Chapter 15: Approach
January 10, 3242, 1141 hours
The Fair Lady
The Warp
EUS-1840

Ekdal rubbed his eyes stood on the bridge of the Rogue Trader's vessel. Departeu sat more like a cat in his chair than a commanding officer. In the days since they had been in the Warp, he had witnessed more of the man's alleged 'personality'. From any psychological standpoint, it was clear that the man was not all there in the head. He was vain, cruel, greedy, and possibly a little schizophrenic. The drugs that he regularly ingested certainly had not helped matters.

Not like much of his command staff had been any different. The ones that weren't wired into their machines had their own personality tics as well. For the most part, they seemed to be distant; disconnected, as if the troubles of Ekdal's men meant nothing to him.

Ekdal checked his watch, trying to get a sense of what was going on.

"I'm afraid that will do no good." Departeu said, the translated voice singing in his ear. "The time flow of the Immaterium is completely different than that of the normal world. We could have been gone centuries by now."

The implications of that statement made Ekdal feel uneasy and almost made him drop his mug of coffee.

No. Not coffee. Recaf. Tasted horrible, but that was probably the point - shocking the brain into a waking state.

"That doesn't bother you at all?" Ekdal asked.

Departeu turned in his seat, his expression somewhat flippant despite everything. "Why should it? That's what makes the Warp so interesting. Come here, Captain."

Ekdal took a risk walking down the half-flight of stairs to where the Rogue Trader was, an ever-present glass of wine in his hand, and a grey-skinned servitor holding a bottle in a bucket of crushed ice. Gregers did not make eye contact with the cyborg, even though the thing's eyes were obstructed by what looked like a band of metal with slits in it.

"It's far too late in the day for recaf. Perhaps I can tempt you with a glass of Charyldian IX 225?"

"No, I don't drink when I'm on a mission. It impairs judgment."

"Judgment!" You make me laugh sometimes, my dear Captain!" Departeu took a sip, hummed in appreciation, and pointed a jeweled finger towards the bottle. "Five hundred gelt for a bottle like this. Your average agri-worlder will never drink the stuff they spend two years making."

"Is that a hefty sum?" Ekdal asked honestly.

"For a Rogue Trader?" Departeu said looking surprised as well as a little insulted. "My dear Captain, watch this."

The man grabbed the neck of the icy bottle, and glanced at the label in pure satisfaction. Then without warning, he swung it over the head of the servitor, smashing it into shards, many of which embedded itself into the cyborg's skin. It groaned, though stayed perfectly still; a dark red rivulet pooling and then dripping over the curve of its visor.

"Bring me another, please." he said to the servitor, and it trudged away, dripping wine and blood onto the deck of the bridge.

"Good lad!" Departeu grinned.

Ekdal simply stared.

"That was a bit more amusing than I expected this time around. I never liked that one; perhaps I'll have him replaced. That bottle? Worth far more than the servitor. Both of these things I have in abundance; the wine is more precious to me since the planet was deemed a point of Tzeentchian worship and was sadly destroyed by the Inquisition. Sad. They had such good soil there. I frequently carry enough means to purchase whole organizations in my pocket. Look upon this, my dear Captain."

Departeu fished around in his pocket and produced gem the size of a golf ball. It had hundreds of facets, and an interlaced design within the jewel was beautiful to behold, almost like a nebula.

"Yes indeed it is much like a nebula, Captain. This is the Eye of Istad, a unique thing found deep in the mines of Taugrus III, way out in the Koronus Expanse. This jewel was mined three thousand years ago when the blood of the Heresy wasn't even dry yet. It was said to be so beautiful that the light seen in facets were like newborn stars in the cloud of a nebula. So unique. So precious to those that found it."

Departeu studied the jewel, wound up, and pitched it straight into the back of his helmsman's head.

"And now it's over there!"

The man whipped around to see who had thrown the stone at him, but when his eyes met Departeu, his mouth dropped ever so slightly.

"Yes I did it." the Rogue Trader said. "And what, pray tell, are you going to do about it? Perhaps if your fat head didn't make such a tempting target I would have hit someone else!"

The helmsman slowly turned back to his station, looking terrified as he did so.

"You know, my Lord..."

"Yes I do know." Departeu said. "But what were you saying, my dear captain?"

"A crew that respects their captain will be far more loyal to him."

