Chapter Twenty-five
The docks were ancient and worn. Rather, she thought, like most of the travellers moving on them. Like she was. Well, worn, anyway. She toted her duffle along the long metal deck to the hire-board. This would be her fifth hire-on since leaving. Or would be once she found it anyway. She scrutinised the advertisements carefully. For destinations, positions, not wages. The money wasn't important as the availability.
She knew she was running, if she stopped long enough to let herself think about it. The trick was not to think about it, to work hard enough so the nightmares didn't wake her from exhaustion. She sighed as her search came up empty, slots available only for experienced – well, more experienced – people, or scutwork. Though she could manage that if the ship was going somewhere that might be useful, somewhere more populated, or nearer Sol. And Terra.
Kat had barely realised her ultimate goal at first, only understanding her seeming whim when after her third ship she realised she had come nearly a third of the way to humanity's cradle. Now, less than a hundred light years out, she was finding it harder to find the right ship. She could, of course, have joined a pilgrim ship – there were many of them. But she wasn't going just to pray at the famed temples. She wasn't, if she was honest, entirely sure why she was going to Terra at all; it was just a journey being made, like an instinct. She thought about it for a second, then shied away from the introspection and the memories.
Deliberately, she turned her attention to the hospice list. Yes, there. A quiet place. A veteran's inn. She preferred those, places where men and women were not surprised to see a worn uniform jacket like the one she wore. Places where no-one asked awkward questions, and where there was a sense of belonging. She hadn't felt like she belonged in a long time.
Tigh watched the young woman walk through 'The Anchor's well-kept but slightly down-at-heel sliding doors. Pretty thing, he thought, though her colouring was a bit unusual. You didn't get many people with that coppery hair and pale skin in this sub-region of bright white-yellow stars; humans here tended to darker skin and hair, with its greater protection from harsh sunlit worlds. His experienced eyes took in the slightly worse for wear naval jacket – ex-officer, then. Young, to be demobbed; no visible injuries, but there was that something about the gait, the tension behind the blue eyes, that showed why she was no longer a naval officer. Something had hurt her, deep inside, and she probably wouldn't be much more than a liability on a warship. He'd seen combat stress before, and this woman, barely more than a child, had a bad case of it. Still, 'The Anchor' was there for people like her, especially. He smiled at her as she approached.
"Evening, lieutenant. Looking for a room?"
She nodded. Handed over her papers; he flicked through. Verstark, K.M., lieutenant, INS Golden Dawn (discharged with honours). The date was eighteen months ago standard. He very carefully didn't react when he saw the Lupus crest on the inside back cover and handed the documents back.
"We're not exactly luxury. Don't get many officers in here."
She shrugged. "Would that be a problem?"
Tigh shook his head. "Not at all, lieutenant."
"I'm not a lieutenant any more. Call me, Katrin, or Kat."
Tigh smiled again, much more genuine than the reassurance he'd previously used. "I'm Tigh, then. Lately sergeant, Imperial Guard. You call me Tigh. How long are you staying?"
"I don't know. Until I can get another ship."
"Paying your passage or working it?" he asked, although the answer was obvious.
She smiled faintly. "Working. Scan, if I can get it."
"Better take the room for a couple of weeks then. We do get a few traders, but not many looking for bridge crew. Engineering, cargo, mostly. Otherwise, general low-level stuff on ships unable to afford servitors. If you pay in advance that's ten credits a night; pay when you leave and it's twelve."
She nodded. "In advance, then." He took her credcube, billed it, and handed her the room wand.
"Mess is 0600 to 0900, evenings 1830 to 2200. Fixed menu, but it's better than service rations. Room has its own vid; usual station channels are free, other stuff costs – just plug your cube in to pay. And there's a chapel if you want to use it. A few of our long-termers set it up."
"Thankyou." She took the wand and her papers, hitched her duffle higher on her shoulder and walked through the
Tigh watched her until she was out of sight. He wondered briefly what she'd got the Lupus for, then decided he probably didn't want to know. The Space Wolves didn't exactly hand non-astartes awards like sweets from a jar.
The room was comfortable, if functional. A warm, well-worn coverlet broadly striped in faded red and orange was folded neatly on the bed. A clean grey carpet under a desk and chair, with two wall-mounted shelves empty above the heavy worn synth-wood writing surface. A door led to a toilet and shower; beside it was a floor to ceiling cupboard that on inspection held towelling and bedclothes with just enough space left for her few changes of clothing. Military, almost. Efficient and basic. She put her duffle on the bed and put her gear away, then tapped the console, using the log-in she'd been given at reception. A list of mealtimes and dos and don'ts scrolled up. She noted them and switched off again, then set to making up the bed. Sleep was what she wanted right now. She set her watch for six hours; that would allow her to catch evening mess.
