggle.

The others, far lesser, crystal-kin and carbon bipeds and a whole slew of other lesser beings continued to fight as well, their cries of defiance no more upsetting than those of their infants, all consumed, inevitably, for the hive mind to use to grow and propagate.

Yet it was a necessity, for the Tyranids were indeed like fish in an ocean, moving from place to place, galaxy to galaxy, to consume and propagate, to expand and grow and flourish. Yet for this analogy, the rest of it remained true as well.

There were always bigger fish in the sea.

Galaxies were indeed the coral reefs, flourishing with life and resources available to those able to utilize them. Yet, as time would go on, they would grow dim, the resources would deplete, and like starving schools of the hive mind would need to move on, to more verdant pastures.

Therein lied the danger. The deep dark of the universe was not at all empty. Beings beyond the scope of mortal minds, of entities so malign and ancient, indifferent and incomprehensible, that their very existence was a threat to anything they deemed worthy of their attention. Thankfully, starlight and the effects of gravity seemed to repel them, if only because they deemed the need to combat these forces too inconsequential to put effort into. Alas, some were not this way, and merely slumbered until they deemed it necessary to awaken, or were awoken… unintentionally.

The last galaxy had been a bountiful harvest for the hive mind, a great resource to be scourged and absorbed, yet it had not been without… complications.

The hive mind had passed too close to an old enemy, the eternal enemy, one whose hunger reality itself could not satiate. It knew no mercy for those it saw, seeking only consumption, a living void whose belly could fill no more than the universe could shrink. Often, the hive mind had seen it effortlessly combat other void creatures, repelling or consuming the without effort or mercy.

To the creature of dark space, this bigger fish, the vast hive mind of the Tyranids, with all its fleshforms and mighty knowledge and the consumed biomass of countless worlds, was no more to it than anything else was to the hive mind. It was barely worthy of notice, no matter what it did, and had been aroused from sleep by the folly of the hive mind's gloat over the past harvest of another galaxy.

So it rushed its foremost tendrils into the galaxy known by its inhabitants as the Milky Way, knowing much of its collected biomass would not survive the journey. Occasionally a hive fleet would perish to great void predators within a galaxy, such as a void whale or kraken, but the deep predators, of the inky blackness of the void between galaxies, they were not so easily avoided once their attention had been earned.

This enemy followed them upon the shattered corpse of a star, moving at speeds far from possible in the known universe. The rear echelons of the hive mind had been splintered again, as had the ones before those, scattering to buy as much time as the main body could muster. A sacrifice, a pound of flesh at a time to escape a fate worse than erasure from reality, yet ultimately entirely worth it, so that the main body may continue.

The tendrils could feel the rippling of pain throughout the hive mind as the creature consumed the rearmost echelons, without mercy, without restraint, without anything resembling pity or even resignation. It lived only to consume, much as the Tyranids did, but neither grew nor became fiercer.

It had no need to appear fierce or regretful, for the empty voids that constituted its eyes stared ahead, rarely blinking atop its throne of a star's corpse. It even smiled, the unnaturally pink skin stretching abominably as its cavernous maw opened to swallow another hive fleet.

The strongest known fleets in the Milky Way struggled against even a minor fleet of the Tyranid hive mind. Some of these same fleets could no more successfully flee this void entity than they could hope to attack it, as nothing could seem to damage its pliable squishy hide any more than it could harm its unnaturally cheerful disposition, the likes of which unsettled even the hive mind. Yet these splinters would attack it, for they had to, for every precious moment in time they resisted, held it at bay, then that moment longer the remainder of the Tyranid hive mind remained and could flee further.

Thus, all the hive mind could do was will itself to not be entirely consumed, will itself to make it to the safety of the reef of stars, away from the maw of the void, away from the pink menace, willing that the creature would not follow it into the lair of stars, for if it did, nothing would remain.

The name it was called echoed back to eons of darkness, of existence unimaginable. Countless names had been assigned to it by the hive mind, ripped from the minds and memories of things lesser beings could only call a pale shadow, an imitation of an imitation of its true form. Glimpses of a true menace that mortal minds would have struggled to even name, for lack of a description suitable to such an ever-present entity.

Khur-bi.

