Herald of the Stars: Chapter One Hundred and Seven (Patreon)

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“That can’t be real,” I say. “It’s absurdly big.”

++It is not real. The vessel is a data structure, much like the portal you built, but significantly more complicated. However, it is modelled off an Abyss-Class void ship. I have records of ten being built by the Federation. You have records of the Imperium building three, though it is possible they were salvaged, rather than built from scratch.++

“I want one.”

++It is unlikely the STC for such a vessel remains anywhere in the galaxy and you could not derive one from my data structure either. Were you to disassemble and scan every part, when building them in the Materium, nothing would work.++

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “What was the purpose of building such a large artificial Warp entity?”

++It is the defence for the E-SIM project. I am its central hub. Had not all the other Warp Taps been destroyed it would have permitted FTL coms throughout the galaxy as all E-SIMs would connect to me.++

“I had not realised you are connected to a set point in the Warp, no matter where I am in the Materium or Immaterium. If you weren’t though, Distant Sun would have collided with you, and not the space station I woke up on. I can’t believe I didn’t think about that before. It completely violates everything I know about navigating the Warp.”

++So does the Eldar Webway and the Necron Dolmen Gates, as does the Jericho-Maw Warp Gate. The Warp is a realm of possibility, just because you or I do not know how, does not make it impossible.++

“You have the STC on how to make Warp Taps though, which means you can make fixed gates, and therefore FTL coms.”

++All breaches into the Warp generate noise. Do you really want to create a noisy hub in the Warp? It is much more turbulent now than it was when this technology was developed.++

“I don’t think astropathic relays are much better.”

++They do not have a fixed breach to the Warp and I do not know how to create a separate space on par with the Webway. An Abyss-Class is a grand vessel, capable of taking on a whole fleet. It cannot face down an infinite number of demons and you cannot build an infinite number of data-structures to support me.

++A network of portals could be hijacked too, similar to how the minds of psykers can be breached. The FTL coms you dream of could become the weakness that destroys you and humanity. Is it really worth it? Can you build technology to rival the might of the Emperor’s protective bindings? Even his defences can be breached.++

“You can also close a breached mind with a bullet and a data structure with a self-destruct mechanism.”

++You still can’t build a data-structure fleet capable of obliterating an infinitely respawning army of demons though, let alone the greater gods of the Warp. Your network will do you no good if you have to keep destroying it to prevent a breach.++

I groan, “No, I don’t think I can. How many additional portals do you calculate I could build here before you were overrun?”

++Zero. You already attract a lot of attention. Have you forgotten how Bad Penny tracked you down three times? Tyranids found you once. The double bird brained schemer possibly predicted your coming and plotted to eliminate you at least once, possibly twice. The Eldar definitely predicted your existence once. Do not push your luck, Aldrich. You must reinforce and hide this area as best as you can, as fast as you can. Your upgrades require you to draw increasingly more power. The more power you draw, the greater attention you will gather. You know this.++

“I’ve become a little careless, haven’t I? The days of scrabbling through scrap are far behind me, hopefully forever. Every time I think I have my life under control, or that I am working on every possible level to secure every possible contingency, I am reminded that I am falling short. It’s not a great feeling.”

++Defence is a losing game. Even if you possess powerful deterrents, there will always be those willing to take their chances, whittling away at your resources until you can no longer hold on. The only options are to destroy your enemies first, or not play at all. You can do neither. At least for now. Unlike most, each opponent you defeat makes you stronger. Survive long enough and victory will be yours. Always.++

“Thank’s E-SIM. I appreciate the encouragement. In that spirit, let’s do what we came here to do.”

As I turn around to face the portal, I glimpse golden chains, each link as large as an Adder-Class destroyer, have ensnared E-SIM. Its surface flickers and I see massive holes have been punched through E-SIMs thick armour. When I look over my shoulder for a closer look, the chains are missing and E-SIM’s hull is whole.

“Hey, E-SIM. You’re not restricted by anything or anyone here are you?”

++No. I am unfettered and unrestrained.++

Well that’s not encouraging. I have three excellent eyes and I am certain of what I saw. What should I even do about it? Is taking action even wise? I hate decisions like this. Either way, I can’t do anything about it for now.

My power armour alerts me of spiking pressure in my fists and my spiralling thoughts return to the present. At the foot of the portal platform, I retrieve a small orange box from my servo-harness, and place it upon the lifeless, false earth. I turn on the data-structure with a mental vox command and my surroundings stutter. From one blink to the next appears an orange column, covered in offset holes. I push more data structures, each the size of a hazelnut into each hole into the spongy medium inside the column.

I return through the portal and grab a wheelbarrow full of special stasis boxes of varying size, and return to the Warp. When I return, I see that the column is now lush with plants.

Next I harvest each plant, placing the parts I need in the stasis boxes, and travel back to my quarters with my preserved plants. At last, I have everything I need to cure Quaani.

Quaani has already been moved to my quarters from Distant Sun. He’s out of stasis, but sedated and waiting in my private surgery suite. I wish Alieen was here to help me with this, but he is far away and Ylien, the Eldar Warlock, is not trustworthy enough to assist, so I must perform the operation and rituals by myself.

Wheeling plants into a surgery theatre is an incongruent experience and brings up memories of my first career where I would be wheeling materials into all manner of locations that would never normally see a wheelbarrow. The surgery suite has been remodelled to look like an imperial chapel, with the operating table doubling as the altar and overlooked by two golden statues of the Emperor. Twelve small ritual circles surround it, all placed along the circumference of a larger one.

In each circle I place a stasis box with a data structure plant. Because the plants aren’t actually real, physical objects, I can’t extract components from them to make medicines. Instead, they are ritual components, similar to sacrificing a person, or demon for its power and properties, but less messy and with consistent, custom results.

