Herald of the Stars: Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Nine (Patreon)

Thank you to Aaron Seddon, and Patrick Brown for sponsoring Herald of the Stars. Also a warm welcome to all my returning Patreons after their short break. I hope you all enjoy catching up with Herald of the Stars and our growing community.

The patreon community chat is now available for those who wish to discuss Herald of the Stars, Warhammer, and share their passions with us all!

It takes us just over a week to locate and scout a path to the Dying Light, then another two days to plan the excursion. Most of the planning delays come from so many different parties who want to get in on the action.

The revelation that my fleet is now large enough to have factions is quite horrifying.

After much discussion, we gather a whole void assault regiment, thirty thousand and six hundred Heralds, and pile into Red Knoll, the Space Marine light cruiser, then set off on a three day journey to the cluster of asteroids and planetary debris where Dying Light is hidden.

There isn’t enough space for all of the D-POTs assigned to the void assault regiment to fit inside Red Knoll so they glide alongside the light cruiser like tiny fish following a shark.

On board Red Knoll are Force Commander Verlin Tigernach and his second in command, Tech-Marine Balor Roan. Inquisitor Raphael Horthstien has also brought his own soldiers, a mixed company of Tempestous Scions, Imperial Guard, and Ogryns. Then there is me with my family, all four kids, Dareaca, Luan, Fial, and Alpia, and my wife, Brigid.

Bedwyr Keane and his bodyguard company are responsible for protecting my family. A Warforged, Major General Domhnall Noake, is leading the Stellar Corps’ sole void assault regiment.

Six hours into the three day voyage to Dying Light, I invite Domhnall, Verlin, Balor, and Raphael to my shuttle for a game of cards. Fortunately they’re all savvy enough to know it’s not about the cards, but getting to know each other in a less formal setting, without me having to explicitly state it, and all four men accept the invitation.

Domhnall is the first to arrive and he turns up in his warform. Few individuals augment themselves as much as the Warforged and most of them have at least two bodies that they can move their life support pod between. Spending too much time in a non-human form makes it difficult to socialise and causes all manner of psychological issues from superiority complexes to body dysmorphia. Not everyone struggles with such monumental changes, but it is enough of a problem that such heavily augmented individuals are required by our Fleet regulations to have options. The noosphere helps, but it’s not a psychological cure-all.

Domhnall has taken the form of a Stellar Fleet Praetorian Servitor, a centipede-like tank with three hexagonal sections, each four metres across with four legs. Each section is domed on both sides and bristling with sensor blisters and attachment points for weapon emplacements. His weapons have been stowed for the flight and the Space Marines’ peace of mind.

I quickly notice that Domhnall hasn’t cheaped out on his warform, probably because I had to pay for it, and each section has its own micro-fusion core and together they’re strong enough to empower not only a strong void shield, but also our somewhat miniaturised field bracing. His shell and mechadendrites match the ruby colouring of our stealth-tech and despite his size, Domhnall’s remarkable engineering lets him move with near silence.

He is accompanied by two cyber mastiffs, and I immediately recognise they are armoured versions of my own mastiff, Dawn Garnet, with both stealth and teleporting capabilities, one of our rare specialist models that are usually assigned to our Battle Automata regiments.

I know he is a Major-General and has a significant budget, but I immediately notify Brigid and ask her to task someone with double checking his spending, both its quantity and distribution among his Heralds.

“Good day, Magos Issengrund,” chirps Domhnall in lingua technis.

“Thank you for coming, Domhnall.”

“I do hope you’ve made the cards tamper proof or I will be clearing the table.”

I raise an eyebrow, “As best I can. They might look like paper, but they’re all digital, self-shuffling, and look blank to everyone except the person who’s holding them. I can’t do much about everyone being able to perfectly count cards, but as we can all do it, we’ll at least be on an even field. Probability is still just chance, after all.”

“Excellent. Can they only display traditional cards or can they be anything?”