The rigors of war often meant a lack of luxuries. Exactly what defined a luxury could be vastly different depending on the culture, the species, or even the time of year. One didn't need heavy winter clothing in the middle of a hot day any more than one needed sunscreen within the depths of a cruiser. Every situation called for something different, and as such would be a Manperor-send in the right conditions and a potential liability in the wrong ones.

Case in point, running water, and clean water at that. The damage to Halfast Primus had been significant across the board, either from the initial invasion, the war that failed to retain control, the evacuation or the centuries of orkish scavenging and lack of upkeep. Many of the aquifers and chemical filtration plants had been destroyed beyond repair or were still in the process of being reclaimed, meaning most of the water upon the planet was being pumped and dispersed from distant sources, rather than more local ones, or being brought down as a luxury for the few that could afford it.

Solomon brushed dirt from his shoulders as he left the shuttle pad, the clouds of particles casting his main base of operations, and indeed a good portion of the area, into a seemingly perpetual twilight. Eventually the air scrubbers would reduce the issue, but for now, when not outside the hangars or bunker-like systems in place, one had to wear something to avoid aspirating on dust.

A good portion of his ever-increasing contingent of troops and personal council members had come with him, many tagging along as they moved into the assigned residence. Visitors were there as well, ranging from Adepts to regimental colonels to even more colonial leaders and incoming Knight pilots, many of the latter set to arrive at a later date, most having just finished exterminating groups of orks on the far side of the world. The first to arrive had been the Knight Errant and its pilot, such a decorated machine earning first honors for repair, resupply and downtime.

It was a well-known secret, but the layout for bunker system that they were still in process of fully utilizing was a planned construction of Solomon's own, based upon a combination of defense towers and command bunkers, the likes of which could, in the future, be used to more rapidly and permanently secure territory in the midst of war or exploration. Considering the Mechanicus that was actually wheeling and dealing with him was very, very slow on sharing anything with him, any design plans that he didn't have access to he'd have to come up with on his own to replace them, hence his lack of standard, well, anything.

Yet it came up all the time. Why not build a nova cannon?

He didn't have access to anything related to building it.

Why not build baneblades?

He didn't have plans for them.

Why not build a battleship of some kind?

He didn't have the plans for them.

Or, in that case, the necessary resources.

On and on it repeated, regimental commanders having to be almost bullied into accepting that while he could replace their vehicles and weapons, it wouldn't be with what they were used to.

"Tough shit," Solomon muttered, reaching what qualified as his main headquarters on the planet. A secure facility to be sure, with varying rooms of supplies, communications arrays, links to the growing number of turrets and defensive measures against both possible attack and the weather itself, and living quarters atop the vehicle repair and storage bays. The main hub was much like some amalgamation of a throne room, a council chamber, and a feasting hall, complete with areas for rest, study and discussion.

Most of his more important guests or council members deigned to dine with their own retinues or assistants, unless they wished to discuss business or proposals. Herein lied one of his greater achievements, transparency within his own ranks. Offices were for personal work, the great hall was for open discourse and meetings among guest and allies alike.

At the head of the great table he took his seat, flanked by his subordinates. Titus, of course, remained standing beside him, as the chairs could not support an astartes even out of armor. The table was something scavenged from one of the more opulent residences, retrofitted to be able to display and transfer information between Solomon's DCD's as well as emit personal holographic displays at each terminal.

"Then, to business," Solomon said, as the last of his council took their seats. "The flow of ships into the system has slowed considerably since the beginning of the campaign, but those that do arrive are merchant and colonizing vessels, along with a fair share of Mechanicus representatives. We do not currently have the facilities to resume work on most of the manufactorums, but we are making progress. Current colonization efforts on the moon continue as planned, as do the reclamation and expansion of the mining efforts, and there has been significant progress in repairing much of what had been damaged during the initial invasion. Anything left to report?"

"The successes of the Siegebreaker Engines has been above what was planned for, as the last bastion of orkish resistance outside of the last landmass has been neutralized," Prioress Absinthia declared. "The first incarnation of the vehicles have issues, but given the constraints in their construction, they have otherwise been a resounding success. Reports have come in asking for such machines to be constructed for artillery and siege regiments across the planet."

"Let's make sure we iron out any issues before we continue construction and retrofitting of the current variety," Solomon replied. "The next generation or two will be far superior and will likely become a great source of war materiel from the planet once control has been fully established. In time, we could see every regiment in the Segmentum Bastionus outfitted with a siegebreaker engine for their own usage."

