While Zet certainly appeared at-home aboard his craft—at least, as far as one’s appearance and demeanor could change when one was a cybernetic skeleton—his vessel’s occupants existed in a state most readily described as ‘unease.’ Though given the living nature of those occupants, ‘unease’ was a vast understatement. Even Luciene was perturbed to stand within the sarcophagal halls of a dead thing such as his vessel—said to be a ‘Jackal’-class Frigate starship. Being a mere Frigate vessel, it was far smaller than the Bastion-class Commerce vessels it was defending on the mining operation, albeit still large enough to compete with Eutophoria in terms of tonnage. Yet the confines of its sparse rooms and halls were cramped, hardly accommodating for a collection of individuals that could not teleport themselves through reality as Zet could. This was, the Nemesor admitted, something he had once considered but later neglected to mention. One’s memory is a fickle thing, when tested against one’s age, he suggested.
Regardless, small and cramped or not, Zet’s starship—which he had not cared to implement a name for until Luciene suggested dubbing it Katabasis—proved more than capable in the role Kotak had needed them to fulfill. It was fast, almost blindingly so, yet conferred no tug of inertia upon its crew. And it was indeed weaponized; as remnants of the Great Maw regurgitated upon the Demiurgs’ vessels from their quarry, Lightning Arc batteries fried out and evaporated what slim resistance the Tyranid swarms could muster. Alas, as Zet admitted, such weaponry had not the largest of rangefinding, but that seemed—to Luciene—not to matter, on account of Katabasis’s aforementioned speed. The nimble vessel effortlessly dove between the ships of the Demiurg operation, like a predacious hawk slicing its prey out from the ether and into its talons.
Luciene, for all her unease, was impressed with Katabasis itself and the expertise with which Zet piloted it.
Zaer was horrified.
Yet though Zaer’s dismay was visible to all, it was voiced by none. What was voiced, on the other hand, were questions for the tall and bulky pilot of Katabasis. “If I may ask, mister-Necron, why is it you were seeking a crew? Your vessel seems more than capably operated on your own,” Kane observed, being the first to break the ice in that regard. While there were many consoles on the flight deck of Zet’s ship, only one was in use in the piloting sense; the others were being sat on or leaned upon, at Zet’s insistence that doing so would not impair the vessel’s operation. Kane leaned against one such console, while Myr sat next to him. All eyes, save for Luciene’s, were ever on the Nemesor on deck.
“A wonderful question, master Ishmael,” Zet said, though none of Luciene’s allies had ever introduced themselves to Zet. The utterance of their names by his robotic tongue, therefore, was as unnerving as his laugh. “And one I expected to be asked by those wisest among you.”
“I was going to get there eventually,” Zaer muttered.
“In his lifetime, or just ours?” Zet wondered, gesturing to Kane. He then looked back toward the human. “You are correct that I do not need a piloting crew, but more hands make for less work upon landfall, you see.”
“But that is only half the answer, isn’t it?” Luciene asked from behind Kane and Myr. Luciene’s eyes, unlike many others, almost never set upon Zet’s visage; instead, she was enamored with the view of the void outside his vessel, taking in all the stars and worlds beyond, and certainly enjoying the brisk space combat Katabasis engaged in. Even having asked her question, she did not turn to face the Nemesor.
“Perhaps,” Zet admitted. “Would you care to take a stab at some theoretical other half?”
“It’s not the first thing I’d want to stab,” Zaer growled. Though no unnerving laugh followed from the Nemesor, Zaer was certain that if Zet could smile, he would have. Luciene, meanwhile, loosed a sigh, exasperated with the continuing feud.
“While my peers bicker over that, I have a more pressing question, if you’re answering,” Kor’Kassan offered. Zet nodded his way. “Your vessel is quick and nimble—emphasis on quick. How is it we arrived here so soon after departing Eutophoria? Your FTL technology seems some centuries ahead of what I am familiar with.”
“Centuries for the T’au, master Kor’Kassan, are mere hours to my kind,” Zet said, and at that, laughed once more. “I would grant you an answer to your question, and would happily help you derive the inner workings of an inertialess drive such as my own, but I worry in doing so you would age considerably and our crew would be bored to death, vindicating our Aeldari friend’s reservations about me.”