“Any design is possible. I have extra cards if someone has a deck building game in mind and a holoprojector to turn the table into a board game as well. Fial came up with the design and I am rather fond of it.”

“Your son?”

“Yes, my son.”

Domhnall says, “I prefer the noosphere for recreation as it saves me the trouble of swapping bodies too often, but I understand the appeal of a physical interaction.”

“Are you a Hive Sim player?”

“Absolutely. Unfortunately my skill at war is not helping my current game and I am losing to cultural assimilation, while another party seems to have endless wealth. The group of Battle Smiths I’m up against are rather sneaky. I am not looking forward to logging back in when we return from this excursion.”

I laugh, “Yes, Brigid usually wins with money too. It’s hard to win against someone who has seemingly infinite wealth! She always catches me out even when I try to undermine her with spendthrift malcontents. I usually go for a technological victory, but it’s somewhat reliant on chance, as the strategy is dependant on what the Explorators bring back.”

Verlin and Balor are the next to arrive. They have their helmets off. Both their faces are pitted with scars and Verlin has chunky cybernetic eye and a cybernetic lower jaw. His blond hair is cut short and a little messy.

Balor has four armoured cables running from his skull down into his power armour. Their armour is a dark, ocean blue. On their left shoulders is a white shoulder pad with a black, snarling dog head.

Both of them sweep their gaze over my luxurious quarters. While I favour brass and silver over gold, the metals marking out the edge of the panels still give the room a warm and bright hue. I spot their surprise when they quickly pick out the warding schemes carefully hidden into every design.

They carefully step around Domhnall and hold out their hands. We shake hands and I greet Verlin then Balor.

I say, “Thank you both for coming.”

“So long as the food and drink is good, I am willing to tolerate almost any company,” says Verlin.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t bring my chef. You’ll have to make do with whatever my wife and kids can conjure out of the food printers. I did bring some good amasec though.”

Balor lightly hits Verlin in the chest, “That’s far better than you could manage, Brother. Back when we were scouts you nearly got us killed chasing mountain goats, then thought it was a great idea to cook them whole. We didn’t have all our implants yet and the food poisoning was awful. I dare say the sight of you in a chef’s hat is the only thing that could break the fine engineering of the Apothecaries and induce fear in our Battle Brothers.”

“Must you still bring that up?”

“Yes.”

Domhnall lets out a mechanical laugh.

“Will the Inquisitor be present?” says Verlin, his face blank.

“He is on his way,” I say.

“I see.” Verlin mutters, “May the Emperor give me strength.”

I address the Space Marines, “How are you finding your time with the Stellar Fleet so far?”

Verlin says, “An exercise in patience.”

“Are you not used to waiting for several weeks, if not months between deployments?” says Domhnall. “Warp travel is slow and unpredictable.”

“That is not the issue,” Balor says. “We are used to rushing from one crisis to another. Many marines are unhappy they were not deployed against the Drukhari vessels. We are unaccustomed to being shielded from losses by forces who hold a similar role to our own.”

Domhnall points a mechadendrite at himself, “Like me?”

“Yes, like you!” says Verlin. “We lack the strength and certainty of steel and further augmentation is denied to us. What would be the point in becoming a Space Marine in the first place when all is metal, pistons, and motive force?”

“I am sure the Iron Hands chapter would disagree,” I say.

“Well, they’re like you cog boys. They chop bits off for religious and cultural reasons, not just for better parts,” says Verlin.

Balor scowls at Verlin then says, “The Stellar Fleet’s mastery of technology makes us question why we are needed. There is a place and need for all roles and clearing a few Orks is not what we are for. To have the Emperor’s own sons reduced to mere Administratum document shredders, after all we have suffered and striven to achieve, is galling. Even then, you seem to have little trouble cutting through Imperial bureaucracy.”

