Herald of the Stars: Chapter Ninety-Four (Patreon)

I am on holiday this week and will not be replying to comments or messages for approximately three days. Chapters will release as normal.

The race continues for another twenty minutes. All the scores from the buggies who actually completed the race are fairly close, though Team Arachnid takes the win, despite being the last over the finish line and barely within the forty-five minute time limit for the whole race.

While Team Arachnid trundle about, completing all the most difficult tasks, the other buggies do extra laps, trying to beat their personal shortest lap for a few extra points, as well as last year’s shortest lap time.

These extra laps keep the race lively and uncover more traps and ambushes as the racers experiment with potentially faster routes. Much to mine and the spectators’ amusement, Team Silver Grox even loses their buggy during a bonus lap. A lascannon shot from halfway across the hull finishes off their battered buggy, penetrating their cockpit after the buggy jumps too high in an attempt to bypass sections of the hull’s labyrinthine surface.

I finally get a response from my heralds about the attack and they’ve brought the source of trouble on board my vessel. I am not happy and immediately rush to the primary hangar, leaving Thorfinn to close out the competition. After navigating the vessel, It takes a couple of minutes to get through the hangar airlock and decontamination systems and into the cavernous facility.

Within, a whole squadron of D-POTs is on standby, as well as twenty other craft, engaged in cargo and personnel transfers. There’s at least a thousand people here and it’s rather noisy. Shuttles are suspended on gantries to maximise space and travel on cargo lifts to and from the hangar’s exit. The system reminds me of the automated car parks and bicycle storage that city councils were experimenting with in cramped metropolitan areas just before I died.

Our gantry system is new to Distant Sun, increasing our capacity from twelve fury interceptor sized strike craft or shuttles in seventy by thirty-five metre slots to forty eight slots of the same size, though they are adjustable. A class one D-POT takes up half a plot and a class two occupies two slots, so the hangar can hold anywhere between ninety-six class one D-POTs or thunderhawks, or twenty four class two D-POTs and any combination in between. I can’t fit class three D-POTs on Distant Sun.

If I really wanted to, I could fit twenty one arvus lighters on a single plot, and fill the hanger with just over a thousand of them. That would be silly though as I could never use them all in a practical length of time. It takes ninety seconds to retrieve or launch a craft on their movable platforms.

Although I can handle two platforms simultaneously, launching or retrieving a whole platform of lighters safely would take at least sixteen minutes, and about thirteen hours to launch them all, rather than the seventy-two minutes it normally takes to cycle all the platforms at maximum efficiency. The latter is only barely acceptable for combat and only if I can spot my enemies in time.

The entire hangar is airless and is usually kept that way. The exit has void shields configured to keep the air in and make for a more convenient working environment. However, we rarely bother to fill the hangar with breathable air as everyone is issued a hyperweave suit and a helmet which they have to wear to navigate the vessel anyway.

Whenever I enter the hangar I am always reminded of my first few hours on Distant Sun, fighting alongside Sergeant Odhran against orks, tyranids, and chaos cultists. It is, however, the eldar that incite the greatest fear.

I’ve never forgotten their gleeful, twisted faces as they brutalised my body and placed that pistol to my head. The nothingness that followed, or the fear that preceded it and the bubbling rage that all my efforts were to be rendered meaningless before an immaterial prophecy.

The horror of watching all my grandchildren’s messages, millenia of effort and chance, crushed between cruel, delicate fingers was equally scaring. Sure, I knew the data was safely backed up, but as I saw the ancient link between my family and I being destroyed, the logic didn’t matter. It didn’t make the pain go away.

I joke about blaming the eldar for everything, yet no matter how true or not it might be, my attitude comes from fear, fear and spite. Now, for the first time in forty years, an eldar is before me once again.

He stands, if barely, his arms held tight on either side by silver clad heralds, their backs straight and stiff as they march him down the ramp of a class two D-POT and on to my vessel. He wears a hyperweave suit, but it fits him poorly, the suits never designed to adjust such a tall and thin individual.

I wait, looking him over as they approach. This specimen is even more flawed than I’d believed possible. There is no fight in this creature, only a broken and twisted body. His arms have healed at odd angles, his flesh is tough and scarred, and even his jaw is slightly out of alignment. His two point one metre frame is stooped and his slim shoulders are hunched forward.