Though to most that appeared to be a non-answer, Kor’Kassan found Zet’s response more than satisfactory. Weathered of some age though he was, Kor’Kassan’s eyes were widened to full as he whipped out a small parchment and, throwing penmanship to the wind, scribbled ‘Inertialess Drive’ upon it as hastily as he could manage, underlining the phrase thrice.
“So, are we going around the room asking questions of you, is that the idea?” Myr wondered aloud, nodding toward Zet.
“It seems to be, master Nessa.”
Myr mouthed the phrase herself—master Nessa—and seemed content with how it sounded, then inquired of the Necron properly: “Do Abominable Intelligences such as yourself ever experience love?”
“You have to do better than a yes/no question, come on,” Kane protested.
“Shut up!” she hissed at him.
“I am, master Nessa, not an AI as meets your Mechanicus definition, though I understand the confusion, presumptuous as it is to suggest that humanity—in its Dark Age or otherwise—could have created one such as myself,” Zet began. “There; wordy enough for you, master Ishmael?” he interjected over himself, and Myr held out a hand toward Zet while looking at Kane, as though to say, See! “I am, as your lexicon describes, firmly a Xenos entity. But to the crux of your query, master Nessa, there was a time, long before your kind could even see the land beneath its then-amorphous being, when I was bathed in flesh and blood as you are now. It is possible I knew love in such an era. But…,” Zet started, and for the first time since interacting with Luciene’s crew, fell to a pause. Worse than that, even, he then repeated himself: “But that is not what you asked. Do I know love now? No, I do not think I do.”
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The deck fell silent. Even Luciene looked down from her view of the outside, though she said nothing. It was, as before, a human that eventually broke the silence, when Myr shrugged and admitted, “Pity.”
Zet managed a singular chuckle at that, which itself was not too grating on the others, before he turned to Zaer. “And what of you, master Zaer of Biel-Tan?”
“Do I know what love is?” Zaer frowned, insulted.
“No, I suspect you do. What is your question for me?” Zet clarified.
“Must I have one? I would rather not, as asking a question invites a response, and I would prefer not to hear your insidious voice more than I must,” Zaer said, shaking his head.
“Zaer,” Luciene chided from across the room, still not facing toward any of her group.
Zaer looked to her, sighed, and then looked back to Zet. “Fine. You had mentioned severing your resurrection protocols during our first…encounter. Does that mean…?”
“That I have but one life to live?” Zet suggested. Zaer nodded. “Yes, in theory. It means that unless another of my ilk were to reconnect resurrection protocols to my person—without my consent, mind you—then when I am next slain in battle, I will not return to and be repaired by my kin’s forges. I will simply…die. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Zaer frowned again.
“Disappointed?” Zet chuckled. “Forgive me, master Aeldari, but I am not about to reveal the intricacies of my survival matrix to one so keen on terminating that survival.”
His answer given, eyes fell from Zet for the first time, and turned toward the would-be bearer of the final round of questions. Unfortunately for the group, Luciene was still not facing anyone, and had returned to her view of the void beyond. That was, until Zaer called to her. “Lucy.”
“Hm?” she muttered, and glanced over her shoulder to see the room looking her way. “Ah. Right,” she said, understanding, and then looked directly to Zet. “You’re alone.”
“Is that a question?” Kor’Kassan wondered.
Zet shook his head, mechatronics grinding upon themselves in his faux-neck to do so. “It is a theoretical other half of the answer to master Ishmael’s earlier query,” Zet said. “To the question of, ‘Why do I want a crew,’ the allegation is that my desires stem from being otherwise alone, is that right, master Luciene?” he asked her. Luciene nodded, face stern and confident. She already knew; she knew before Kane had asked the question of Zet to begin with, she knew when they had first met. And she had also known the answer to Myr’s question beforehand, too. Zet recognized all of this from Luciene’s brutal, unforgiving confidence.