Departeu's eyes slowly linked with Ekdal's.

"Are you implying, my dear, dear Captain, that I am not worthy of respect?"

Now the entire bridge crew turned around.

"Well, out with it, man." Departeu said, tapping the pistol on his thigh. "I adore outside opinions."

Ekdal didn't say anything. "You have money, power, and evidently influence. What's not to be respected about that?"

Departeu nodded, took a sip of wine and said, "You have a glib tongue, sir. I respect that. You do speak truth though. I do have money and power. Influence... that is something we are continuing to acquire, among profit. To a Rogue Trader, there is no such thing as too much influence, and anybody can seize that opportunity to rise to such influence. For instance, have you ever heard of House Haarlock?"

"No."

"Well of course you haven't. I'm being presumptuous. Perhaps another glass of wine will fix that. Where is that lad? Oh well, House Haarlock, now that is a respectable bunch. They aren't Rogue Traders yet, but they are no doubt slowly arriving at that critical mass. Up and coming, especially among the high class they currently rub shoulders with. Supposedly came from nothing, relatively speaking. Legend has it that they were an influential family back before Old Night, but information is so unreliable these days. Now, young Bastion Haarlock, if he plays his cards right or perhaps steals a few from the competition, may indeed work his way up in the world of our circles; a newly minted Rogue Trader and the sire of a respectable family. Perhaps achieve governorship, or place a few governors in his pocket, may curry favor with the Administratum..." he waved his hands, "On and on and on, etcetera, etcetera. Fact of the matter is, there is always something to look forward to when you sit in these plush Veregnian tiger-skin chairs." he rubbed the hand-rest seductively. "Oh, that was a thrilling hunt wasn't that, my pet?"

"Why not go to the level of the Administratum?" Ekdal asked. "Be one of the policy makers?"

Departeu almost spat out his wine. "By the throne, why would he ever want to trade down?"

Ekdal's mouth form a thin half smile. "Good point. Well, what about you then? What do you want?"

Departeu, in the process of wiping his lips with a finely embroidered cloth, seemed to gaze off into space. He lowered the cloth and tapped his chin. "What do I want? Aside from profit?"

"What's the long term goal for you?"

"Creating a dynasty." he said with finality. "We're only securing the funds first. Family life is such a drain on one's finances."

"Uh-huh." Ekdal said, taking another drink of recaf and grimacing sharply. "I'm sure you'll be strapped for cash."

"What does that mean? Strapped for cash?" He asked, the idiom in English, not translated into Gothic.

Ekdal realized he had a free insult handed to him. "Blessed with wealth." he explained.

"Oh naturally." Ekdal said. "Honestly though, I've seen my fair share of wenches and whores over the years; it comes with the trade of course. Actually my Seneschal is quite the animal himself. Probably has more bastards out there than I do."

Ekdal's eyebrows bobbed. "Well, what happens when one of them want to take over. Claim they're Son Number One?"

"What do you mean?"

"Hypothetically that bunch of bastards will come calling eventually for that inheritance money. Army of bastards. Literally." he chuckled.

Now Departeu was flummoxed. This was clearly something he hadn't thought of. "I don't rightly know. Bastard Royale? Last bastard standing takes the gold? King of the Bastards? Damn you for making me think of this!"

"You know what?" Ekdal said. "I think you're the first person I've ever met who would settle an inheritance dispute through mass deathmatch."

"You seriously think I wouldn't?" Departeu asked, eyebrows raised, but expression neutral. Something caught his eye.

The hulking servitor had returned at the far end of the bridge, bucket of ice in hand with a new bottle ready to be opened. Ekdal could see clearly that the drone still had the glass shards embedded in it, though it seemed to have stopped bleeding.

"Ah, there you are, lad!" the Rogue Trader said. "Come on then, let's be having that!"

Several dozen decks below and behind the bridge, Sergeant Major Avery Johnson stood around a tactical readout of the planet they were heading to. Clamped in his mouth was a brightly burning cigar. He bore it with pride and lack of care. Back on a UNSC ship, he wouldn't have been able to get away with doing such a thing, but here, he was free. Lack of regulation, lack of care, hell, there was someone wafting up any given hallway at any given time. The ship was run like a Catholic church. Someone was always on their knees praying, tossing incense around like it was on sale, and someone, somewhere was getting whipped for incompetence.