I want to hate him, just for what he is. It would be so easy, right even, were I to truly fall into the molasses of imperial dogma and accept my hate as truth.

That isn’t what this is about though. It does not matter that his race is a blight on the galaxy, his kind having learned nothing since The Fall. It is about me facing my fears and conquering them, about me squeezing every last drop of knowledge from the carcass of their foetid civilization.

The eldar before me is not responsible for my fear. He is likely unrelated to the decisions of his ancient kin.

He is a slave.

I do not, and will not keep such things, yet neither will I execute a prisoner out of hand. He has done nothing and can do nothing and so I shall grant him, not the Emperor’s mercy, but the burden and boon of a choice. I wish to prove to myself I am better than my fears. Perhaps this one eldar is broken enough to learn and grow beyond the folly of his ancestors. I doubt it, and do not care so long as he cooperates.

One of the escorts speaks up, “Magos, I have a message. May I relay it?”

I stare at the eldar and nod once, “Go ahead.”

“Commander MacCrane sends his regards and apologies for the delay in communication. A dark eldar raid came out of the ocean on their skimmers. The sensor network that was set up to detect the tau spotted them and our fleet caught them unawares, firing from over the horizon with their heaviest ordinance and slaughtering them before they had a chance to fight.

“By the time what was happening got to the top of the command chain, it was already over and the water navy moved in to mop up the remnants and double check the wreckage. As per your standing order, all dark eldar were shot and their bodies destroyed, regardless of the condition we found them in or if they surrendered. The archon and his hrud and barghesi bodyguard fought to the death.

“The dark eldar also had a detachment of Enoulian mercenaries who surrendered. This was accepted, but when one of them spotted an imperial eagle, they swiftly turned violent and had to be put down.

“Any and all surviving slaves we found were recovered, of which we have twenty three: seventeen imperial humans, five morralian children, and one eldar. The humans and morralian children are having their injuries treated and are causing little trouble.

“This one, however,” the herald squeezes the eldar’s shoulder tightly, but the eldar does not react, “is proving more troublesome. Commander MacCrane was concerned as our protocols insist we treat all eldar as powerful psykers. The only persons remaining who can contain such individuals are you and Headmaster Nan Sop so Commander MacCrane sent us up with the prisoner immediately. That’s all I have to say, Magos.”

“Good job. I’m glad our systems are working as intended, though do tell commander MacCrane to call Aileen or I to Marwolv next time, rather than bring a potential hazard onto my voidships or other space facilities without direct permission. The main hangar is not a suitable location for transferring dangerous prisoners either. Has MacCrane ordered a search for the webway gate now we have a better idea of where it might be?”

“No idea, Magos. I never saw any fighting. I’m stationed on Dimpsy Fortress, with the aeronautica, not with the water navy.”

“Alright. Thank you for bringing the prisoner. You are dismissed.”

The two heralds step away from the eldar and return to their D-POT. I spot three squads of heralds lurking nearby. The eldar’s head shifts from side to side ever so slightly. He shifts his body to a more martial stance as much as his damaged legs allow.

I approach the twisted humanoid, “What is your name and craftworld, eldar?”

“Ylien Keltadh, formally of Alaitoc.” His voice is melodious, though there is a slight rasp to it, likely from some poorly healed wound.

“What is your path?”

Ylien stares at me for a moment, “Seer.”

“Warlock or Farseer?” I detach my hell pistol from my shoulder and point it at his head. “I see you lack a spirit stone.”

Ylien tenses.

My mechadendrite reaches out and carefully scans him, finding a sliver of wraithbone attached to the back of his skull. It shares some similar properties to a null rod, I think, but I can’t be sure. “Your powers have been curtailed? Well, there’s no way your previous captors could have taken you into Commorragh were you capable of drawing on the warp.”

“You know much, Magos.”

“Knowledge is my faith, the foundation of my self-worth.”

“I will not tell you how my craftworld might be found, no matter what you do.”

“That is neither my goal nor purpose. Your race is dying, Ylien. You’ve had over ten thousand years to sort yourselves out and have achieved little. You fear for your immortal souls, fleeing from your Great Devourer, and that is wise. Instead, your species relies on spirit stones, mined from the crone worlds within the eye of terror to safeguard their souls in death, yet this fear limits you.”

