Dying by drowning in one's own bloody mucus, all things considered, is a remarkably lousy experience. Perhaps nearly as lousy as getting out of medbay and realising all the other bad news weren't merely drug-fuelled hallucinations. Regaining control of the Emperor's Mercy's systems meant fighting foot for foot against the scrap-code crazies, then getting the sane out of each reconquered module, then isolating the systems in it, shut them down, and get technomats and enginseers to work. It's a pity the human mind can't be cleaned thus, as it would have spared a great number of lives, but we really had no choice. Argenta and Pasqal had been quite happy to team up to lead the effort.

The people of the lower decks, however, had taken matters into their own hands and when they were reached, there remained very few pockets of resistance. There had been heroics to protect the macro-cannons from sabotage, so much that I gladly made the trip downstairs to give the glorious dead a proper send-off. Really, I wouldn't have fancied getting to Kiava Gamma with nothing but a battering ram. The local Ecclesiarchy, in the person of my personal confessor (a man I was quite usually adept at avoiding, but right now he ran faster than me), was both pissed off and impressed that I insisted on leading the Service of Remembrance and did so without a cheat sheet. I paid for it by hobbling directly back to my quarters with the firm intention to curl up on a chair with a plaid and take the nap of the century. Or so I thought: when I got there, I had a visitor, and that visitor was Idira Tlass. That was a hard conversation to come.

Idira had foreseen the scrap-code catastrophe. Her voices had warned her, screaming, with visions of darkness and gore and mind-poison twisting like screws in her brain. But Idira hadn't been on the bridge. Idira had been drunk two decks below — 'barely drag yourself out of bed to piss in the privy' drunk. By the time she had been sober enough to wonder if, perhaps, she ought to bring her sorry ass to the bridge and impart this tidbit of information to the people actually busy running the ship, well, I was already bullying the head medicae into releasing me.

The only reason I hadn't yelled at her like I have never yelled at anyone before was that my vocal cords had still been too raw for that. I had sent her away. I had had no time to deal with her feelings of guilt. Besides, they had been well earned. And now, Idira wanted to know why I had benched her in the first place, which had lead to her drinking more every single day, and therefore it was my fault she had been absent, she said.

There are ways to keep a badly-fitting element in a team. People can, usually, be either coddled, seduced, or slapped into doing their job. I had tried all of that at first with Idira: I had felt she could bring balance to my retinue. She balanced Argenta's sometimes narrow world view; she challenged Heinrix's dogmatism at every turn simply by existing; she got on well with Abelard and mellowed him. The problem was, each time Idira used her powers, she (and by extension us all) was at risk to create what she called Warp incidents and what I called inadmissible. And oh boy did she use her powers on a regular basis. At least, when in combat, we already had our weapons drawn, although the first time some Warp monster breathed down my neck while I had been defending myself against a Footfall mob boss had been a very bad surprise. But she once summoned one right in a middle-deck bar of the Emperor's Mercy, I guess because she had been playing cards and wanted an edge, and that had been nasty.

So, I had discovered that Jae also had Idira's common sense. That Cassia was able to manipulate the Immaterium better, and more safely. That Yrliet had a way to look at things no one else possessed (and that a xenos grated Heinrix even more than an unsanctioned psyker did). And I had stopped asking Idira to follow me, either on away missions or just on the bridge. I had lost the will to integrate her in my retinue.

'Because you are a liability,' I said aloud. Perhaps that had been a leadership failure on my part. 'Because you are unable to control your powers the way you should, and because you drink.'

There, it had been said. Her large brown eyes didn't fill with tears: she already knew this, on some level. There's only so many times you can get a dressing down and not realise you're doing things wrong. But she tried to argue — and if there is one thing I cannot stand, it's people talking back when I'm explaining what they're doing wrong. Shut your clap, listen, and do better, is the most basic survival skill engrained in all those who deal with Commissars. I was tired; my lungs still burned at times; she had ambushed me at the end of a long day. Those are not justifications, but reasons why I did what came next.

