An alarm wailed throughout the corridor, the walls were washed red by the emergency lighting, the bark of naval security shot cannon echoing throughout the ship's corridor, the last of the security men falling to the mutineers, the disgruntled ratings and galley slaves bellowing for her blood. First Lieutenant Constantina Zalgost, the officer assigned to quell the brewing mutiny on deck 34, gripped her archaic laspistol tight in her shaking righthand. She was thankful for the red emergency lights hiding the paleness of her face, the drawn tightness of her features. Whilst her posture was whipcord straight and her barked orders had lost none of their vitriol, she knew, that deep into her soul where only the God-Emperor could see, she was afraid. The most recent scion in the long line of ship's captains, her mother, Ship's Mistress Argent Zalgost, had judged this little rebellion as the perfect test of her daughter's mettle. Being only one daughter amongst a half-dozen others, Constantine knew that if she were to inherit the Suneater, then she must mark herself out as special from the rest of them. It was not as if she did not love her sisters, they were still family after all, but the hard truth was that there were only so many positions to inherit when their mother, whose health had been flagging now for the past half century, could bequeath. Constantina was sure that even if she were not to get the job she would be provided for, some hive spire somewhere would be set aside for her and a subsidiary corporation either created or bought out for her to run, but Constantina had always wanted more. To sail the inky void as her mother had done, to see alien worlds look like tiny marbles beneath the grandeur of her ship. It was her dream. And that dream was why she was now doing this crazy, reckless thing. Grasping at her hip, Constantina drew her pistol's twin, a baroque power saber, the thin blade of the weapon pulsing with an ill understood energy field said to have originated in the Dark Age. Lifting the blade on high, Constantine raised her voice to a shrill, perhaps an octave too high in reflection, and let out a cry.

'Warriors of the God-Emperor! In his name strike down these vile traitors, Charge!'

Constantina awoke with a start, groping around for the laspistol she kept under her Quilthé down pillow, her mind still locked in events that had transpired over a century ago. Sighing in relief that no blood-maddened mutineers were trying to kill her, and thankful that none of her maid staff had been around to witness her vivid dream, Constantina rose from her bed. It was a titanic thing, truth be told. As wide across as a Leman Russ tank chassis and overburdened with fine down pillows and a luxurious purple and gold bedspread crafted of the famously supple Oquâthe Ox-worm silk, the bedspread alone was probably worth more than a Leman Russ as well Constantina reflected sardonically. Clambering her way off the behemoth of feathers and silk the Shipsmistress came to her equally vast dresser, the collosal piece of furniture stretching from the Nalwood paneled floor to the arched roof celling of Scintillan marble which soared 50 meters above Constantina's head. At the dresser stood her own dressing servitor, who she had nicknamed Sparkle back in her youth, when these had been her mother's chambers. Though she knew that it was childish, she still referred to the machine-slave as such even now, though only in private.

'What will it be for today Ship's mistress?' asked Sparkle, the servitor's voice a lilting hush where most if its baser kin could vocalize nothing more than a crude growl.

'I think red today, Sparkle, something to catch the officers off guard' Constantina replied confidently, Sparkle's entirely gold-plated head bowing as it zipped off to fulfill her vague request, its anti-grav motor humming softly as the venerable machine, older by far than any of the ship's living crew, set off to fulfill its mistress' request.

As the hovering android floated off, Constantina about taking care of her other business. Activating her chamber's inbuilt ship-wide vox, Constantina signaled to her maid staff.

'Serulia, dear' the Ship's Mistress called out on the vox.

'Yes, Mistress' came the breathy reply from the head of her maid staff, 'how might I be of service'.

'I desire a bath be prepared, and a light breakfast, you know what I like so I will allow you to determine my repast, surprise me.' Constantina said, not entirely sure what she wanted to eat anyway. 'It shall be done mistress, your bath will be drawn in 10 minutes, and your repast will be prepared soon after.'

'Excellent as ever Serulia' came the Ship's Mistress' reply.

With her own needs seen to, Constantina got to work, reaching for one of the many dataslates that were strategically located throughout her chambers, she opened the device and contacted the Ship's Magos, 000324 Alpharine, or Magos Alpha for short, for a status update on the state of her ship. The ever-diligent Magos was quick to respond, sending back a comprehensive diagnostic of the ship as well as a time stamp for how long she had to wait between requesting and receiving her data. 0.53 seconds, not bad, but not his best either, the Magos must be distracted by something.

Constantina quickly scrolled through the near endless scrawl of technical readings and data throughput, such technobabble could be left to the Techpriests. What she really needed was the log of ship's events whilst she had been asleep. As she found that section, she slowed her scrolling and read making sure to note the most prevalent events down, those she planned on discussing with her officers when she made her way to the bridge.

