The explosion starts with a bright, blinding flash followed by a searing eruption of melta fire as the buried macro-shells detonate. Hundreds of thousands of orks die instantly, their bodies sublimated by the sudden heat. The ork shield strains and contains the immense explosion beneath its dome for an impressive two seconds before Ash is shattered and the shield fails. Great chunks of rock and dust are blasted horizontally, tossing and incinerating the many vehicles that avoided the initial strike.

I forward a message to Eire through the D-POT relay, “Ork shield terminated.”

Seconds later Distant Sun and Erudition’s Howl bombard the area, trying to take out as much of the surviving orc column as possible. Twelve monumental strikes reshape the valley, wrecking most of the remaining vehicles. Still, hundreds remain and tens of thousands of orks flee the carnage in all directions.

From orbit descend three, class three D-POTs, each with their own escort squadron of fifteen D-POTs. These vast macro-landers are more like flying ocean liners than aircraft. At one hundred and twenty metres long, one hundred and fifty-six metres wide, and forty metres tall they are comparable to an emperor class titan in size, though not armour and armament. For now.

These three have been refitted for war with hundreds of guns, missiles, bombs, and drones that pour from their hulls with tumultuous abandon, erasing rain and orks alike as their lumbering bulk glides over the battlefield.

Even as they flee and die, the orks return fire to little effect, the class three D-POTs micro-laser grid vaporises any heavy ordinance that gets close and the ork shootas and beamy deffguns barely tickle their powerful void shields.

The accompanying squadrons also unleash tens of thousands of munitions as they sweep over glowing wrecks and splattered corpses.

As the bombs land, great gouts of burning promethium are scattered across the cratered earth that spread and flare with phosphorus light. Finally they pass and the battlefield, at last, is silent.

I slide from my perch back into the trench. All the heralds look back and forth between me and the top of the trench. Beneath my helmet, my face stretches into a massive grin.

I hold my fist in the air and declare, “Victory!”

Hundreds of men and women cheer alongside me. After a handful of seconds the officers step in and we poke our heads guns out of the trenches using the optical link through the scopes to keep an eye out for stragglers.

Nine minutes later, a single hover-trukk rushes at our line and is picked off by a lascannon and a squad’s worth of lasfire. Over the next few minutes, we pick off twenty three orks and after half an hour of waiting, no more turn up and we are relieved from the trenches.

I return to orbit thousands of kills richer, though for all my exertions, a fresh ruby on the crown of my ‘kill count’ skull does not manifest. Once I am in my quarters, I remove my armour and relax in my private sauna while enjoying an amasec cocktail and a plate of chilled petit fours.

During the following week, I review reports and spend time visiting injured heralds on the medicae deck. A few even ask me to sign their new ‘iron’, their prosthetics, which I do with much amusement and a mechadendrite.

After a month, operations are back to normal in orbit. Marwolv, however, is a different beast, for politics and paranoia have reared their sinuous heads. Industrial capacity has dropped precipitously, with plastic, fuel and oil production being replaced with soylent viridans. Repairs on Iron Crane slow as most of my manufacturing is redirected towards machinery for more vats and algae processing, as well as other survival gear, like clothes, tents, and water purification.

I receive scores of requests from various polities, varying wildly in their tone from begging to insulting to polite and everything in between. I do not withhold my aid from millions of people just because a tiny minority of their leadership are rude, entitled arseholes.

However, three months after the ork invasion, the chancellor of the Monadh Republic demands I hand over mining rights to the remains of the ork rok. Instead, I invite all the polity leaders up to Distant Sun and bluntly tell them I am installing a governor of the planet to ensure I receive my due for all the aid I am providing, and they can all take turns, those that were polite to me at least, or be spaced.

There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but they have nothing to offer and I have an overwhelming monopoly on industry and firepower. They are also all heavily in debt to me and their populations will die without my intervention.

A treaty is signed and Marwolv becomes an imperial compliant world and the first system in my new domain. Afterwards, the leaders all return with neither pomp nor ceremony.

It is a swift and brutal change from my previous soft approach and I take advantage of my superior data networks to spread the news of exactly who and why is responsible for this change in policy and how much more aid it now means I can give them.

Two of the country leaders immediately resign so that their replacements can be admitted to the council and give their country a turn at planet wide governance: six elected individuals, one from each polity, and one representative from me.