'I understand drinking. I understand the need to cope.' I spoke in a low and steady tone, staring at her where she had sat without being invited. 'I did it once.' When I had been kicked to civilian life on a half-pension and covered in dishonour. 'But I never — never — did it when people counted on me.' Even when it was just doing wedding security. 'You have a duty, as member of a Rogue Trader's retinue: to behave yourself. To be punctual. To be reliable. To be trustworthy. You have failed every single one of these goals. I have been patient with you, because you were in mourning. I have been kind. And what have you done? Instead of trying to get better, instead of understanding that, tragic as Theodora's passing was, there was still shit that needed to be done — you could have come to me, you know? You could have said, Katov, I have problems, I need help. And I would have helped, because a moral contract binds us. You serve, and I protect. But a contract needs two parties. You haven't just betrayed that contract — my trust in you. You have taken it and wiped yourself with it and set it on fire. I could have had you executed for that business at the bar. I showed you mercy, I asked you to get your shit together, and you didn't.'

Now, I saw the penny drop. Little by little, terror, abject terror, took over Idira's face. I didn't take pleasure in it, no, but I nevertheless drove my point home and it was like stabbing someone with a rusty nail.

'And now, you come to me, and you complain that I've been unfair? That I mistreated you? Idira, you renounced our contract first. Right now, I can see nothing, no reason whatsoever, to go on protecting you. Theodora protected you from the Inquisition, from the Black ships… from the witch hunters. Theodora is dead. Because of your negligence, over a score of bridge officers died, and I don't even know how many others more died, and are dying still, throughout the ship. If Heinrix van Calox, tomorrow, asks me to hand you over, can you give me one single reason why I shouldn't comply?'

There: hope. Threaten them with their greatest fear, paint them the darkest picture, the one where not only do they die but they suffer hell before it, and then show them there is still a sliver of hope to avoid that fate, if they change their ways. That a life can hang over such a little word — if.

The worst thing in this? Had Idira kept her mouth shut, no one would ever had known she had been given a warning. It had been what little honesty she retained that had brought her to this.

'You hate his guts,' she tentatively said.

I thought about it. Hard. And shook my head. 'Not good enough.'

Idira's hand went to her head, as if it hurt, and she frowned. Migraine, or voices from beyond? When she could speak once again, she said that she had understood. That she had been too nonchalant.

'No. You've been beyond irresponsible.'

'I'll try to get better, Katov. I promise.'

One day, I'll work out the courage to gun someone down for being a pain in the ass as well as a complete disappointment. Not today, though. I sent Idira on her merry way and hobbled to the bathroom where I stripped down and completely immersed myself in the decadent, warm, be-waterfalled indoor pool Theodora von Valancius had called a bath. Truth to the Emperor, I was beginning to love the thing: when I locked the door, it was the only place on the ship where I could reasonably be sure to be, and remain, alone.

The major problem I see with voidships, compared to ground warfare, is that it's basically impossible to hide one's approach. Kiava Gamma had had every possibility to observe our journey through the Cranach system, and therefore prepare for our coming. There was no System Defence Force like one would expect in the Imperium, of course, but even ground telemetry is bound to be accurate where an object the size of the Emperor's Mercy is concerned. We stopped once on our way, though: a small planet hosted a smaller Chorda colony, busy with extracting resources deep from its core. I haven't met Incendia Chorda yet, but her way of putting her lackeys on my doorstep was already getting on my nerves. It was easy enough, though, to convince the extractium workers to defect to my ship: Abelard growled over vox that such an infringement was an offence worthy of the strictest retaliation, and Chorda's people boarded my shuttles as soon as they were faced with our superior forces. Their machines we stored in our cargo hold, for future use, and as I can be petty we left a von Valancius flag where the extractium used to be. We also checked them thoroughly for signs of scrap-code infection or tech-heresy.

But all that was just a distraction from the fact that a handful of Infidel-class raiders were waiting for us in Kiava Gamma's orbit. And that they had followed our approach vector every step of the way, even if we had used our trip to the former Chorda outpost as an obvious reason to our presence, and an excuse to get close without appearing threatening. The one ship of ours couldn't exactly perform feats of encircling manoeuvres, and it would boil down to superior armament and reaction time. I should have trusted Abelard and the crew instead of biting my nails, because in the end it was fine, but when we found ourselves within weapons range of the raiders… let's just say I wasn't too cocky. I have learned a lot about space warfare by shadowing Abelard — those few months have been formative in ways I never imagined — and it was once again enlightening to see him at work. One by one, the raiders exploded in balls of plasma.