That they each recognized all of this from each other led to no verbal communication of assent or confirmation. Not at first. “Well?” Kane asked of them both, aware enough to know that there was some unspoken dialogue he was unaware of.
“Yes,” Zet admitted at last, and turned away from the gilded, glowing eyes of the one who seemed to understand him best to look down upon his command console. “I am alone. You each had arrived at Eutophoria in separatist isolation from your societies, but I would venture to guess none of you hold those societies in contempt, yes? Yet I loathe mine as much as master Zaer does, if not more. Do not misunderstand me, I want the best for my people, but what my people want is not their best, and I do not know whether they are deserving of anything more than what they have. Our King left us to our own devices long ago, but our devices are cruel, and make us wholly unworthy of what we desire. We seek to live, again, as each of you do, yet we have forgotten what it is to be alive. We neglect the weight of death. Ah, alas, I ramble. Yes, I am alone, because what my people intend for each other is unbecoming of living things; they can do not but vie for conflict. I sought those that desired something more than petty strife. Tell me, master Zaer of Biel-Tan, have I found them?” he asked, looking up at the Eldar.
Zaer was neither ready for Zet’s elaboration nor prepared for it to be turned against him. “I, uh—” he stammered, and his defensive composure fell away to something more vulnerable.
“Yes, Zet, you have,” Luciene answered for her friend, and eased the tension between the two. “With us, you are not alone.”
“We shall see whether that can hold,” Zet said, unliving eyes still locked with Zaer’s, where they remained until the flashing of a red light upon his command console. “Anomalous contact,” Zet declared, returning his attention to the scene of the battle in the void. A view of the void materialized upon the wall behind Zet, displaying the reddish-orange world that the Tyranid fleet had failed to devour. Necron telemetries scanned and re-adjusted the view to hone in on a ship that had appeared in the world’s orbit.
“That’s Imperial,” Myr observed, earning nods from Kane and Zaer alike.
“Scans suggest it is the Coldbreed, belonging to one Inquisitor Zha Trantos,” Zet reported. “Shall I engage?”
“An Inquisitor?” Kane shouted, instantly falling pale. “Are you insane? Where the Inquisition is concerned, one ship could be a thousand at a moment’s notice.”
“And though each of those thousand would be pitifully weak, I am inclined to share in Ishmael’s fears,” Zaer agreed. “An Inquisition fleet is not something our kinds have many victories against, Necron, and we are but one vessel.”
“Master Luciene?” Zet asked her.
Luciene was, as before, absorbed with the view of the outside, this time watching the activities of the Inquisition ship. A lone crew carrier left the world below to return to the Coldbreed, its apparent mother vessel. “Do not engage. Not unless they enter firing range of us or of the Demiurg fleet. Our remit is to the defense of the fleet, not for undue aggression. Ishmael, Nessa, what is it this Inquisition does?”
“Anything and everything, usually incredibly violently,” Myr answered. “Where the Imperium defines heresy, it is the Inquisition that finds and eliminates any violators of the Imperial Faith or Creed. They are a horrifyingly powerful military organization, as with most subdivisions of the Imperium.”
“Zha Trantos,” Luciene muttered to herself, albeit audibly enough for her crew to hear the name again.
“Do you know the name?” Kane asked her.
“I have not heard it before, and yet…it is familiar all the same,” Luciene admitted, shaking her head.
“Digging into Inquisition records, I have deduced that Inquisitor Zha Trantos belongs to the Ordo Hereticus, initially born a savant upon the world of Thantalus in the Ixaniad Sector,” Zet suggested. “If that helps jog the memory.”
“Hereticus? They’re the worst of the bunch,” Myr sighed. “It appears not to be my call, but I would very much give this Inquisitor a wide berth. It is best we have as little to do with them as possible.”
“Hereticus,” Luciene murmured, more quietly still, yet still audible to some. “Thantalus…Trantos…”
Eyes fell to Zaer, who shook his head, not knowing what was giving Luciene such pause. He had never seen her like this before. And he certainly did not expect what followed: “Please excuse me,” Luciene said suddenly, and departed from the flight deck entirely, still muttering the name of the Inquisitor to herself as she left.