Perhaps not so much like a Catholic church.

Avery had access to some of the ship but he was always under guard. Green-armored soldiers accompanied him virtually everywhere he went. He saw the cluttered corridors, the floating skulls, and even saw slaves hauling gigantic bullets into cannons with chains and ropes. Chains and ropes.

The whole thing gave him the willies. The sooner he got his feet back on solid ground, the better.

Not all of them had Interpreters here. He did, and a few of the other senior NCOs did. They served as translators for the rest of their units, summarizing and making the information far more bite-sized for the other Marines. Up above them, a techpriest stood next to a holographic projector, calling forth the images of the world that they would be arriving at. Avery struggled to listen to the tinny voice past the translated Midwestern English that the device rendered the speech as. The voice that came from the hooded figure was a collection of whines, static blasts, and frequently accented versions of the lingua franca here he that he had been told was called Low Gothic.

He couldn't find a single bit of linguistic catch to it. It was all Greek to him if the Greeks had been listening to the ancient Chinese and tried to make sense of that too before him.

Next to him was the Master-at-Arms he had seen earlier - the ursine. Wilcox. She was a big lady, standing at six feet even and nearly every single pound on her was muscle, barely contained under her auburn fur and matching hair. For Mobians, she was a scary woman - deadly frightening, but like all of those guys, there was something you could connect to. It was the eyes. Human eyes, not animal eyes.

It was something he had seen very much in the war.

But then he reminded himself that those were not his memories, and that sobered him up quickly.

"This making any sense to you?" He asked Wilcox.

"Not really." she admitted in her gruff but surprisingly feminine tone. "Half of it's just 'thank you machine god', 'we are not worthy, machine god', and 'the Omnissiah repairs all'.

"Silence." someone ahead of them whispered.

Johnson kept his voice low. "Are you sure you want to tag along?"

"I'm qualified to fight on solid land."

"Are you used to fighting in wide-open spaces?"

"Are you?" she fired back.

"Damn right I am."

"Maybe I'll surprise you." she replied.

The techpriest continued. "For it is by the grace and vision of the Machine God that we have obtained record of this world in which the Astartes call for aid. It is the world Ignacis IV, long forsaken by the light of Terra. It is but a simple world, wreathed in frost, wind, and glaciers. Its mighty mountain ranges cover much of the surface."

Avery saw one of the NCOs addressing the lower enlisted Marines. "Planet's called Ignacius IV. He says it's cold as shit."

The Marines laughed in low tones.

"Our most glorious Astropath has determined the location of the Astartes' call. Our Auger array will further determine the presence of the holy warriors of the Emperor. His hand will guide us as his sons cry for salvation. We shall give it through His power."

"In the Emperor's name." the Guardsmen chanted.

The globe of the planet further ballooned in size, filling the small chapel nearly to its golden frescoed ceiling. Miles Prower first looked at the sphere itself, impressed at the resolution of the projection, then was lost in the intricate paintings of angels wreathed in technological haloes, and how they were flanked by skulls and heavily augmented infants. It was morbid, yet Miles couldn't look away. His thumb stroked his growing stubble as he could feel the very emotion in the room. The astropath was right - this could take a lot of time to get used to. It was kind of like being back in EUS-39, when he got a taste of the Jedi.

The Jedi had no idea what was waiting for them here though. The sheer strength of emotions would be enough to disorient many. He was barely keeping it together. He wondered how Jolee, who stood right next to him, felt. Though he was a tough old bastard, he suspected he was keeping it in as well. Though, Bindo had been a Jedi way longer than Miles had. He probably had ways of shielding his mind. However, the same rules probably wouldn't apply here. There was no Force, only the Warp, and the Warp made its own rules as it went.

"Coordinates are as follows." another voice said, the commanding officer of the Guardsmen - a captain with jet black hair named Dekster. "The 2040th is to make landfall at the steppes indicated here."

A bright spot glowed on the surface of the hologram. Miles' ear twitched as he heard the NCO translate for his unit.

"The surrounding terrain is fairly fragile, and we're not going to get much of our heavy units in there. You'll likely get Chimeras to move down there; not much else. That snow is maybe a few feet deep in places. All means available are to be used to retrieve the Emperor's angels. You were born to save your lords. Give your lives for His sons if need be."

The noncom faltered. "Uh... he says that there's a good chance you could all die..."