The mess hall was plainly decorated, with a well-maintained aquila on one dark green wall and simple sturdy tables with benches lined in half a dozen rows. A small queue of men and women waited in front of a long serving hatch, behind which three men handed out bowls and plates of food. On the wall where she came in was a small hand-written sign which read 'Remember: No meal without your roum key!'. She held herself back from correcting the spelling and joined the end of the queue.
The woman in front of her turned and smiled slightly. "Hello there. New in?"
She nodded, taking the offered hand politely. "Arrived today. I'm Katrin Verstark, but most people call me Kat."
"Pol Tekit. The lump in front of me is Malachi Abersy, but everyone calls him Mab." The skinny, worn-down man ahead of her turned his head half round and gave a lopsided grin that softened his scarred face. Pol went on, "You Navy, then?" She gave nod towards Kat's jacket.
Kat nodded.
"You're a bit young to be out already," said the man, Mab. His tone was casual, mildly inquisitive, but not accusing. Well, not very.
She shrugged, not really comfortable with the question. Her career had been a necessary sacrifice on the altar of the Inquisition. As had the three months in custody under interrogation, though no charges of heresy had been brought and her discharge had been an honourable one. But she didn't really want to share that right now. She met Mab's brown-eyed gaze flatly. "I was wounded and medical had me unfit for further combat duties. I took the discharge instead."
He nodded. "Happens." He turned more, and she realised he was missing most of his right arm. His grin held a welcoming familiarity as he hefted towards the missing limb. "Lost it on a xenos world; bionics wouldn't take on a poisoned wound." He offered his remaining hand, and she took it briefly. Firm and dry.
The line moved on ahead of them and Pol pushed her companion slightly. He looked at her, but moved obediently, showing his room pass and taking a serving tray and cutlery; Kat noticed the mess did not use slop trays, but, unusually, actual crockery, fired ceramics, clean and well-kept. She took a tray in her turn, putting knife, fork and spoon on the worn grey plastic. The plate of stew she was handed was generous and smelled good; her stomach, used to shipboard rations for the last month, suddenly felt much emptier. She followed Pol's lead in taking a piece of red-orange fruit and a bowl of soup; the serving man returned a short nod in recognition of her thanks. The other woman gave her a brief smile and led her over to a table near the far wall where Mab and two other men had taken seats.
"This is Kat, guys," said Mab by way of introduction, and indicated a seat beside Pol and opposite himself.
Kat nodded politely and took the offered place on the bench. No-one was standing on ceremony; just digging in, so she dipped her spoon into the soup and started. It was good, a hearty, meaty concoction, and she returned Mab's knowing smile with a slight grin.
They ate in companionable silence for a while, with occasional remarks from one or other about their day. It appeared that most of the people at the table worked part-time around the docks, or small manufactoriums on the station. None of them seemed to have a full-time job, simply doing enough to make up, she presumed, their small discharge pensions into the income they wanted. Presumption could of course be wrong, she reminded herself. She looked across at a grey-haired man with soft blue eyes as he said something to her.
"Sorry, I was thinking about something else."
He gave a slow half-smile and spoke in a quiet deep voice. "Inken, formerly of the Vorloyan 7th. You're navy, right?"
She nodded. "Yes. Kat Verstark. Pleased to meet you."
He waved a fork in acknowledgement. "Likewise. Where'd you buy your piece?"
She blinked. "I'm sorry?"
He chuckled softly as Mab slugged him lightly across the arm. "Sorry. Where I come from anyone who's KIA is said to have bought the farm; a wounded discharge is 'buying a piece of land'."
"Oh, right. I understand. Raid in my home system. I broke a shoulder and got shot in the gut."
"They couldn't fix you up?"
She shook her head; she'd had this sort of conversation before. "Yes, but not so I could still have kids."
Pol looked at her sympathetically, but puzzled. "Having children isn't a requirement for Imperial service."
"My ship was captured. I was able to set the self-destruct and blow it up; just me and one other got off. A medical discharge was cleaner than a court-martial – for everyone. But since I can't have kids, I couldn't stay at home and get married, so I left." She shrugged slightly, trying not to let them see how much that had hurt.
"What class of ship?"
"Cobra class destroyer."
