Herald of the Stars: Chapter Ten (Patreon)

I debate my options with E-SIM for far longer than is necessary. Eventually, I calm down from my fight. I discard options that would let E-SIM safely draw more from the warp, or improve my existing modules. Instead, I chose two modules that will increase my strength and toughness.

Before I confirm, I read the chosen entries one last time.

Void skin: Replaces the dermal layer with a self-replicating, vacuum resistant material. Enables full function in a vacuum for 60 seconds and partial function for 300 seconds. Survive vacuum exposure for up to 20 minutes. Increases radiation resistance. Minor damage resistance enhancement. Freely alter skin pigmentation. Increased control over water loss. Requires life support module. Functions as biological skin.

Artificial sinews: Laces tendons, ligaments, and muscles with alloys. Major strength increase. Minor damage resistance enhancement. Requires an enhanced skeletal structure.

“Alright E-SIM. I’ll take ‘em. How long will it take me to learn these?”

++Once you have your bio-printer running, it will take 20 to 30 days to learn and demonstrate your understanding of these additions.++

“For reference, if I didn’t have you cramming the knowledge into my head, how long would it take to learn or research these?”

++If you did nothing but study, eat, and sleep, Your lifespan would end before you learned all the required skills and knowledge for a single module. Research would take a score of researchers multiple lifetimes, depending on their start point. Complete understanding is only possible with bio-sculpting, augmetics, and an absurd quantity of computing resources and physical experiments.++

“So that’s why the adeptus mechanicus struggle so much. Though I guess the more you understand, the greater the overlap and the faster you can learn and innovate.”

++In theory. You should worry about getting to that point first, or perhaps focus on patching the floor and analysing the Distant Sun’s hull. The research matrix requires a materials lab and more computing resources for a full analysis. Alternatively you can seek new tools. ESIM’s nanties are poor at external work and will take too long to breach the hull. You also need to finish your bio-printer.++

“Or I could look for an entrance.”

++You could. However, the state of the Distant Sun’s gellar field and void shield are unknown and we are in the warp. You would likely be swarmed and destroyed within moments of leaving the hull if the light cruiser’s defences are down.++

“No wonder looking at those closed shutters in the canteen gives me the creeps. How about a shuttle? Also, doesn’t the station’s gellar field cover the Distant Sun?”

++It is rare for shuttles to be warp capable. Second, are you willing to gamble when you can take your extra time to cut into the ship, plug into their systems and find out for sure?++

“Assuming their diagnostics are correct.”

++It has better odds than a prayer.++

“Ain’t that the truth, but we’re in warp. A prayer might be more effective.”

++You are an atheist.++

“Labs and tools it is. Better patch that hole first though, as you suggested.”

++Mission log updated.++

I stride over to the scrap pile and use the bigger bits to weld an assortment of bins, then lay into the scrap with my pipe and power field. Next, I return to my workshop to fashion a shovel, then return to the library to sling the scrap into the bins.

The whole mess takes a solid five days to clear and patch. Unwilling to tackle the labs, I decide to search for tools.

“E-SIM, I’d like the map for this whole ring please.”

++Uploading.++

Like a drop of rain in a still lake, my awareness spreads in ripples. It’s far too much to take in at once and I sway on my feet. The ring is colossal, a flattened oval, five kilometres thick and twenty kilometres in circumference. Endless labs, storage, habitation, and power plants fill every space. I find seven train lines, hundreds of lifts, and a whole lot of stuff I know the labels of but don’t understand what they are.

Following the logic of my previous career, that everything ends up in the sewers whether it should be there or not, I search for a water treatment plant. Unable to find one, E-SIM tells me I am looking for the wrong thing and directs me towards the closest environmental sustainer.

After some deliberation, I grab some food and water and my nanite sprayer. My armour is too heavy for exploration. I can only hope my mesh suit and fatigues will be enough.

My destination is one and a half kilometres above me and two kilometres anti-clockwise along the ring. The first half of my journey goes well, then I reach my nemesis, a big door. I’m also unhappy about the bloody spikes, decorated with skulls, welded to every surface.

With much frustration and significant fear, I turn around and leave. The door sobs as something hauls it open and I sprint. Howls and cracking lasers follow me. Four hundred metres later, I realise that the only way to deal with this is to kill whatever is chasing me. I’m stuffed if they follow me all the way back to base.

I keep running, looking for a good spot to ambush my pursuers, likely cultists and their pets. Spotting a broken panel, I slip between the jagged pipes and dangling wires, and wait for them to pass.

Four men in patchwork leather and clacking bone fetishes rush past, then I hear a growl.

A cyber mastiff, with metal jaws and exposed flesh, noses into my hideaway.

My powerfield rushes over my pipe and I crush the mechanised dog, pulping its skull. It stiffens, its artificial limbs locking it in place and I shove it out of the way as I burst out from behind the broken panel, my plan in tatters.