At last, Kiava Gamma orbit was ours.

While we traipsed through the system doing repairs and pissing off Incendia Chorda, Pasqal had done some amazing work on the scrap-code thing. I can't boast to have understood much when he explained the results of his long hours of study, but he had found a way to, as he put it, turn the heretek's own weapon against them, as the wicked carry their downfall within themselves (last part is Argenta's). He had then followed with a philosophical musing about the necessity to preserve uncorrupted Machine Spirits, from which I gathered his version of scrap-code would only prevent systems from activating, while frying the neural augments of anyone who tried to access them.

This meant that, when we boarded the shuttle, we were pretty sure no one would train an anti-aircraft battery on us, and that was a great, great comfort. Not to renew the Janus experience, I had chosen the worst-looking, but sturdiest and best-armed, bird we had, and if the seats were hard on the buttocks, the crash-webbing was first rate. On my left, Pasqal hummed a quiet binharic air, perhaps a prayer for the Omnissiah's favour against the corrupted tech-priests and skitarii we were about to fight. On my right, Cassia tried her best to appear unfazed by the lack of amenities — and succeeded. I had debated bringing her along, once again, but she had proven her worth already, after all. On the other side, in front of me, sat Abelard and Argenta, both quite cheerful at the idea of crushing heretics that were also enemies of House von Valancius. And Heinrix, who would bring his inquisitorial mandate to our expedition: find out what the Final Dawn was doing on my planet, hinder their goals — and discover any information as to where they nested and how to destroy them. From his seat across the shuttle, he was looking at me with quiet grey eyes. I looked back.

When the medicae had discharged me, I took Abelard in tow and toured the upper decks. People needed to see their lord-captain was, not only alive, but walking and cracking jokes. It wasn't an inspection, but a show that ended on the bridge where I was able to sit (I was so tired that I was seeing stars) and, from atop my command chair, listened to a status report thorough enough to please the strictest commander. Well, I didn't so much listen as sat there and made plans to read the report later, because Heinrix was standing in the background and his presence was… distracting. He was, as usual, busy perusing reports, reading, compiling, thinking. I remembered his embrace: I had been choking, drowning, and suddenly he had been there and air — life — came to me again. The roughness of his uniform against my cheek when he cradled me — his rosette, cold against my skin — the preternatural cold contrasting with the warmth of healing. When I lost consciousness, he had been with me. When I awoke, he had been there, too.

Once the briefing was done, I excused myself to my rooms and slept for three hours straight, skipping dinner in the mess hall. Getting up, I saw the lights had cycled to their evening golden shine — but it wasn't too late yet. Someone had left a platter of bread, cheese and cold meat, so I fixed myself a sandwich and relocated to the bathroom, where I had a quick wash before putting on a fancy uniform, with gold tassels of all things, and boots so shiny they were mirror-bright. The collar half-hid the new scar on my neck, red and painful. I was pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I hated how I looked, but I never learned the art of make-up, and I didn't want to ask Jae for help.

Then, I had rummaged through my trunk, the one I had brought on board with me when answering Theodora's summons. What I was looking for (long, thin and flat) had fallen at the very bottom, and I wrapped it in red silk — once a red sash that had been torn in two. Going to my desk, I fished for a length of ribbon; I cut about a meter of it, against the few centimetres usually used to close letters, and tied the silk with it, applying my personal seal on a glob of wax to hold it in place. It was ridiculous. It was too much. But I had thought long and hard about it, and it was one of those times words could never be enough. When I was done, my hands were trembling — fatigue, anxiety? I sat for a few minutes and drank a mug of recaf with honey from the Janus contraption before leaving my quarters through the backdoor, the secret one without enforcers guarding it.

Corridors were mostly empty; at this hour, I was about the only one about the private quarters section of the officers' deck. I had checked directions before going; my destination wasn't too far and I soon found the door I was looking for. Closed obviously. I knocked with a feeling of dread, before noticing the servo-skull embedded in the wall over a doorbell. Which I rang. Its ocular implants sprang to life; it was more than probably showcasing my image inside for the benefit of the man who was a guest there. What if he wasn't home? I wasn't sure I would have the courage to come back later.