"Whoa," said Mab. "That's what, ten thousand crew?"
She flushed. "Fifteen. I grew up with a whole lot of them." She met his eyes as hard as she could. "I'd prefer not to talk about it." She took another bite of her fruit.
"Fair enough," answered Mab without rancour. He turned to the third man at the table. "Caven, did you hear anything good today?"
The dark-haired man shook his head. "Nothing much. Some pilgrims came in, all declaiming some miraculous rescue from pirates. A few rumours about a new labour directive. Oh, and some garbled shit about the Throne of the Primarch on Macragge glowing again."
"Glowing?"
"Yeah, you know, ever since the 'Miracle' there a few years ago all sorts of rumours have been around."
There was laughter, not harsh, but rough and cynical nonetheless. A dark-skinned man leaned across from a neighbouring table, his single dark eye holding hers.
"It's all bollocks. I trusted in my las-carbine and prayerbook. His Grace was good enough to keep me alive in action for ten years; that's enough miracle for me."
"Yeah," added the man beside him. Kat noted they both wore the same faded unit patch, a pair of black stars on a red- and blue-striped rectangle. "Onliest miracle I ever seen was His Space Wolves, jest that one time. Iffen you're in a war zone, real livin' breathin' miracles with big guns beats any glow, any time."
"You said a mouthful, bro'."
Pol chuckled. "Honestly, you two. You're not the only soldiers ever to see space marines in action, you know."
"Ah, Pol, but we're the only ones here as seen the Space Wolves."
Kat tried to hide her reaction, but the speaker caught it and looked at her. "What? You've seen Space Wolves?"
She nodded reluctantly. "Just one. He was on a Deathwatch team."
Pol's look showed sudden understanding. "That's why they didn't court martial you for blowing up your ship. It was taken by xenos, right?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "No. Not by xenos."
A sudden choked noise came from behind her and she looked round to see Tigh's eyes large and understanding. "That's why you got it."
She blushed, suddenly wanting out of the conversation. Slowly she nodded, pleading with her eyes for him to stay quiet. He looked apologetic.
"Got what?" asked Mab and Inken together.
Tigh looked at her, then answered slowly. "She got the Lupus Imperialis."
"Throne of Terra!" whispered into the sudden silence. She flushed, feeling like a fraud amongst these warriors. What was one desperate moment against all their years of service? Half-blinded by sudden tears she started to stand; Pol tugged her back down.
"Easy, Kat. You're among friends here."
She flushed and shook her head stubbornly.
"We're all soldiers of the Emperor here, girl," came Mab's voice. "There's forty-odd regulars stay here and between us that's a lot of service time. We've been there too. No-one's gonna judge you; we've all had to do what was right 'stead of what was easy. And we know how it hurts."
"You need to tell someone. Trust us; we know."
"Yeah, and better us than any arse-licking pen-pushing remf."
She shook her head. "No. It's not,.. just .." She trailed off, lost for words.
Pol lifted her by the chin and met her eyes. "When you're ready, okay?"
'When you're ready' turned out to be several days later, a chance conversation with Pol turning into a confessional of sorts. Pol and her friends, sworn to secrecy, were duly horrified at the infamous traitor astartes and the depredations – limited as her experience was – by them and their adherents. However, as experienced combat veterans, they were also well able to understand the imperative that had caused her to kill more than ten thousand loyal Navy personnel.
"You had to do it," said Mab. "First, for your own point of view, you were ordered to by a Deathwatch astartes. He would have killed you without qualm if you'd refused. But second, and more importantly, he knew, and you know – and pretty much all of us here know – what would have happened to your crewmates, your planet, and maybe even Imperial defence in the sector. You had the ability and knowledge to stop them. Only you."
Other grim faces nodded at his words. Tigh spoke for them all when he spoke quietly. "They were dead already once those devils got control of the ship. You didn't kill them; you just stopped them from dying worse."
It took several subsequent talks, and private discussions, with the other veterans, before she felt comfortable enough to accept her decision, but the guilt still lingered. With suitable onwards passage fairly rare, she tried to find a short-term job and was able to secure some dock work filling in data. It was pretty mindless, but it kept her busy enough not to dwell on her past.
Kat had been in the hostel for nearly seventeen standard weeks before Pol, who had contacts in shipping control, informed her that a Terra-bound pilgrim vessel was due to dock the next day, and that its senior scan officer had been taken ill. There was a high possibility that the Praiseworthy Endeavour would be looking for scan back-up. As a decorated ex-Navy officer, Kat would have a decent chance of getting the berth, at least as far as Terra. And Terra had uncounted thousands of vessels in constant transit, so she would have an excellent chance of finding a position from there.