'Humm, deck 28 will need a new chaplain assigned now that that old goat father Friedrick has fractured his femur again, and that shipment of Natrulian Tangerines must be checked on again to ensure optimal ripeness' Constantina mussed to herself aloud. 'And that shipment of Retulian battle servitors were probably a mistake, but I do so love the sound they make when they make a kill, those Russes thought will even out any losses' her mother's old maxim coming back to her as clear as the day she first heard it, 'men always pay well for tanks.'

Finally, with most of her reading done Constantina arrived at the last two articles on her list, appended to each other in such a way as to denote that the two items were related.

The first detailed a minor uprising of crazed mutants on the Tertium loading deck, the wretched creatures being responsible for the deaths of two score ratings and galley slaves, and an Ogryn stevedore. A shame about the Ogryn Constantina thought, she had always been fond of the brutish creatures. She thought of sending some bonus pay to the creature's mate or spawn if it had any but thought better of it when she decided that the gesture would go unnoticed anyway. She briefly wondered how a crew of rating scum and galley slaves could quell a mutant rebellion capable of taking down an Ogryn, but she soon found out as she opened her next document.

It appeared that she had the Astra Militarum to thank for her loading Deck's deliverance, as apparently the force of Death Korps she had agreed to transport for that loutish Lord Commander Zuehlke had come to her ship's aid, butchering no less than three thousand of the degenerates that had tried to commandeer her ship. She had been particularly proud of that transport deal, the corpulently fat Lord Commander gave her an excellent price to transport the siege specialists to the edge of Ultima Segmentum, seeming to want nothing to do with the fabled Death Korps of Krieg since his famously inept handling of the Vracksian campaign. Constantina figured he would have gotten over it after two hundred years, but she did not mind as much so long as it made her purse just that little bit heavier.

Constantina decided that by way of thanks, she should throw a feast, perhaps not as grand as those thrown in the Great Feast halls of Terra, but for the rough and, in Constantina's opinion, mildly insalubrious members of the Emperor's hammer it should be good enough.

Just as she considered her options, a vox-hail was sent to her chambers, informing her that her bath had been drawn.

'Serulia,' Constantina called again. 'Yes Mistress?' came the head maid's reply.

'Put in another order to the chefs, in light of our naval securities glorious victory over the mutant mutineers, and in light of the Astra Militarum's assistance in that glorious endeavor, put in the order to the chefs for a feast to be prepared, to be ready for the last three hours of the waking cycle. I shall draw up the guest list throughout the waking period but expect around twenty-five guests.'

'As you will mistress' came Serulia's reply.

Colonel 64371- Kurtzen was surprised by the invitation to dinner from the ship's mistress. It had always been his understanding that the Navy and the Guard tended to be at odds with one another, but, Kurtzen reminded himself, on a technicality the Suneater was no navy vessel at all, just subcontracted with the navy. The details of the arrangement between the navy and the merchant-captain were as mysterious to the Colonel as the workings of the ten-kilometer-long vessel itself. Vast, with a prodigious cargo capacity, this vessel was the ideal mechanism to transport the three Death Korps regiments and their various attachments to their rallying point in the Ultima Segmentum. The invitation of course was an unfocused missive, merely addressed to "The commander who led the glorious-counterattack against the mutineers," without any mention to formal rank. A letter typical to a civilian. And while it was true that 64371- Kurtzen had indeed personally led the counterattack, he held command over a mere third of the total Death Korps presence on the ship.

Consequently, the actual overall commander, Lord-General Minor 999983- Helbourg, never one for social gatherings as all Korpsmen were, had ordered Kurtzen to go in his stead, allowing him to focus on the logistics of moving, feeding and training the Thirty thousand men and thousands of other fighting machines under his charge.

Kurtzen was glad then, in so much as a Korpsman could feel any emotion, that he was merely responsible for his ten thousand, rather than the whole of the force. Kurtzen was particularly grateful for the limited contact he had with those outsiders who were not a part of the Korps. He, even more than most Korpsmen found those other scions of the Imperium as alien as the monstrous Orks or perfidious Eldar.

'Corporal, greetings!' came a shout, as if in answer to Kurtzen's internal musings about foreigners. 'Where are you heading, the dinner?" came yet another rapid-fire statement, the words inevitably followed by a perpetually cheery figure, whose vibrant personality notably clashes with the dour members of the Death Korps. Such a person would have no place in a regiment of guardsmen. That is of course, unless that person was a commissar.

Commisar Serana Vilsk was an oddity amongst commissars, let alone those assigned to the Death Korps. Where most of the political officers that the Death Korps received were old and tough as old boot leather, Serana was young, though not necessarily any less though for that. Kurtzen had once seen her pulp the innards of an Ork Nob with her power fist, laughing almost as loud as the Ork she was slaying. There was also the matter of her appearance. The members of the Death Korps to a man were almost ghostly white, a side effect of the troglodytic lifestyle of their home world, as well as being slightly shorter than on average in the guard, their slighter height actually giving them an advantage in the trench war and tunnel fighting in which the Death Korps excel. The commissar on the other hand was tall, standing just as high as the colonel himself and deeply tanned from her time on whichever world she was trained by the Officio Perfectus. A more curious soul would have asked about where she was trained. Kurtzen never did.