Ylien bares his pointed teeth and hisses.

I continue, “Without stones, you cannot replace your losses with mass cloning or the resurrection and feasting on the souls of others like your foolish dark kin are so fond of. There is a delicious irony that they mimic the behaviour of their most feared foe in a doomed attempt to stave off the inevitable.

“The limitations on craftworld eldar means you do not have enough people to acquire more stones and therefore rebuild your civilization. When facing the horrors of the galaxy, to fail to grow is to die. A slow one, but death all the same.”

Ylien frowns, “Why do you tell me this? Do you think yourself clever telling me what every eldar child knows, or are you trying to mock me with your feeble thoughts.”

I ignore him and continue to scan his body for traps. “Most of humanity is ignorant of what awaits them upon death and so we throw ourselves against our fate, hoping enough bodies will seize the cogs that relentlessly reduce our rotting civilization back to the dust it rose from. Our barbarous nature, that your species so often accuse and ridicule us for, is the quality that pushes back the demonic nightmares your kind wallowed in and created, despite many warnings, I might add.”

“It was the craftworld aeldari who did so!” shouts Ylein, “My ancestors were those very people who gave those warnings. What purpose could your blathering possibly propose, Magos?”

“You’ve given up. I don’t blame you, not after all you have likely been through beneath the tools and whips of the dark eldar, but I am talking of your species as a whole.

“I cannot and will never help the eldar as a whole. Perhaps with the wakening of Ynnari in the warp will be enough. Perhaps your new god and his followers will fail. That, however, has little to do with the present and your current situation.”

He tries to hide it, but even an eldar’s vaunted proprioception cannot obscure his trembling. After all, the secrets of their new god and the freedom he offers from the tyranny of Slaanesh, the Great Devourer of eldar souls, is supposed to be hidden from the Mon-keigh.

“The last eldar I met tried to kill me for absolutely no reason while revelling in his perceived moral superiority and the righteousness of his cause. I, however, am going to offer you a choice.”

Ylien stills, his gaze turning from my face to my feet, “I am listening.”

“First, a warning. Should you refuse my first offer, I will place you in solitary confinement for ten terran years and my second offer will be twice as arduous for you. As will be the length of confinement and labours required should you refuse a second time. If you refuse a third time, you will be executed after your third confinement session. I will not make a forth offer. Should you accept any freedoms, betrayal will be met with ten years of confinement for a first offence and so on, until execution. Do you understand the consequences I have listed?”

“I do, Magos.”

“Good. My first offer is thus: Ylien Keltadh, you will accept three apprentices every twenty years for eighty years. You will teach them everything you know of the warp, how to manipulate it, and avoid its perils. You will teach properly, with effort, patience and good manners, withholding nothing.

“In return, after one hundred years you will be granted a servitor crew and a class three D-POT, a large macro-lander capable of extensive intrasystem travel. You will be dropped off at a safe location of your choosing, within reason, and be left free to roam as you wish. Alternatively, I will apply for sanctioned xeno status and you may remain with my fleet as a paid consultant, remaining free of the strictures of your craftworld and able to embrace the path of outcast without fear of death and depravity.

“During the time you are aboard the ship, you will be granted a room of your own in the xeno quarters and the same stipend all crew are allotted, as well as a wage fitting for a member of my retinue. Like the tau on board, or those serving criminal sentences, you will be a second class citizen and required to pay for everything, including the air you breathe.

“The one exception to this will be the medical care you receive after this meeting so that I can remove all those nasty traps and tracking devices in your body and heal the wounds you suffered from the dark eldar. A fresh start from me to you as a gesture of good will, regardless of what option you choose.

“At no time will you be required to teach eldar stratagems, or explain the workings of your species’ technology, though you may sell such information for additional funds. Neither will you need to perform additional tasks beyond that of teaching, unless you so choose, at which time, additional compensation will be offered.

“To summarise, one hundred years of service at a decent wage in exchange for a chance to start your life anew, hale in mind and body. Do you accept these terms, Ylien Keltadh of the Alaitoc eldar?”