After a short discussion, she allowed Pol to slip her name into consideration, and the good news came later that evening while at mess; she was requested to attend an interview as off-shift scan officer the next morning shift while the vessel took on supplies and fuel.
"You had better wear a uniform jacket," said Mab.
She shook her head. "I'm not Imperial Navy any more. Not entitled. I have a standard issue bridge jacket which I can wear."
"Put on your decorations, though," said Pol with a brief smile. "A pilgrim ship will be keen to check things like faith and loyalty. Might as well make a point," she added cynically.
Inken nodded thoughtfully. "Fair point. They're not exactly going to look too closely if they see that Lupus. You'd have to be a pretty clever traitor to get one of those."
Several of the vets laughed. Kat realised anew how much she was going to miss these hard-bitten warriors whose hard-won cynicism somehow managed to translate into solid loyalty to the Emperor of Mankind.
Captain Havren S'yer sat behind his massive well-polished desk musing on his options. His senior scan officer, Ketil Hawdren, with whom he'd served on the old Endeavour for some twenty years, a good reliable man, had caught a minor fever, presumably from one of their several thousand passengers. Given the exigencies of warp travel and the possibilities of on-board contagion, he was obliged to ask Hawdren to remain in isolation until the medical staff cleared him, and that could be several days. Since this would play merry hell with his schedule he was also obliged to replace his senior scan on the main-day shift. In turn this left him short-handed – though only marginally so – on the off-day second shift.
He could simply carry on, of course. His officers were perfectly capable of managing even with one experienced scan station short-handed, but it was not something he's ever been in favour of. S'yer was a cautious captain, a man who considered that Murphy's Law was a reality to consider rather than a superstition. To that end he was considering hiring a replacement junior scan at their current docking and there had been a couple of interesting applicants, the next up being the most intriguing of the bunch.
He picked up the printout again. Katrin Verstark, former naval subaltern, honourably discharged following combat injury, Lupus Imperialis, Imperial Navy Medal. And currently living in a run-down veterans' hostel while working data entry on the docks. Now, why would a decorated Imperial hero be living in a cheap place like that?
There was a tap on his door.
"Come."
"Captain, your appointment is here."
"Send her in."
The woman who walked through the door didn't look much like a hero. Her soft blue eyes showed an age that did not fit the smooth youthful features beneath the shoulder-length coppery hair. Her jacket was neat, standard civilian issue, without more indication than the small ribbons below the left lapel to indicate her service decorations. S'yer found that he rather liked that; it indicated a suitable humility for a junior officer, rather than the attitude he had feared from his previous, admittedly limited, experience with other retired military heroes.
He sat silent for several seconds, letting any tension she might have build. Nothing showed on the pale face. He allowed a fractional smile.
"Lieutenant Verstark, I presume?"
"At your service." A calm professional tone. S'yer noted the lack of prayer without surprise; most military veterans felt no need to pepper their speech with pieties.
"I've read your record, lieutenant. Might I enquire why you are looking for a position on my ship?"
She nodded, as if expecting the question. "I am interested in seeing Holy Terra. Many of my home-world's stories tell of ancestors who came from a place there called 'Australia', and I would very much like to see what remains of that land. I have been working passage in that direction for the last several months."
Ah. That explained a lot. S'yer nodded slowly. "A not uncommon situation. You are certainly not alone in the desire to see the lands of your ancestors. I am surprised that you do not express a desire to visit the many holy places on humanity's cradle."
She met his gaze without flinching. "There are many thousands of holy places on Terra. I would be honoured to be able to visit some of them."
"Indeed." S'yer lifted the printout again. "I am glad to hear it. We will have completed lading this time tomorrow; is that sufficient time to get yourself signed out of your current accommodations and on board?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir. Easily"
"My first officer is outside and will arrange both a billet and a ship's uniform for you. I presume your are familiar with standard mercantile terms and conditions?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I'd prefer that you be aboard no later than oh-seven-hundred for orientation on our systems."
The woman nodded. "Not a problem, sir. I'll be here at oh-six-thirty."
S'yer smiled briefly. "Very well. I shall inform the dock watch to expect you. Dismissed. Oh, and welcome aboard."
"Thank you, sir." She saluted – military; she would have to get out of that habit – turned, and left. S'yer didn't stand, merely watching her go without expression, keeping his thoughts to himself.