'Yes,' came the colonel's curt answer, knowing from long experience that giving a short answer is the only way to get any words in when conversing with the commissar. 'Excellent', the commissar proclaimed, 'It has been so long since I've been invited to a formal dinner, and with a captain no less!' the commissar continued. 'Granted she is only a civilian captain, but I hardly think...'

Knowing that the commissar's yammering could continue for hours if not interrupted by an order or an enemy, the colonel tuned out the commissar's chatter and kept on marching forward, just as he had been trained. His bodyguard, four of his grenadier detachment marched behind him, the thud of their synchronized, booted feet sounding like a low rolling thunder.

The feast had commenced splendidly. The vast table around which Constantina's guests were seated was piled high with the finest gastronomic delights that her Ratling chefs could conjure. Their upkeep, particularly in victuals, was astronomical, but the results evidently spoke for themselves. From the common Grox steak to the steaming bowls of Ambull bisque, the vittles provided were exquisite. The Smoked hawks of Tangerin Ham, a traditional favorite amongst the Suneaters officer class had proven a particular hit.

Baron Upsolk Vonder Felk certainly felt do, seeing as he was on his fourth helping of the delectably smocked meat, the corpulent mass of flesh and gaudy Hive Noble uniform appearing to not so much sit as to squat in the seemingly too small chair provided him.

Seated nearby was the Lady-Archivist Magentarina Uppsala, as well as a certain Magos Trixess who she had almost completely forgotten was even aboard her ship. It was only natural that she should forget a few of her passengers Constantina lamented. In her career as a licensed merchant, she found there were so very many ways to make money.

Moving goods around was the most obvious means, but transportation of persons of stature and their entourage was another, as well as delivering intelligence reports about the various goings on in the void back to any Navy listening stations or outposts. And then there were the military contracts of course, generals were always so very eager to scrounge whatever civilian transport was available to them, anything so that they didn't have to go to the navy for help in transportation.

Speaking of the guard she turned her gaze to her most out of place guests. Whereas most of the high society that she had met with preferred to show up earlier than announced or fashionably late, all the better to scheme and plot with one's confederates in both cases, her most fascinating guests, the Krieger commander, and his commissar, as well as his four heavily armed bodyguards Constantina thought with mild annoyance, had showed up at the exact time the meal had been scheduled to start, taking their seats without aplomb.

The commissar, true to her nature as a political officer, was congenial almost to the point of being bubbly. She knew when to laugh, smile, or feign interest in those around her just enough to gain their sympathy, though her one drawback was her propensity for talking at any available opportunity. Yes, Constantina could see that this one would make a fine political officer.

Her companion, on the other hand, the commander, was a vacuum where charisma went to die. Where the commissar's answers to questions were convivial and boisterous at times, this Krieger was curt to a fault. It seemed as if his entire vocabulary consisted of a yes, no, or a grunt. Where the commissar was blest with an easy and infectious laugh, the commissar doubted this man had ever laughed. The most glaring contrast however was between the two's smiles. The commissar's smile was bright and luminous, white teeth standing out against tanned skin. The commander, however, displayed nothing at all. Not because of a lack of expression, thought Constantina doubted his face would be all that expressive to begin with, it was not that. It was his lack of a face.

More specifically it was the faceless glare of his gasmask which the commander used to peer out into the world of his fellow humans. To Constantina's surprise however, when she observed the commander's plate his portion size had somehow diminished, despite her never seeing him remove his mask. Deciding that she had nothing to lose by cracking the commander's cold façade, she addressed him with a question.

'So, commander what are your plans when we arrive at Cena Primaris, what wars are there to fight on an Agriworld?'

'Colonel' came the masked Krieger's response. 'Pardon me?' Constantina replied, confused by the nature of the man's response. 'My rank,' replied the Krieger 'is not "commander," it is colonel.' Came the now identified colonel's response.

'My apologies colonel, I was unaware of your rank. I was under the impression that it was three regiments being transported in my hold. How is it that a colonel is in command of such a force?' Constantina inquired.

'I feel must apologize Ship's-Mistress; I am not in command of the whole force.' 'Indeed?' came Constantina's surprised reply. 'Then, I am to understand that your commander is still in the hold?'

'Yes' came the Krieg colonel's typically curt response. 'A shame then, still thought colonel if you would not mind, I have a request of you' Constantina implored. Giving a quick nod of his head to show the colonel's agreement to her request, Constantina continued with her question.

'What are your commander's plans for when we arrive on world?'

'My commander was in the midst of giving us the mission briefing when we were called up in defense of your ship, Ship's Mistress.' Came the colonel's reply.

'I only heard one word before we were called away to action' the colonel continued. His voice now took on some emotion at last as he all but spit out the last word of his response to the captain.

'Tau'

Hey everyone! I'm honored that your reading my story I hope that you like it! Criticism is welcomed and appreciated!