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

After weighing up the pros and cons, I choose the full bionic conversion as that will save me a hundred thousand souls later on. By the time it is complete, my entire body, apart from my brain, will consist of myriad mechanical devices that mimic and exceed the human body many times over, likely putting me on par with a Custodes, or maybe even a Primarch. It is hard to compare as I’ve never seen either types of transhuman.

Right now I am comparable to a Space Marine Librarian, I think. Powerful on a small scale and able to tip the scales to victory for a planetary war or small fleet battle. In this galaxy though, calling me a small potato is generous. I plan to take Multiplicity afterwards, but the outcome of my variables may change between then and now.

Much of my work to ready the fleet for a moderate war does not require my physical presence, nor do I wish to embark on a new project while Maeve’s staff are busy evaluating my current contributions. My best bet is to direct my physical efforts to firming up my relationships before combat.

With that in mind, I find myself triggering the intercom for Odhran’s private quarters.

Odhran’s gravel-like voice loses much of its resonance through the external speaker. “Enter, Magos.”

Odhran’s flat is designed for fifteen people, the standard sized group the Stellar Fleet and Corps work at. The ceilings are high, with a generous four metres, and the doorways are three metres, and almost as wide. This leaves plenty of room for unusual tech-priest physiques and moving equipment.

I find Odhran in the main living area, nine hundred cubic metres of space with comfy furniture for fifteen, a couple of food printers, a holoviewer, and a decorative vivarium on one wall.

The private rooms are a lot smaller than the main living space, at sixty-four cubic metres. Their back half is split horizontally to make space for a sleeping pod built atop a small ensuite. The rest of the space is taken up by storage, a recessed chair and a fold down table with a data terminal.

After I got squashed in a sleeping pod with Bridid, I had all the sleeping pods across the fleet upgraded to double sized, even for the single rooms that most people use. This required all of the crew quarters on my smaller vessels to be reworked and I lost some storage, rather detrimental on the escort vessels, but there was a three percent increase in productivity across the fleet with the larger and improved voidsman quarters. The growth rate tipped over the all important two point one minimum requirement for a sustainable population as well.

I had already refurbished the ones on Erudition’s Howl and Distant Sun, but there’s a big difference between bunk bed style sleeping pods in stacked and sealed twenty-four cubic metre cubicles, all crammed into an open dormitory, when compared to a small, private room.

It was even worse when I first found the living quarters as there were no sleeping pods for a silent, temperate sleeping space, but triple bunk beds in large, cold rooms. Three small trunks with poor locks hung from each rusting bed frame. Really, I should have thought of it much sooner, but no one brought the issue to my attention and more births weren’t necessary while we could recruit from Marwolv.

Odhran has pushed all the furniture to the side and his four brothers lie on medical beds in one half of the room. The other is open space where Odhran often practises his martial katars and meditations. He meets me by the door.

“I wondered when you would arrive, Magos.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I have spoken at great length with your crew. Your propensity to wine and dine everyone is spoken of with much enthusiasm. While the Barghest Chapter does hold the occasional victory feast, we are, for the most part, ascetic. You will find I make a poor date, Magos.”

“Need a little water to go with that tone, Sergeant?”

“How about a recaf?” Odhran cracks a smile.

“That will do, thank you.”

Odhran walks over to one of the N.O.M.s in the wall and starts pressing buttons, “We are both leaders who have played this game for centuries. You are here for the private reprimand, yes?”

“Not this time. I doubt you are able to learn new tricks.”

Odhran scoffs. He brings two steaming cups to a table and we both take a seat.

“Handy little machines, those dispensers of yours. Where did you find them?”

“The Federation Station Distant Sun collided with.”

“Hmmm, so why are you here?”

“I am uncertain, Sergeant, that I had the chance to truly express how grateful I am that you saved my life so many years ago. We were somewhat rushed at the time.” I wrap my hands around my cup, then look directly at Odhran. “Thank you, Sergeant Odhran, for saving my life.”

“It is my duty.”

“Your duty is to the Emperor. He does not tell you how to execute it, or where to pick your friends.”

“Coming from you, that has more meaning than most.”

“Then accept the Emperor damned thanks!”

Odhran gives me a small nod, his skin wrinkling slightly around his eyes. “I am delighted to have saved such an august and blessed member of our great Imperium of Man.”

“Good,” I say. “How are your brothers?”

“They stir occasionally and their eyes move rapidly in their sleep. None have woken, even for a brief moment. They will wake soon, I believe. I require access to their armour and weapons. Were you the one to repair mine and theirs?”

“I was. They were repaired to return dead marines with honours, not active ones. I had not worked on Space Marine armour before. I apologise for any imperfections you may find.”

“Your work was adequate, Magos. Perhaps a tech-marine may find fault but I was pleased with my armour’s condition. Even the rebuilt arm functioned without issue.”

“I’m glad to hear it. That reminds me, I have enough heresy era equipment to outfit a full chapter and their auxilia. Where might I find the Barghest Chapter? I wish to trade with them.”