"We have also received reports of the unearthing of another vault, though thankfully not one overrun by feral servitors," Titus added. "The details remain not entirely clear at this point, but there have been some intriguing, if not entirely useful, discoveries."

The terminals displayed a series of images, each one as bizarre as the previous.

A vivisected xenos of insect-like appearance within a stasis pod, the notes labelling it as a "Q'orl" of some kind.

A pile of differing artifacts, many of them appearing to have been constructed for someone who did not have human hands, likely xenos in origin, and noted as being unresponsive to all attempts at study.

What looked to Solomon to be an (at least in his original time) advanced form of a communication device, with notes detailing the presence of numerous auditory recordings upon the device when plugged into systems capable of broadcasting. The archaic letters were a bit smudged, but it looked to be called an "I-foun 20" in the old languages still translatable.

There was also a strange orkish-looking weapon that seemed far more advanced than anything Solomon had heard of orks using, but the notes declared it more a curiosity piece due to its age and seemingly advanced designs for orkish craftsmen.

The last was perhaps the strangest to Solomon. A towering figure with proportions similar to an Eldar, only even more unusual and clearly designed for combat, given the weapon attached to its strange construction.

"A wraithguard," Titus explained after earning a curious glance from the captain. "An Eldar war machine similar to that of a space marine dreadnought, whereupon their souls are placed into the machine should their body perish. I have not faced one before, but tales tell of their deadly efficiency and mighty presence on a battlefield. We are most fortunate this one appears to be defunct or deprived of its method of function, for it would certainly slaughter all in its path."

"Shall we destroy the xenos artifacts?" Confessor Morias asked from his seat beside Absinthia. "They may have interest to some, but are far too unholy to be used for our goals."

"We will hold onto them for the time being, but we'll likely be able to sell or gift them off to the right people," Solomon replied. "Just as we did with the Dark Eldar craft and corpses from Mastuonus Primus, best to let others learn from them if we cannot. I would however like to look over the communication device, as well as the wraithguard. Even if the Eldar technology is too difficult or arcane for us to understand, observing it or making comparisons to our own technologies could prove beneficial in the long run."

Solomon was silent when he returned to his quarters, exhausted. The troop deployments, the requisitioned supplies, the task of rebuilding the local area, all on top of all the programs and duties he'd managed to accrue these past few years, it was all starting to get to him.

He needed a break from it all, even if only for a short while. Planet Bob was starting to look more and more tempting with each passing day.

But first, he needed a good rinse. The dust seemed to stick to everything he wore, getting in and under any layer of clothing and itching something fierce. Yet when he went to his personal shower, the water at first refused to work, and eventually what water did come out was freezing cold and absolutely filthy, stained like ash.

"Of course," he muttered. "Hopefully the barracks showers work better."

Redressing, he made his way down to the first floors, shadowed by Titus, who had, for the first time since entering Solomon's employ, removed his armor and wore instead a skintight bodysuit, covered by robes likely thick enough to serve as blankets for a normal human.

When Solomon entered the barracks showers, a few soldiers were leaving, so he'd relatively have the place to himself. Before he could strip, he tested the waters, and indeed, clean and hot water burst from one of the shower heads.

Stripping amidst the gathering steam, he turned to see Titus stripping as well.

"I have not showered in some time, and while the Codex Astartes is best a guideline, rather than actual rules, cleansing of one's body is as important as cleansing one's mind," the giant said with a chuckle. "I am thankful the showers in here, though smaller than what I am used to, are tall enough to accommodate my frame."

"Okay," the captain replied with a shrug, having showered communally back of the Terra's Scion when he was living alongside the other soldiers of then-captain Ordacius. This was the first in a long while since he hadn't had a private shower, but hey, he'd rather have hot clean water than ashy cold slurry.

The steam billowed as the hot water washed the dust away, cleansing Solomon's skin and soothing his aching muscles, tense from the stress and lack of motion he'd been afforded these days. Gone were the days of serving on the frontline, or training with the troops. Now, he did paperwork, shuffled supplies, met with people and communed with his council on matters of life and death for countless others, himself potentially included.

So yeah, no pressure or anything.

The door on the opposite end of the barracks audibly opened, and a pair of voices greeted Solomon's ears.

"… so the battle finished, the dead were immolated to prevent further infection, and Vartellus Primus was saved from both rebellion and an outbreak of plague."