The four cultists skid to a halt and whip around. One immediately sprays his lasgun everywhere, filling the air with strobing red light and sharp cracks. Two shots hit my torso and disperse on my undersuit. Discrete alerts flash a heat dispersion warning, then fade rapidly. The light is searing, and if it weren’t for my implants and helmet, would have blinded me.

A fifth cultist, with a brass whistle shaped like a dog skull around his neck, appears on my right and yells, “My dog!”

I can’t believe those are the first words I’ve heard from another human in 38 millenia.

These last few months have beaten the hesitation from me and I backhand the dog whisperer then charge the laser spewing lunatic and slam my pipe towards his face.

He ducks, but is too slow, my new cartoon muscles offering more than just strength. The pipe vaporises his head; I stumble as I try to correct my overpowered blow. As I turn around, the three remaining cultists freeze.

E-SIM drives me onwards, feeding possibilities into my head, and I open up with my nanite sprayer, coating the madmen in silver death. They scream for a moment, then, like the orc, begin to choke and dissolve as the nanties’ power field rips them apart. Unlike the orc though, they immediately drop and roll, or try to clear their eyes with their hands, rather than keep swinging.

The dog whisper draws his knife, pauses when he sees me running at him, then turns and flees.

I hurl my pipe at him and it hits his legs, sending him tumbling to the floor. He scrambles to his knees, only for my boot to press him back into the plasteel floor.

He turns his head to the side and glares at me with one eye, “You killed Yellow Pete!”

“Well, hello to you too. Do you have a name?”

“Brian, Imperial scum.”

“You see, that’s where you're wrong. I’m not an Imperial.”

His eyes widen, “You’re one of the frozen stiffs!”

“There are other survivors?”

“No,” he smirks. “We always get you in the end.”

“And why is that?”

“The champion hunts you.”

“What sort of champion?”

He cackles, “The aspiring kind.”

“I think you're lying. The chance of a chaos marine on this hulk is minimal, let alone a champion of your mad gods.”

“They’re here for you, freak, and all the other ice walkers.”

“Is that so?”

“What you gonna do about it, iceman?”

I put my other boot in his neck and press until it cracks. E-SIM lets up on the emotional suppression and my anger and fear bubbles. I don’t stick around, or loot their gear, and rush home.

Lying in my cot, I nibble one of the few sweet treats I’ve found and stare at the ceiling.

How much of that conversation was the truth? It makes a lot of sense, yet there was no one else who broke into the rations before me, but then, E-SIM means you don’t have to eat much, but it also only activates after killing your first demon, or other corrupted, psychoactive entity.

The chance of surviving that encounter is low. I only managed it because I found a barricade. I doubt everyone who woke up was as lucky as me, let alone has enough knowledge of the situation to know what is going on, and why avoiding contact, the thing confused sleepers need the most, is one of the few chances of survival.

It’s unlikely that cultist was capable of coming up with a fake story like that, so there is probably some truth to it.

Then I remember a phrase. The only thing I need to know.

Chaos lies.

I smile. Yeah, that’s it. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. All I have to do is prepare for every Tuesday, I mean doomsday, and kill every monster that comes my way.

Ha! Now that’s enlightened self-interest.

Holding my hand above my head, I spread my fingers and watch them shake like an alcoholic before his first drink of the day. I sigh. Maybe one day I will become comfortable with violence, but it won’t be today.

After a nap, I crack on with the bio-printer, trying to make the most of E-SIM’s uptime. Hiding behind the canteen barricade helps me maintain power, though I can’t keep the warp tap going all the time as I need to fashion tools in my workshop, which isn’t reinforced.

Work goes well, and I manage eleven days of uninterrupted work, repurposing scavenged circuitry, and hooking up the odd sphere Bola gave me to my printer. Turns out the device was a rather powerful cogitator. The cogitator’s internal battery is bust, as it only boots when it’s on a charging pad, but it works well enough for now.

It’s not the circuit printer I need, but it’s a fine tool and scavenging has gone better than I thought it would, the disparate parts working together much better than I believed possible.

I had E-SIM backup all the data on the cogitator in case it fails, as well as use it as a backup for my own data too.

The most interesting thing about it is that it has a bunch of games on it that I’m looking forward to trying, including a fleet command game. I had a quick look and noticed a bunch of save files and high scores have orky names, like Emperor Dakka Dakka, and Flash Nob. It was clearly a prized possession of the orks and I’m rather impressed Bola managed to nick it.

Keen to see what else the little green shit can get for me, I draft and machine a gobbo sized shotgun and incendiary shells, along with a smart jacket, shirt, and trousers from a set of fatigues and slack whites from a stasis pod corpse.

Sitting in the canteen, I put the finishing touches on Bola’s jacket, a skull and crossbones on the back, the lights fade to a dim red and a mechanical voice grinds out of hidden speakers.

“Fuel exhausted, batteries engaged, emergency power profile executed.”

My tools and projects, ever so slowly, begin to float around me as my body, unprompted, lifts off the bench.

The voice continues, “Gellar field failure estimated in twenty eight days.”

“If I ever meet the computer running this station, I'll rename it Murphy.”

++Mission log updated.++

I laugh, then panic.