“Truly? That is quite a find. My chapter is nomadic. We go where we are needed. Likely only the Inquisition could tell you exactly, but they would not. There is a contact point on Footfall as well as Scintilla, the Calixis Sector capital.”

“Thank you for the information. I will show you my collection of Space Marine wargear and you can use what you need for your operations while you are working with me. I will gift a jetbike to you and each of your brothers to take when you depart.”

“A jetbike? My chapter has never been issued them. I would like to try. Not much good in a cramped tomb, but I am sure there will be a use for it later. Do you have a combi-grav? Multi-meltas? Perhaps a cyclone missile launcher? How about some lightning claws or a thunder hammer? I wish to tailor my weapons to my foes.”

“Yes to all of those, I even have a conversion beamer, bolter round variants, and all manner of grenades, including six vortex grenades. Making and using vortex grenades scares me shitless, so don’t expect replacements. I don’t have vortex bolter rounds though, nor do I have anti-phasic shells or derevenant shells, so we can’t blast Necrons directly into the warp or stop them from teleporting out.”

Odhran rubs his chin, a somewhat dreamy look on his face. It is quite disturbing. “Do you have tempest rounds?”

Tempest rounds are haywire rounds, a type of advanced EMP, inside a bolter shell. They are devastating against robots and cyborgs. Handing them over to Space Marines is like Adeptus Mechanicus supplying Astartes with the rounds for executing tech-priests. Handy against soulless necron warriors too, but not specialised like the anti-phasic or derevenant shells. Traditionally, tempest rounds are exclusively manufactured on Mars. Odhran asking me for these shells could be seen as either a request for trust, or a massive insult or threat. I don’t think he’s contemplating any of that right now though. He has the face of a man who can’t wait to cause trouble.

“Yes, I have them.” I can replace them too, but that would be massively frowned on, so I won’t mention how many I have in reserve. “I’ll make sure your brothers and my special weapon teams get what they need.”

“While this talk of armaments is pleasing, I sense there is more you wish to discuss.”

“We’ve talked a lot about me, and how we can help each other. We haven’t talked about you.”

“What is there to discuss?”

“Your death and resurrection. It is not an experience to be suffered in silence. Your brothers are yet to wake and while my chaplains have the knowledge, they do not have sufficient security clearance to help you. There is only me.”

“Magos, I feel no fear. I am incapable of PTSD. My mind is not like other Humans.”

“I know. We experimented a little with hypnotic conditioning for the Stellar Fleet’s Twist Catchers, to inoculate their minds against the predations of the Great Enemy. Without a transhuman physique to back it up, it is far less effective, yet the side effects remain. Stubbornness and inflexible thinking go hand in hand with an unbreakable will.”

“It can be overcome with experience. Younger marines who do not learn this rarely live more than a decade. This... this is not something Astartes like to talk about. I would ask that you drop this, Magos.”

I give Odhran a sad smile, “Sergeant, the mind is a tricky thing. I can manipulate and rewrite one, even alter memories with my expertise, either through the Warp or machines. I can even grant a person superhuman intellect. I would not say I understand it.”

“Where are you going with this, Magos,” Odhran growls.

“The reason why I cannot, and perhaps never will master the secrets of the Human mind is its adaptability. When one path to express oneself is locked, the mind will create another. This can express itself in an infinite complexity of ways from hallucinations and nightmares, to bloodlust and obsessions, or, as you know, clinging to specific methods and habits beyond all reason. By far the most common, however, is anger,” I look at Odhran’s eyes, “and that’s OK.”

Odhran goes from gritting his teeth to complete confusion, “What?”

“You died, Sergeant Odhran, to xenos who murdered you because you stood up to their pride and fear. Your brothers were butchered by demons and left to rot. It doesn’t matter if you choose silence or words to express yourself, or throw yourself into your work and meditations. I am not going to ask how you feel, tell you how you should live your life, or demand that you do as I say,” I grin, “outside of direct orders for your assigned role, of course.”

Odhran scowls at me.

“What I am going to do is sit in this chair and accompany you until you are more at peace with what has happened to you.”

“Why?”

“Because you saved my life, and I don’t think I’ve quite finished saving yours.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“If you prefer a more practical reason, I fear an angry ally, far more than an angry enemy.”

Odhran lets out a long sigh, “If I didn’t already owe you a massive favour for reviving my brothers and I, I would punch you in the face and throw you out, no matter who’s vessel this is.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Then how about a spar? You did offer to teach me, once upon  a time.”

“You are reckless, Magos.”

“Well?”

“A spar is agreeable.”

“Good, there is a small public arena nearby.”

“You would let me beat you senseless in public? What sort of man are you?”

I laugh, “Oh, Sergeant. I never said you would win.”

There is frustration on his face, and anger in his eyes, but nonetheless, I finally extract a small smirk from Odhran.

“I’ll make sure you spend your whole time in that chair straightening your cogs, Magos.”

“You're not good enough for that, Sergeant.”

Odhran drains his recaf and slams the faux-paper cup on the table, crushing it. He stomps from the room without another word.