"Interesting, I didn't know Hospitallers were as adept with their flamers as they were with their medicines. I was only aware of such training being amongst the more militarily-minded members of the Sororitas."

"It is required of us for our training, it would do us little good to be caught unawares. We-, oh, hello, Titus, what are you doing here?"

Titus, who blocked Solomon's immediate line of sight and form, had turned as soon as the door was open. "Ah, Prioress, I did not expect you to be here. Who is your guest?"

"This is the pilot of the Eye of the Storm, the Errant Knight who has been so helpful with us on campaign. She has recently returned from the front to rest and regain control of her faculties."

"I am Celenta, lord asartes. Indeed, the rigors of battle have been weighing upon me enough that, now with the end of the major conflicts on neighboring continents, I believe some reprieve from the frontlines would serve me best before continuing the fight."

"You are most welcome to join us, however we shan't be long if you wish to bathe in private."

"Nonsense, Titus, in the eye of the Em-, er, I mean Manperor, we are all human, and therefor equals, even if some of us are far more suited to the task of defending our race."

"Indeed, though not everything can be won with brute strength and adamantine will," Titus chuckled as the pair removed their uniforms. "Sometimes, it takes equal parts wisdom and intelligence to bring the light of the Manperor to mankind, as well as repel the darkness at our door. Wouldn't you agree, Captain Solomon?"

Silence was absolute as the captain, who had been content to hide behind the cloud of steam and the brawny bulk of Titus, coughed slightly. "Er, yes, indeed. Though a strong chainsword arm and ceramite armor certainly helps."

"Indeed it does, but all the armor in the galaxy will do you no good if your chosen weapon is ill suited to the task at hand," Titus said, sidestepping enough that the Solomon was no longer hidden from view. "What do you think, Prioress?"

Solomon wasn't quite prepared for the two women under the showerheads. Absinthia was a credit to her order, as finely muscled as she was unnervingly beautiful, as it seemed many Sororitas were, with a body likely capable of attracting any eye in a room, should she shed her armor. Whether this was part of the selection process or simply a running fluke, he had no idea, but her form reflected her chosen line of work. Scars of mismatched variety, from old stab wounds to healed lacerations and even what appeared to be recovered burns dotted her form, signifying her to be far more lethal than he had originally guessed. Clearly, if she still lived, and bore the scars earned from survival, then whatever had made those scars was likely dead.

She was as a dedicated warrior, whose might shone through both her looks and the evidence of her faith in the Emperor and mankind. Were it not for her clear dedication to the Hospitallers and her chosen sisters, he surmised she would have likely made a powerful military leader, perhaps even a planetary governor, as he knew her mind to be as sharp as her looks.

Celenta, however, was a first for him. She appeared much the same way Delvidia did, svelte and gorgeous, with an air of aristocratic upbringing to her gaze, likely once again coming from a long line of people selectively bred for wealth and prestige as much as for looks. Yet she also seemed to be a midway between Delvidia and Absinthia, far more muscled than the former but not so much as the latter, likely due to a lack of need for it inside her Knight. Long tresses of blonde hair cascaded in the hot water, her pale blue eyes almost seeming to glow softly as she looked upon him with curiosity, as if judging him on the massive amounts of healed scarring he too possessed.

This was, after all the first face-to-face meeting, though not exactly how Solomon had planned on it.

A cooling sensation, in contrast to the heat of the shower, trickled down his spine, as a voice he recognized whispered in his mind.

Adam.

"Easy now, boy, they may have the looks, but we've yet to see their temperament as we have with your current lover. Be careful around them, we know naught of their motives, and as help, have this little gift of ours. No need for your blood to rush from your head to elsewhere at this time."

Any excitement that could have been building in his blood chilled considerably, leaving his mind intact and unable to waver from the conversation. Besides, at least now he could appreciate his guests, as much of them as he could see anyway, as one would a work of art. Beautiful, yes, but with restrained interest, so any distractions would remain subdued.

His silence must have been noticeable, as the prioress, whose speech he had completely forgotten about, glanced over to him from Titus. "What of you, captain? What say you to these rumors of Vaeria Primus?"

"Which ones?" he replied. "Of my potential connection to the Machine God? Of the potential schism the Mechanicus could suffer if we don't handover the world back to their hands? Or is it the number of adepts seeming to convert to my way of thinking, spurring conflict within their ranks?"

