Herald of the Stars: Chapter Twelve (Patreon)

After travelling with Bola and his crew for thirty minutes, I head for my own territory. Returning to my room, I hug a few meal packs and climb into the bath of metallic beads and have E-SIM put me to sleep until I have fully healed.

While the life-support module does a fine job of sealing wounds, repairing damage takes much longer, even more so for the fiddly implants shaken by the blast. Yes, they can take huge amounts of damage and still function, but there is no reason to delay returning everything to 100%, especially as my analgesics are limited.

I feel much more balanced when I wake up. My shakes have faded and I feel less need to stare at the wall, my mind blank. I still do that for a bit, sipping on a quarter bottle of golden spirits. It’s not whisky, or brandy, but it is good.

Shuffling to my workshop, I start on Bola’s order, repair my own gear, and build myself a new, sleeker sprayer.

At the end of the fifth day, I fill my pallet truck with goods and go to the drop off point. There, I meet with Bola again, who has apparently forgotten the idea of dead drops, and has an expanded crew of seven gretchin, all mimicking him in eclectic fancy dress, like a bunch of little horrors preparing for halloween.

As I leave, I hear Bola conducting a small ceremony as he bestows the loot he traded for while putting on an odd accent, sounding like a cockney pirate. With a smile on my face, I go to the Distant Sun, then have to repack and return to my workshop an hour later and spend a week adding safety features to the gear I acquired.

With only sixteen days until the station runs out of power and is exposed to the warp, I spark up the plasma torch and hold it to the hull.

It does absolutely nothing. The thermal mass of the hull disperses the heat so fast, I can’t cut into it.

Next I try the ungainly power claw.

It works.

Sighing with relief, I set to work. Thirty minutes later, I take off the claw.

++Aldrich. I’ve run the numbers.++

“Yeah, yeah I know.”

++We aren’t going to make it.++

“How about a tyranid claw? They can cut through armour. Perhaps they can get through this.”

++There is no data, only the imaginings of humanity from thirty-eight thousand years ago. Most of what you know puts them at the equivalent of a power weapon. You’ve tried two powerfields, a third will not help you here.++

“We can’t know for certain, but it sure isn’t worth gambling on. Why is this hull so hard?”

++There are many reasons. The one relevant to you is that all this destructive testing suggests the ship has field bracing active.++

“What’s that?”

++A device that reinforces the bonds between atoms. It requires a significant quantity of power to sustain.++

“So we know they have power, which means they likely have a gellar field and a void shield active too and someone is probably on the ship. Also, it makes the shuttle plan less risky.”

++It’s the only plan now, unless you are still entertaining the idea of a warp walk.++

“Absolutely not. Where are the shuttle bays?”

++In between the ork and tyranid territory.++

I look over at my shiny new nanite sprayer, resting against one of the fuel barrels, and sigh, “I’ll need a bigger gun.”

++Modifying the sprayer to take multiple attachments will be more time efficient.++

“Ah, it was an old joke. One before your time. You’re correct though. Help me with the design please.”

++Acknowledged, Aldrich.++

I spin up the research module and start modifying the sprayer’s design. Each idea I have is simulated as I have them, the details filled in by E-SIM, and anything I don’t understand is added to the massive queue of knowledge E-SIM is teaching me.

Within the hour, the design is complete. A U-shaped prong has been added to the end of the barrel and the sprayer given a secondary frame, all from the orc power claw, so that I can use the sprayer like a trident, without damaging the gun.

A second canister hangs beneath the barrel, adjacent to the first, so I can fire nanties or fuel.

I spend four days getting ready. I don’t know if I’ll be coming back, so I sew a rucksack and fill it with everything I think I will need, including the spherical computer I received from Bola. When I need a break, I rush about, checking every room within my station section and copy every bit of data I can find. I’m annoyed I couldn’t finish the bio-printer, but the Distant Sun should have a manufactury and multiple labs I can commandeer.

Checking the rooms I used one last time, I say, “How long has it been since I woke up?”

++Reanimation protocols were initiated four months and seventeen days ago after a power failure.++

“Ah, I really should have asked that earlier, then we might not be in such a hurry now. What are my current power reserves?”

++Emergency Power is at 100%. Main Power at 61.8%. Current usage at 0.7% EP per hour for four active modules. Active modules: E-SIM/ Basic 0.1%, E-SIM/ Normal 0.3%, Life Support 0.1%, Body Tuning 0.1%, Scanner 0.1%. Inactive modules: Research Matrix, Nanite Constructor, Machine Integration, E-WAR/ Basic, Warp Tap. Inactive services: self repair, remote power, module construction. Current run time is over thirty days.++

“That’s quite an improvement from four months ago. Do you think it will be enough?”

“We do not know enough about the orks or tyranids to make that assessment. However, given time and resource limits, further training and preparation would offer diminishing returns compared to theoretical risks.”

I don my armour, shoulder my back pack, and strap my shotgun to my leg and an ammo pouch to the other. Four cylinders of each type slot onto my new belt. My pipe gets tucked horizontally below my back pack. The sprayer goes on a strap over my shoulder and I cradle the large gun in my arms.

I tap my bright red chest piece, “I even have new paint.”

++Good luck, operator.++

“Thank you, E-SIM, but I won’t need it. I have you.”

++Sentiment acknowledged. E-SIM was made ready.++

I laugh, “So some jokes did survive.”