I look down at Quaani. He lies naked on a gently heated plasteel slab covered in runes. Quaani is in poor shape, somehow having grown while in stasis. He is little more than a four metre scarecrow, with twisted, overly long limbs and a prominent forehead that bulges unnaturally from his skull. His hands are webbed and his legs have begun to fuse into a single, sinuous, serpent-like limb. He has lost all his hair and his skin has begun to form scales.

Surrounding Quaani are tables heavy with nearly arranged tools, and drugs. The most notable is a bio-tank, filled with suspended silver particles in a clear liquid that holds a modified black skeleton, stuffed with the same implants I gave to my small council as well as additional hyperweave threads and armoured scaffolding for new organs and muscles to grow upon.

I go over everything one last time, but everything is in its place and nothing is peeking at me from the Immaterium. Centering myself, I focus all my minds on the ritual, then place a sample of my dull grey blood in an auramite bowl engraved with silver script.

Next I gather the prepared drugs and Warp laden minerals and plug them into  blackstone cuffs that I attach around Quaani’s wrists, and ankles. A thick band is secured over his forehead. Last, I light twelve candles and place them on top of each stasis box.

I stand by Quanni’s head and open my third eye, taking extra care to stare exactly where his own is, hidden beneath the blackstone band. Immediately, corrosive energy blasts from my forehead and feeds into the blackstone band. The ritual circles flash and all the candles begin to burn different colours as the plants beneath them dissolve, flicker, and fade.

Thick smoke twists into thin cables that arc high, then twine together and funnel into Quaani’s chest. For a moment, I struggle to maintain concentration as a stray thought intrudes on the ritual: that smoke shape looks like a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

Slowly, the colourful smoke forms a cocoon around Quaani. Once the cocoon is complete, I dip my hands in my own blood and place them on the smoke cocoon. The cocoon feels spongy and I push slightly against it. It becomes harder to compress the stronger I push against it, like a lunar regolith. The colours leach from the cocoon and it turns grey. They drip inside the hollow, filling it with a pseudo liquid.

Quaani’s body lifts off the table then floats within the cocoon. Once he is floating, the cocoon gives way, and my hands and upper arms pass through the cocoon and into Quaani’s body without harming him. I receive almost no feedback until I channel my power in the manner Alieen taught me too, becoming instantly aware of every detail of Quaani’s body.

Without my E-SIM modules and almost eight years of practice I would be completely overwhelmed. Instead, his body becomes a mess of colours in my head, with different colours highlighting the bits that are corrupted and must be purged, and others where they do not match my own genetics. Using my nanyte lathes, I inject my nanites into Quaani, directing them to alter and remove Quaani’s cells.

Foul, tar-like liquid, with an iridescent sheen and coloured like old blood pours from Quaani, out of the cocoon, and into pre-prepared channels and drains on the plasteel operating slab. Slowly, Quaani’s body shrinks and his features change; his nose shrinks slightly and points down less. His forehead retreats to standard proportions and his cheeks and body begin to fill out with new tissue, until he looks like he could be my son. He still has no hair and his fingers are long and have an extra joint like mine. He has no freckles and is paler than I am.

As he changes, the liquid he floats in loses its colours and, by the time I am finished, it is completely clear. Quaani sinks back onto the slab. I close my third eye and the smoke and liquid disperse without trace.

I grin. The ritual is complete. Next comes the more grisly part where I carefully transfer Quaani’s body to his new black skeleton and integrate his new implants.

With my advanced machinery, and a huge amount of practice from making servitors, it only takes me eighteen hours to rebuild his body, piece by piece. Last of all, I set the skin tone of his voidskin to fine light brown, and integrate the false hair radiators and set them to black, matching his phenotype closer to his Arabian Gulf ancestry. It makes him look far more human than a navigator normally appears, which I hope he will enjoy.

All that’s left is to clear up and remove all the ritual traces while I wait for Quaani to heal. Once that is complete, I continue with my more normal work, monitoring Quaani remotely.

To my great surprise, my Rejuvenat Gland and Regenerative Hormone modules carry over to Quaani, and once the Rejuvenat Gland grows in after two weeks, Quaani finishes healing rapidly and wakes two hours later. I rush over while he lets himself out of the tank and gets dressed. He stumbles about quite a bit, unused to his shorter height and enhanced strength.

I enter the surgery and see him standing in the middle of the room. The moment our eyes meet, my emotions overwhelm me and I run towards him. Embarrassment flashes across his face, but he accepts my hug with great patience and even hugs me back briefly, before pushing me away.

“Hello Quaani.”

“Hi, Aldrich,” Quaani folds his arms tightly against his chest and stares at his feet, then takes a deep breath and watches my face. “Am I OK now?”

“Yes, Quaani. You’re cured.”

Quaani’s face scrunches up and he bursts into tears. I step forward but he puts his hand up between us. “Give me a moment, will you?”

“Sure.”

I turn around and wait.

Less than a minute later, Quaani stops sniffing and says, “Alright, I’m done.”

I turn back and grin, “Let’s go get a cup of recaf, eh? Maybe something to eat too, if you're up for it.”

“Ah, I’m not hungry, but I would like a drink.” Quaani’s face goes blank, then a look of wonder overcomes him, “I’m not hungry!” He jumps up and down a couple of times and thrusts his hands into the air. “This is awesome. Thank you, Aldrich!”

Quaani rushes over, gives me a quick hug, then strides to the door. He hasn’t seen Iron Crane or my finished quarters and has no idea where he’s going, but he’s clearly going somewhere and I am happy to let him wander about until he remembers how to think.

It should be any minute now, right?