Now a new emotion seemed to gather. Nervousness filled the space around the Mobian.

"Shouldn't have translated that." Jolee grumbled. "Some things are better left unspoken, dammit."

"Pretty heavy stuff." Prower whispered to the Jedi. "Give your lives to save them? These guys must be pretty important."

"Anything to do with this Emperor seems to be important." Bindo replied.

A new voice appeared to Miles right. "Is this briefing boring you?"

The fox quickly glanced over to see a tall stooped man glaring down at him. The man's face was lined not with age, but with the constant expression of absolute hatred and rage that had built up over the years. The man's blocky jaw was flanked by tall collars that almost seemed like horse blinders. On his head was a peaked cap with a skull placed dead center on it. On his right eye he wore a monocle, lined with gold, but it didn't move like a regular monocle. It zoomed in on his face. One eye was freakishly large because of it, and the other, small and beady. Both were blackened in color and between them was a large, hooked nose that appeared to have been broken in the past at least twice. Beneath the beak was a crooked mouth twisted into an evil-looking smile.

Miles felt a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he could not explain. Something about this man activated a primal fear at the base of his skull. Perhaps it was the man's elaborate uniform offset by the barely contained hostility. Maybe it was the gigantic pistol not so convincingly hidden behind the man's back.

"We were discussing the objective."

"Oh, are we now acting so casually?"

Miles saw it was a lose-lose and asked, "I am not familiar with your rank, sir. Are you an officer with this unit?"

The man made a movement that could have been a jerking of the hands. It could have been the gun coming forward, but the man made a visible effort to control himself, the eyepiece zooming rapidly.

"Your insolence has been... forgiven... for now. I expect nothing better from a beastman."

Now it was Miles' turn to hold his tongue.

"The Lord Rogue Trader has... quite specifically instructed us to show you courtesy. His generosity is to be commended." the man said through clearly gritted teeth. "I am Commissar Helstrom. I am the one who decides whether your miserable life is forfeit or not."

Miles' jaw suddenly dropped. He remembered his first moments aboard the Fair Lady. He remembered being gathered in the cathedral, and he heard the sudden ringing gunshot, and then he remembered seeing the body mutilated by the high caliber shot. He remembered seeing this man in the ranks.

"Oh, so you do remember me." Helstrom said. "Then you remember the power I have. I keep these men in line. I will keep you in line."

"We're not part of your military though. We operate-"

The hand came from nowhere and struck Miles dead center on the cheek, knuckles moving with such force it may as well have been a bullet. The force of the blow spun him around, and he lost his balance, landing on the floor, dazed, confused, and suddenly bleeding from a split lip.

"What the fuck!" Someone cried, and the Marines were on their feet, charging forward at once, voices raised and fingers pointing at the downed lieutenant. Two men rushed forward to pick him up, but Helstrom raised his other hand, pistol pointing between one man and the other.

"Back up!" he growled. However, his words were lost on the pair of E-3s that obviously could not understand him. "Move or die!"

"Back the fuck off, you morons!" The E-5 with the Interpreter called out.

The lance corporals, with hands raised, slowly stepped backwards, all the while the gun switching between the two.

Johnson was instantly thinking of what to do next. He thought and thought but quickly realized that any action he or any of his men took would result in their deaths. They were walking the razor's edge and the best course of action was simply to shut up and take it. It was not a decision he made lightly at all, but he had no choice. None of them did. He jogged over to where Miles lay on the deck and helped him up.

"You will obey orders given to you without question." The Commissar said. "This is my ship, child."

He knew he shouldn't speak. He didn't need to, but he said, "I'm sure the captain would disagree."

Helstrom's face went blank for only a second, but then his jaw tightened and a small vein appeared on the side of his head. He raised the gun and pointed it at the officer's head.

Miles didn't even look up, but instead spat some blood on the deck.

"May Chaos take you, Warpspawn!"

The bolt pistol went off, the report sounding like an explosion in the relatively small room. The bolt however did not go through Miles' head, but instead slammed into the deck perhaps a foot to the side, puncturing the deck plating and detonating somewhere underneath.