Entering ork territory isn’t as scary as it used to be, though my growing familiarity with xenos does not hinder my caution. Two hundred metres deep into their area, rusted idols to their violent gods, Gork and Mork, appear. Every time I find one, I back track a bit and try a different route.

Six hours later, I retreat to a small room filled with smashed containers. Sticky residue coats the floor. I shake off a crumpled tarpaulin and lay it on the ground, then sit on it, my back nestled in the corner.

Pulling up the map in my mind, I grimace. I will need to go through the orks territory. There are plenty of vents I could try my luck with, but I don’t fancy meeting a tyranid inside one, nor do they leave me with any options to escape if I get spotted. Maintenance corridors have similar problems.

Fighting every ork between here and the hanger would deplete all my resources and increases the chance I’ll die. That leaves more scouting, hoping for better options, or distracting the orks, keeping them away from where I want to sneak through, then taking my chances with their reduced numbers.

Couldn’t I combine my options? Distract the orks, then take a maintenance corridor where their numbers are low? That’ll have to do, I can’t think of anything else.

How do I distract the orks? No, no, I’m looking at it the wrong way. I need to incite the tyranids, who will attack the orks, and I can do that by activating my warp tap.

Another minute with the map gives me the location of my target corridor. It’s one hundred and twenty-seven metres distant towards the inner rim. Feeling rested, I set out.

A third of the way to my destination, a mob of ten boyz appears on my scanner. Cursing, I search for a room to hide in, but every single one is filled with random electrical parts, scrap metals, and trashed machinery.

Ah, I’ve found the ork equivalent of a treasury. Any other time I’d be delighted to see what I could nick from their salvage as it’s no doubt stuffed with relics of another age.

With nowhere to run, I copy Bola’s swagger, and try to walk like I belong here. Shame I haven’t had time to acquire my void skin upgrade, then I could have turned myself green and waltzed through.

Nine boyz in brown, pebbled, squig leather jackets and trousers, stomp round the corner. A larger ork follows them. An oversized, thompson-style machine gun is clenched in his massive hand and a huge cleaver is held in the other.

A boy yells and points at me as they approach. The big ork pushes to the front of their line.

“Well, well, well. What do we ‘ave ‘ere. It’s da Rusty Slayah,” he sniggers, “allegedly.”

“I’m flattered,” I say, with a dry tone. “Has Bola been telling stories?”

“Mouthy little git likes to spread da word, he does. Came back with a crumbly beaky helmet ta prove it. ‘Course who would believe that? Beaky gear is shiny. So we gave ‘im a few smacks and he told us da Rusty Slayah would krump us for laughin’ at ‘im. Den, bold as a boss, ‘ere you come, walking through our territory like you own da place, but you’re a squishy. You don’t ‘ave what it takes ta walk ’ere.”

“What’s your name?”

“Gunz da Writah.”

“Let me guess, you compose victory chants with bullets on the corpses of your enemies.”

“Dat’s a good idea, ‘umie, and I’m starting wiv you!”

Gunz waves the other boyz back with his cleaver and points his gun at me and fires.

E-SIM tracks the barrel, showing me where to run as I charge at the ork. After the first three shots, he updates the parameters and has me run where the barrel is pointing, not where it isn't. Gunz’s weapon is really inaccurate. He fires ninety-seven rounds at me.

Three hit my chest, one smacks my thigh, and two more hit my right arm. The explosive rounds stagger me, but don’t penetrate my armour. The rounds are debilitating and my scanner goes into overdrive, replacing my eyes and ears, filling my head with wire frames outlining my enemies.

Drugs flood my body, boosting my courage and focus. It takes me six seconds to cover the fifty metres between us. I am just as wild with my own shots, spraying a whole canister of nanites over the orks the moment I’m in range.

Gunz holds his cleaver before himself, warding off most of the spray. The boyz get well doused with silver machines.

Using my machine integration implant, I activate the powerfield at the end of my sprayer, turning the two prongs from mundane metal into matter vaporising terrors. I thrust the prongs at Gunz, who knocks them aside, though they do take a chunk out of his cleaver.

The boyz stomp and shout, trying to wipe the nanites from their faces. Some pull off their jackets only to have them fall apart in their hands. Their skin starts to blister and sends them into a frothing frenzy. A pair swing their choppas, wounding three of their comrades, who knock them down and try to surround me.

Keeping the nanites active so far away tanks my energy reserves and my chest heats up from the rapid discharge of power.

Meanwhile, I force Gunz back into the mob with great success, hoping he will get tangled in the mob. The orks, however, manoeuvre around Gunz without trouble, as if they always know where he is, even when their vision is impaired and their minds are dizzy with pain.

With a smirk, Gunz reloads his weapon behind the cover of  his boyz as I am forced back by their wild blows.

Unwilling to weather a magazine at point blank, I trigger another mechanism, sending a plume of sparks over the orks, then pull the trigger. Thick, volatile liquid pumps from the barrel of my gun, arcing over the mob and coats Gunz in burning fuel. The rounds in his hand cook off and explode, scything through the orcs and pinging of my armour.

One cracks my visor and another pulps my left hand. I back up and let the nanites finish off the injured boyz. Once they're down, I advance, stabbing each of their heads with the powered prongs and grabbing stikkbombs from their corpses, surprised and grateful the handcrafted grenades didn’t go up with the ammo.

Propping my weapon against my forearm, I struggle to swap out the canisters on my sprayer, but get it done.

Two minutes later, I’m underway, sprinting through the corridors.

Just another forty metres to go, and I’ll be out of sight.