My fears had been unfounded: the door opened. Heinrix was there. Through his open jacket peeked a white shirt, the top buttons undone. He must have been getting ready for the night. I nearly bolted and ran before he invited me in, slightly puzzled.

His quarters were tidy, as could be expected; the cabin plan looked a bit like mine, although less extensive, but still luxurious. A few books were neatly stacked on a table by a cosy armchair; another lay open. He had been reading, then. A regicide board stood nearby.

'My apologies for interrupting your evening,' I said. I was overdressed, over formal, self-conscious and ridiculous, the long package in my hands cumbersome.

'Not at all.' His reply was curt, but polite. 'Can I be of any help to you? Please, have a seat.'

'No, thank you, I'll stand. You have already done more than anyone. I… I wanted to thank you, Heinrix. You saved my life.'

A hard to read expression washed over his face — peculiar, almost hopeful. The soft cabin light removed most of the harshness from his handsome face. 'You are most welcome,' he replied, 'although I was merely fulfilling my duty.'

Duty. Had it been duty that had made him hold me so close? It could have been. If he said so. Oh, I was an idiot and once again I wanted to run before covering myself in ridicule. With deliberate care, before I changed my mind, I lifted Heinrix's gift with both hands, holding it flat, presenting it like it is done on the field of honour. I swallowed, my throat full of sand.

'Interrogator Heinrix van Calox of the Ordo Xenos, in gratitude for services rendered and in token of my esteem, I would entreat you to accept this gift from me, Katov Leifnir von Valancius, Rogue Trader of House von Valancius by the grace of His Imperial Majesty.' It was stupid. He would have deserved a public gift, and then my ridiculousness would have been hidden behind bloated formality. To do this in private? Somehow, it felt mortifying. But I didn't want people to see what was wrapped in the sash. Or, come to that, the state of the sash itself. It was just too personal.

Slowly, Heinrix picked the gift with both hands, looking at it with curiosity before his eyes went back to my face. 'Thank you, Rogue Trader,' he said quietly. 'I accept this freely as it is given, to foster goodwill and trust between the brave.' He knew the ritual words — of course he did, he knew everything — but stopped there. The rest wouldn't have been applicable anyway.

The wax gave way with a small crack and Heinrix carefully unwounded the ribbon, freeing the length of red silk that had clearly been cut in two. It fell to the ground, revealing the ornamented sheath and hilt of a parade sabre. Both were varnished in black and carried gold ornaments: the Aquila, and the winged skull of the Officio Prefectus. It was a thing of beauty. The blade, that Heinrix drew, was a grey silver colour. Despite being ceremonial, its edge cut like despair itself. I looked as Heinrix examined the blade, feeling its balance, before sheathing it again.

'It is a very precious weapon,' he said. 'Yours, isn't it? I saw you wear it once, I think.'

'Yes.' If he knew the words, I had no need to explain that such a gift, offered in such a way, was the highest mark of appreciation a Commissar could offer. But he wouldn't know the rest. 'This… with the torn sash and my broken stripes, that's about all I brought with me to the Koronus Expanse. I'll keep the rest, but I'd like you to have this.'

'I will cherish it, Katov,' he replied. His tone made my heart skip a beat. I had wanted to explain how my sabre had escaped being broken in two during the degradation ceremony: the Lord Commissar, being rightfully pissed at being forced to humiliate me after I had upheld our values, had allowed me to pinch a new blade someone had conveniently forgotten by my cell. The new one had been broken, and an anonymous hand had sent the old one back to me later. I had wanted to tell him that, but it would have rung boastful and proud, so I shut up. He picked up the red silk that had fallen; his hands were quite full when he rose and smiled. The sabre and the sash joined his books on the table.

Well, it was done. I should have thought about saying good night, but I lingered. Heinrix walked back to me; showing his own neck, he asked if the wound hurt still. Only when I turn my head, I replied. The problem being that I needed to turn my head on the regular.

'Would you…' He stopped. 'Would you like for me to try and heal it?'

How could I tell him that I liked the scar, because it reminded me of him, of his deed? Particularly when he looked at me like this? It would be small work for a biomancer, he had said about the scar on my cheek. Although you are more beautiful for it. Averting my gaze, I said: 'I just need it to stop hurting. If you would be so kind as to help me again.'