Miles' ears were ringing - the world was a wash of white noise. He knew he wasn't dead. His hand flew to his face to check for wounds that weren't there. When his eyes angled up to Helstrom, the man who he was sure had him dead to rights. Instead of one man, there was two - one of them with a wide brimmed hat that held a ridiculous feather; his hand clamped on the Commissar's shooting arm. It had been jerked to the side and now the man with the peaked cap looked worried. Prower couldn't understand what they were saying at first.

"My dear, dear, dear, Commissar." Departeu said, giving the shooting arm another few healthy shakes. "Please explain to me what you were about to do?"

Miles' ears had returned to normal. How long had the captain been standing there?

"This filth spoke back to a representative of the Officio Prefectus and the Astra Millitarum. By all rights his punishment was to be death, sir."

"Yes, I am aware of that. However, this is one of my special friends. My special, special friends." Departeu gave another few shakes at each mention of the word 'special'. "And because I like my special things, I would be quite put out if you were to break them."

The wolfish smile that appeared on the Rogue Trader's face said he would actually be more than just a little put out. That and the fact that he had brought out his own bolt pistol and jammed it into Helstrom's ear.

"Now why don't you be a darling and put that weapon down."

Miles risked a glance and saw that there was not one of the green-clad guardsmen that raised their own weapon to defend their commissar. They weren't frightened, not apathetic... but it seemed, expectant. A weird thought entered Miles' brain, which caused his face to twitch ever so slightly. Were these men expecting their commander to get his head blown off?

"He's quite right, you know." Departeu said, now backing away, but keeping the pistol level with the Commissar's head. "This is my ship. This is my ship and you are my guest, here at my request too if memory serves me; a favor from the Officio!"

Helstrom's eyes narrowed, and then slowly closed as he considered the direness of his situation. It seemed to take nearly all of his effort, but he loosened his muscles, and the arm holding the weapon fell. Miles watched, blood dripping from his lip, that with even more concentration, the finger, locked firmly within the trigger guard, slowly extracted itself, and was placed on the grip.

"Well then lads," Departeu said, addressing the UNSC servicemen. "Best get geared up. We're due to translate in hours, not days as we had originally expected. He shifted his address to the crowd of Cadians. "As for the rest of you, we're preparing for the Guard to descend on the planet as soon as we confirm that we have exited the Warp cleanly. Officers, get your men ready to go."

The man standing on the stage made the sign over his chest with the crossed hands, thumbs pointed opposite from each other and marshaled the regular soldiers out. Soon it was only the adept on stage with the still-rotating projection of the planet they were bound to drop upon. Departeu looked at the Marines and navy personnel, curiously standing around and pacing; making small talk to one another. He approached Johnson who he stood with authority in front of the group.

"You are the commanding officer of these men?" Departeu asked.

Johnson, hearing the translated question, said, "Sergeant Major. I'm one of the senior NCOs in the group. Provisional Executive Officer of SOG OMEGA."

Departeu asked, "And what would that be? Special Forces?"

"Something like that. Advanced reconnaissance, behind enemy lines action, shock troop duty; anything to assist our commanders."

Miles' ear twitched. Something seemed off in the way Departeu asked that question.

"Would you say you're sent ahead of main assault forces?"

"We really don't do front-line battles." Johnson said, rolling his cigar around in his mouth as he did so. "We're off doing more sensitive things."

Departeu's face suddenly split in a smile. He even clapped his hands together and just started to laugh deep in his throat. "Wonderful. Simply wonderful! Have I got just the task for you then."

Johnson's cigar dipped slightly, taken by surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Walk with me, Sergeant Major." the Rogue Trader said. "I'm going to be a bit frank. We're going to be under heavy attack as soon as the Cadians touch that powder. Greenskins of the worst sort are going to be engaging them."

Johnson didn't ask what a 'Greenskin' was, choosing to wisely let the heavily armed man continue his exposition.

"My friend; your combat prowess may in fact prove invaluable to me. So, can I ask you a simple favor?"

Johnson nearly dropped the cigar in shock as Departeu threw his arm over the Marine's shoulder and bunched him close so that they were only a few inches apart from each other. Departeu's delightfully jovial face was quite disturbing. "I need you to help recover the Astartes for me. Your men here will have the honor of helping me extract the Emperor's avenging angels. What do you say to that?"

Johnson milled this over. "We'll have to confer with Captain Ekdal or Commander De Soto.

"Ah, damn the middle man to the Eye of Terror and back. I'll make things more... what's the word..." he thought, zoning out and snapping his fingers repeatedly, "...streamlined."