“You can’t call an inquisitorial fleet or a bunch of gangs Imperial Bureaucracy. Besides,” I say, “we’re about to assault a cruiser full of cultists. A role where power armour and bolters are critical. Why are you complaining about this now? Not only that, but I am paying Chapter Master Brackin a vast amount of resources for your services. The equivalent of a Sword-Class escort every two years, with time measured by the primary Machine-Spirit of Red Knoll. Depending on how long we stay in the Warp, you could rebuild your entire chapter every ten years, not including your fleet, Materium time, and still have more resources than you need.”

“Exactly!” says Verlin. “You could have thrown us at the Drukhari vessels and it would not have mattered if we lived or died. The result would have been the same: victory for the Stellar Corps. No significant resources, at least to you, would have been expended. It is different for us. War is our purpose. To hold us back from that is incredibly insulting.”

I shake my head, “Space Marines exist to fight threats no others can face. There are threats out there that my Heralds are unsuited for, especially Warp entities and the Ruinous Powers. Not because they are unwarded or poorly equipped for such threats, but because they do not have your transhuman treatments that harden the mind and soul against such terrors. Even mechanically augmented minds can still break.

“To waste you on a conflict the Stellar Corps is unusually adept at facing would have been insulting. Not only that, replenishing your numbers requires hundreds of children. Are Space Marines not supposed to protect the weak? You living longer protects the weak because you need not replace your dead. How could a child understand what they are volunteering for? What could a child know of honour and glory? It is a wisp of an idea. A moment of joy they compare to the clashing of sticks with their friends in the playground.

“You have traded your lives for unending duty. It is necessary. It is valued. Do not force the justifications for your existence upon others through needless conflict. It completely negates the reason why Space Marines are so vital. I can think of no greater insult to all you stand for than for me to throw your lives away. I will not do it.”

Verlin says, “We are not dolls to be kept on a shelf!”

Domhnall taps Verlin’s chest with a large mechadendrite. “You are not. You are the silent suits of armour, the shadows hugging the wall waiting to strike against unseen and sudden threats. I am the bastion upon which the enemies of man break their guns and claws. I trained in gruelling noosphere environments for dozens of years and died a thousand times over yet you do not see me baying to show off my skills. Don’t be such a little bitch.”

Verlin clenches his hands and stares up at Domhnall, “You are telling me, a Space Marine over three hundred years old to...grow up?”

I clap my hands once, “This is getting out of hand. Domhnall, there is no need to fall to petty name calling.”

Domhnall sighs, “Very well. I apologise for my words, Force Commander Tigernach.”

“Apology accepted,” growls Verlin. “Still, you will not change your stance, Magos?”

“I will not. The Stellar Corps has not fought cultists much and data tells us little without the experience to interpret it. You are here to monitor for corruption and possession, as well as fight any summoned Warp entities. Not the glory and thrill of combat.

Verlin says, “Fine. Do not think I will forget this.”

I say, “I am rather hoping you do not. You already spent hours arguing why you should be part of this excursion and I’ve already agreed. I am pleased you are finally sharing why you were so insistent and that you kept your personal opinion out of our public meetings, but at this point, it makes little difference other than irritating the people you’re about to fight with. Only the result matters and you have been assigned to fight as requested. Tech-Marine Roan, do you have any closing remarks before we put this discussion behind us? Raphael has just boarded the shuttle.”

“Further words serve no purpose. I will keep my own council.”

“That is wise of you.”

Verlin scoffs. There is an awkward minute of silence while we wait for Raphael to appear. He enters without knocking then pauses at the door.

“What did I miss?” says Raphael.

“Nothing that concerns you, Inquisitor. We are done with our discussion. I believe it is now time for,” Verlin exhales a long breath, “games.”

“I rather liken this environment to a different sort of battlefield,” says Raphael, “one of quick hands and sharp wit. Inquisitor Hamiz is a shameless cheat and I am looking forward to winning for once.”

Verlin steps forward and looms over Raphael, his smile is all teeth, “Challenge accepted.”