"Frankly, all of them," the prioress replied. "Is there such a connection?"

"Not that I'm aware of, if there is such a thing. I see both evidence and counterevidence for both sides of the rumor, even if it's one I personally don't find convincing. As it is, I don't believe it to be true, but with how crazy the galaxy is, if there is some truth to it, I've yet to see enough to convince me of it."

"As for the schism, surely it would not come to blows," Titus added, his shower ending and grabbing a large towel to dry himself with. "In these trying times, certainly the Mechanicus would not devolve into infighting amidst such trying times. We are cut off from the Imperium at large, if only just, so we must endeavor to persevere in these times, and hold together."

"I would not put it past the cogboys," Absinthia said. "Many among them are a jealous and mysterious lot, often working at odds to one goal or another and only providing aid at the times it works towards their benefit. Even among those that are not such fickle recluses, they tend to stick to their own, often eschewing other organizations and polities unless absolutely necessary. The fact that a good number are falling under your sway, Solomon, or at least are under the appearance of doing so, does not sit well with some of the more staunchly traditional members of their order."

"It is the way of the Mechanicus to be hoarders and highly protective of their position within the Imperium," Celenta softly added. "It is only forge worlds that may build our Knights, along with countless other machines, tools and ships. They guard such a monopoly with great zeal, as their mindset of hoarding coincides directly with their attachment to technology and their worship."

"The deals in place should be enough to protect me and my own," Solomon countered. "They may be troublesome to the Imperium at large, but we're not defending the rest of the Imperium. This portion that we have is all we can hold onto, and if it takes me to inspire them to shift doctrine, even just a little bit, towards the benefit of all of us not dying in terrible ways, then I'll gladly carry that burden. What we're a part of is so much greater than us, but it's something we must contribute to. If not, we're doomed to death and destruction, if not by the hands of our enemies, then by our own swords."

"Those agreements will do little to heed to more zealous from seeking to undermine or attack you, should these schisms continue to grow. We've no idea as to when or how, but eventually, this will come to a head, captain, mark my words."

"I would rather it didn't prioress, but how can I prepare for such a potential outcome? It is not as if I can favor one side over the other without inviting even greater discord and strife amongst the ranks. The survivors of Halfast Primus have begun calling me a prophet of the Omnissiah for Terra's sake! If word of that gets out, there'll be three things that happen. It could be taken joyously by the Mechanicus, cementing my place amongst them and earning myself greater privileges, it could be met with zealous outrage that sees me hunted down and killed, or it eventually causes a split in the Mechanicus within the Segmentum Bationus itself, compromising our entire network of defenses, supplies and communications across all systems and battlefronts. We can't afford any of that."

"Why not? Surely becoming a patron of technology would be a great boon?" Celenta asked.

"No, it might sound like it, but I'd be too tied to one organization, restrictively so. I can't afford to let myself do that, or else I'd lose the freedom I have to be where I need to be when I can. If I were to, say, become a planetary governor, there's no way I'd be able to travel on my ship as I do, help planets in need, or expand my list of connections that could be used to better the systems I have a presence in. If I'm stuck in one place…"

"Then you see yourself as useless," Celenta finished. "A wandering leader, administrator and innovator, all rolled into one, with no need to put down somewhere until your work is done."

"Which it will likely only be upon my death, and even then, what I can set into motion to outlast me will be all the more valuable to set up now, while I'm still alive." His shower ended, Solomon took the offered towel from Titus, drying himself as the other pair finished. "Which is part of the reason, Absinthia, I've accepted your position amongst my council, as well as your old acquaintance Morias."

"What do you mean?" the prioress asked, tucking her towel under her arms, the tight cloth having a… distracting side effect. Or it would, if not for mental assistance from Adam.

"I have eyes and ears all over my ship, and while I may not know your motives, I can guess as to your intentions. Reasonably, anyway, and while the kerfuffle of the reformation of the Ecchlesiarchy has sent a good portion of your order into a relative sort of bedlam, I still see the potential for a deal between myself and your organization, mirroring that of mine and the Mechanicus and Inquisition."

"Chose your words carefully, captain," Absinthia said. "Ill-speaking of the Ecchlesiarchy is not for the faint of heart, nor is it without consequences."