Johnson wondered at the man, who was so powerful that he considered a ship's master to be a middle man. He speculated he would not be given much choice in this matter, having witnessed what just transpired mere minutes before.

"I suppose we could work something out." He said in more of a grumble than an actual agreement.

"Grand." Departeu chuckled. "Simply grand, eh?"

The Rogue Trader counted off the men who were standing around and selected ten, most seemingly at random, though he made sure that Johnson, Bindo, Miles, and Reyes were among them. Reyes was selected as well as the ursine, Wilcox.

"Just go along with it, chief." Johnson said to her.

"And circumvent naval protocol?" She asked, barely hiding a snarl at the corners of her mouth. "This frickin' peacock should be going through Ekdal."

"But he isn't." Avery pressed. "And as far as anyone is concerned around here, he's the boss now."

She looked at him, was about to respond. All the while, Johnson made eye contact with her, gently puffing on the cigar.

"Weren't you just on the bridge a moment before?" Jolee asked at once, noticing a rather odd sense of timing.

"Sorry?" Departeu asked, now swiveling towards the Grey Jedi.

"How did you get down here so fast?"

The Rogue Trader looked shocked at the directness of the question, checked himself, and seemed to look foolish. "I keep on forgetting you rubes aren't from around here. How pedestrian of me. Good throne. Teleportarium, man. Rogue Trader's perogative. I can be anywhere at any time.

"Reassuring." Jolee said.

"Anyhow, come with me. Back over to the globe. Here's your mission."

Departeu indicated the hologram of Ignacius IV, the grid of the overlay pulsing green, giving the room a somewhat sickly glow. Three peanut-like moons were rotating around the general sphere of the planet.

Departeu's tone was serious - something that the group was not ready for. "The Guardsmen's battle is going to be a distraction for our real objective. The Astartes have been pinned down to roughly this location if the Astropath's messages are to be believed."

Miles shook his head. "You can tell that from a picture?"

"Do something enough times and you get good at it, Master Prower." the Rogue Trader smiled.

"So your men get slaughtered while we do your dirty work?" Johnson asked. "Not a good way to manage your forces."

"On the contrary, Sergeant Major. When the Emperor's Angels are in the balance, it's entirely a useful management of forces."

"I don't understand." the noncom said, taking a confused and sad puff on his cigar.

"Spend enough time here and I assure you you'll understand in great abundance. Your drop zone will be fairly close to that of the 2040th, though your vector will take you closer to this plateau here." He pointed at a geological feature only scant kilometers from where the dotted line showing where the Cadians' landing area was.

"That's where the Astartes are?" Bindo asked.

"We believe. When we exit Warp, we can home in on a coded vox signal." Departeu nodded. "Provided that they can keep their foe from discovering their positions. If they're smart, they'll abandon their crash site."

"And if they aren't?" Wilcox asked.

Departeu set his jaw. "What is your name?"

"Master Chief Petty Officer Wilcox." the Mobian said, arms crossed and legs slightly apart, spine straight and head slightly inclined. "Master-at-Arms of the Bastogne."

"Normally I'd have you disciplined for making such a remark against the Astartes." Departeu said, voice calm, but full of menace. "But they are Space Wolves, so that is a valid question."

Wilcox tried to work her mouth as the Rogue Trader addressed Johnson once more.

"I do not think they would stay by their craft. They'll move. How far I do not know. I suspect that we will understand more as soon as we transition back to normalcy. In the meantime, I would have you outfitted for your mission."

"We have weapons."

"Yes, and how cute they are." Departeu smiled. "You are not going to be fighting hive gangers or melancholy agri-worlders, my friends. These are none other than Greenskins. Orks."

"Did that translate right?" Miles asked. "Did you all hear the same thing I did?"

"Small caliber projectiles will be worthless against them. They have skin as hard as rocks and a nervous system impervious to most forms of physical trauma. Damned things are almost too stupid to die. We have less subtle ways of dealing with stubborn xenos like that." Departeu said, bobbing his eyebrows. "Now let's get you some real weapons so you can fight real enemies. If you're heading into a cesspool of grox shite, I'll do everything in my power to get you out, be it sopping and stinking, or covered ten times over with blood and guts so we can start making some real gelt and fight something challenging. Welcome to the Imperium of Man. Charming, is it not?"