Without a word, Heinrix walked to me and cautiously pushed my collar away. His cool fingertips lightly grazed the sensitive skin, barely healed, where a cannula had been planted in. His eyes — his concentration as he channelled threads of unseen magic that prickled — his profile. And then, there was only the caress of his fingers. No more pain, and he traced the side of my neck, the angle of my jaw, lifted my chin. He hesitated. We could have stopped, then, but it would have felt wrong. It would have been wrong, when it felt so right for me to simply inch forward and kiss his lips. They were soft. Eager. He tilted my face ever so slightly and I breathed out in desire, finding his mouth, the tip of his tongue. His other hand I held, our fingers entwined. In the silent room, the thunder of blood in my ears, the quietness of our lips parting and the sigh of his breath upon my skin were the only sounds. Please, Emperor, let this time be different.

Heinrix's fingertips coursed along my chest, down, down to my hip where the other scar was. We were apart again; it was unbearable, and when the familiar cold of his biomancy made me shiver I caught his shirt on both sides, dragged him to me, and buried my face in the crook of his neck. The scar healed, his hand ran to the small of my back, pulling me closer as I bit his neck. His skin tasted soft and sweet; he burrowed in my hair, dragging his nails against my scalp. His perfume turned my head like a strong wine and I held on his shoulders, tight. I closed my eyes. Lost myself in the moment, in the rocking sensation of our shifting embrace, trying to be closer, closer. His back, so strong. His belly against mine, his arousal obvious, and when he pulled my hair so he could kiss me again I shifted my leg between his and pressed. His teeth grazed my lip. His tongue — I surrendered my mouth to him, to his passion, and when he pulled back I pushed forward because I needed him. With my palms I traced slow, unknown sigils of want on his back, and I tasted his tongue like a forbidden fruit. Then his face, nuzzling against my neck, lips trailing on my skin leaving a wake of fire, and his hands, holding me tight in raw passion I longed to match.

A coughing fit bent me in two and black spots danced before my eyes. Heinrix guided me to a sofa and held me until the fit had passed. Once again, I was limp in his arms, and I let myself go against his chest, listening to his beating heart, caressing his hand, happy of the brush of his lips against my temple.

'The medicae said it'll take a few days before it gets better.' I spoke with half-closed eyes; I was tired. I hoped I would be all right by the time we reached Kiava Gamma.

'You will soon be fine. Although we all feared of having lost you,' said Heinrix. His voice resonated in my ear, graver, and with a tint of worry. I lifted my head and, smiling, looked at him. He smiled in return and slid his arm against my back, his hand resting on — no, caressing — my waist, and bent for another kiss, sweet, soft. We kissed like the young, exploring quietly the possibilities, in awe at the freedom to taste the other's lips — savour them a while, and then pull back and start again. We kissed like the old, who know there may be no tomorrow. I think we both needed this, that night: the assurance that tenderness exists, that affection can blossom despite the odds… We did nothing more. We could have, but instead we savoured every instant of this quiet enchantment. We talked a little, of nothings that were therefore supremely important, but yes, mostly we kissed. It must have been the small hours of the night when Heinrix walked me back to my quarters backdoor. I invited him in to say goodbye out of the sight of wandering servo-skulls, and we had a passionate embrace then that left me wistful and dishevelled. We both looked at my bedroom door, but he kissed my hand and left like a thief.

Now, days later, our duties having prevented us from seeing one another in private again, we sat facing each other in a shuttle due to land in the heart of Kiava Gamma's sprawling manufactoria. Body armour, weapons, water and rations and grenades and medi-kits… We were ready for a fight. A sudden change in vibrations told us the air-brakes had been engaged. I lowered my visor and checked all comm-bead channels. The final approach was a bit rough; the pilot later apologised and accused the many updrafts coming from the manufactoria exhausts.

Leaving the shuttle, we found ourselves in the bowels of a world of living, moving metal, where the stench of spent prometheium fumes soiled the air. Up and down looked the same: hovering gangways, towering mechanisms — a labyrinth of ducts and channels that dwarfed us and hid shadowy depths. My portable auspex was useless in the many interferences that echoed around. After one last equipment check, we grimly steeled ourselves and left in search of the heart of heresy.