"I bear no ill will, only a compromise. I have been developing a means to influence mankind through subliminal and not-so-subtle cultural coercion, so to speak, with a series of vox-cast publicae designed to relieve stress and malaise within the Imperium's citizens with access to such technology, in an effort to combat potential enemy recruitment from within our borders and to bolster morale and recruitment rates from certain worlds. However, my main goal for this partnership would be a sort of… legitimacy guarantee."

"What sort of guarantee?"

"If I can have your support in meetings with planetary leaders, as well as those of other organizations, it would lend a great deal of credibility to my name and my plans, both present and future. It would do us no good to be seen as squabbling over minute and inane issues when the biggest problems we are facing should be taking immediate priority."

"How would this benefit us?"

"I would be able to ally myself with the Ecchlesiarchy under the same sort of conditions the Mechanicus and the remnants of the Inquisition have placed upon me. However, prioress, yours is a special case. Word has reached me of… issues within your ranks. I would like to help settle such disputes before they turn into full-blown schism or worse, civil war amongst the ranks."

The prioress paused as she gathered her clothes, his words clearly worth being considered at least. "How can you prove that you will side with those chosen by the Emperor, and not those simply claiming to do so?"

"Simple. I side with those who stand by the people of the Imperium, which I know for a fact you do. There are those that claim to do so, only to use that to gain more power, influence and wealth for themselves. Yet there are others like you, prioress, which focus on the welfare of our citizens, not on the glories of conquest nor the prestige of ruling. Those are the kinds of people I would stand with."

Now fully dressed, Solomon retrieved a small projector from his pocket, whereupon activation, displayed a ship. Though to Absinthia's trained eyes, this was no simple repurposed ship, an old cargo hauler refitted for active duty with weapons bolted to its sides and armor slapped on top of that. This was a warship, specifically built for such a purpose.

"I call it the Pontufexus Cruiser, the first and so far only of its kind," Solomon said. "Heavily armored, heavily reinforced throughout, with enough firepower to take on an average planetary defense fleet without even losing its shields, and equipped to hold enough rations, medical supplies and other pertinent facilities for the equivalent of an entire army of Hospitallers. Numerous redundant systems, terrariums, warding glyphs and runes, and an entire complement of trained troops to protect and serve those on board."

"A fine ship," Celenta said as she dressed behind the prioress. "What is your price?"

"Consider it a gift, upon its completion," Solomon said. "As a part of our agreement. With the amount of facilities on board to both produce and distribute the amount of medical supplies your order will need, I'm certain you'll find a pragmatic use for it."

"That cannot be all, there must be a price for it," Absinthia countered, weakly at that.

"Like I said, you can do more good with this under your direct control than I can. That's why I placed the order for my processors and assembly cruisers to build it. This ship will be the first of its kind: built not by the Mechanicus for a purpose not in line with its original designation, but for the Ecchlesiarchy, with the express purpose of defense and healing in mind."

The display winking out, he turned and nodded to Titus, who fell in step alongside him, departing without another word.

"So," Prioress Absinthia asked, turning to Celenta. "What did you think of him?"

"I think him to be a man with a good head on his shoulders, though still incredibly naïve in the way of things," the knight replied. "A man with both incredible potential and potentially divisive, exceedingly dangerous and dangerously pragmatic. He could lead this portion of the Imperium down a dark path, simply because he believes it is a right one."

"And?" the prioress added.

"Yet, for all his faults and potential dangers, I do see a goodness in him, something I've not seen for some time. It's been stamped out everywhere else I've been in my life, so to find it here, in the midst of a man so potentially ruinous and yet so profoundly able to bring positive change to such a small corner of the galaxy… it's as refreshing as it is unnerving."

"Then I shall continue to keep an eye on him, as will the rest of the council. The offer still stands to join us in this growing sphere of influence, Celenta. We could use a war-minded pilot to aid in reigning him in, if need be, as well as another sharp mind for the conflicts to come."

"Again, I thank you for the offer, but as of yet, I see no reason to do so," the blonde replied. "I've my Knight, I've little need of anything else until my penance has been paid and my debt cleared."

A/N: a chapter that should have been out a little earlier, but was extended for more fluff and a little more important developments without it, for once, being some big info dump. As it is, not sure when the next chapter will be out, but I'll get to it when I can. *shrugs*

As it is, feedback is like diesel for my engine, so let me know what you think could be better, what is good, or what questions you may have.