With a more centralised body it becomes easier to assign resources and I select three sites for new hive cities, one in the centre of each continent and with a different speciality: organics, manufacturing, and research. It will be centuries until they are complete, but that doesn’t mean I can’t start planning now.

I thought about focusing hives on other endeavours, such as mining, military, arts, and religion. Ultimately though, they’ll all need their own streams for each of these resources, whereas the other three require specialist structures and their products can actually be traded between hives.

Eventually, as the hive cities gradually replace the countries, there will be two representatives for each hive and a single one for me. I intend to maintain my monopoly on orbital constructs and resources, so for all practical purposes, all power will remain with me.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

While the biosphere is in disarray, I believe it is worth preserving and so I establish harsh regulations to minimise further damage and restore lost ecosystems. I also set half the oceans and a third of the land as wildlife reserves.

This has the added benefit of ensuring that, with their combined efforts, the hives should be self-sufficient as there is no agri-world nearby. Neither should they have to eat their dead. An intact biosphere with wildlife reserves is more productive too and should support more people.

Seven months after Ash was destroyed, most people are able to return to their homes, the PDF is restored, and the political playground has been pacified. With no immediate threats I decide to try and socialise with my senior employees outside work and formal dinners, starting with Purser Brigid Mac'Ille na Brataich, whom I invite to a cafe on Distant Sun’s promenade.

The promenade is just below the cathedral superstructure (#C), on the top spineward deck, in the third quarter of the vessel, within the second spineward subdeck, or #S3/Q3/+2, in shorthand. It is between the guest quarters in the cathedral superstructure, where the tau are being held, and the primary void crew quarters.

The subdeck is a one hundred metre section thirty metres high and two hundred and fifty metres wide with a paved, oval promenade lined with shops on both sides. The central oval has an inner cross and a small central courtyard with a red-leafed acer towing over an intricate mosaic of my symbolic pipe.

The outer oval is rather noisy with hundreds of small shop fronts with spaces that get larger the further back they go. Here, personnel can trade for everyday items and luxuries, or indulge in cocktails bars, and dance clubs. There are many neon signs and blaring speakers competing for attention.

I enjoy the atmosphere as I walk through the busy space. The extra height really lifts the claustrophobia from the vessel and gives extra space for shops to stack on top of each other, hiding all manner of hobby stores, custom workshops, and warehouses.

The inner cross and courtyard are far more sedate, with quiet cafes, expensive restaurants, and a small theatre. Here, neon is swiftly replaced with water features and Marwolv’s black leaved, luminescent flora.

The fake sun overhead warms my face as I sit on a metallic-wood chair next to one of the tables beneath the acer and outside one of five, rather crowded cafes. A waiter immediately hurries over, the embroidery on his apron proclaiming the cafe’s name: Cross and Crowsbeak.

“Good day, Magos.” He places a glass of iced water on the table stuffed with fresh mint. “You can scan the pattern on the table to direct you to our noosphere site or I can bring you a physical menu.”

“I’ll take the menu.” Even after so many years, I still find it strange that everyone knows my face and voice.

He nods, returns to the cafe, then exits a minute later with a fancy folder of scaled grox leather and hands it to me.

“It always surprises me how many people like something to hold or hide behind, rather than use the digital services,” he says.

I smirk, “Staring glassy eyed at your date while you check out something other than them isn’t a good look.”

He laughs, “I suppose not! Do you have a date today, Magos?”

“Not this time, I’m here to enjoy a change in location for my many meetings.”

The waiter looks up at the tree, “I am quite fond of working here: an island of peace in an ocean of brass and neon. Just give me a shout when you’re ready, or ping my data slate.” He taps the etched code on the table, “You can find the active addresses for the day here.”

“Thank you.”

He smiles and leaves.

Most of the staff at these shops are family members of my crew who have little interest in becoming tech-adepts or heralds alongside them but still want to accompany them into the void. There is no space for idle hands though. Service roles are limited in quantity and thus coveted and viewed with greater respectability than when I was last on Terra.

They can’t escape education entirely though, and still have to complete a tech-apprenticeship. This includes literacy and numeracy, the basics of how to survive on a void ship and herald basic training. It also has to be completed to be eligible for an MIU, and as you can’t do much on the vessel without one, even the service personnel are likely more educated than a standard imperial citizen.

I’m going to be in for a right shock if all my ‘historical’ accounts are completely different to the reality I find myself in. At least by expecting the worst I have a chance to be pleasantly surprised. Despite its horror, I might even be disappointed. I rather like feeling smug about the great conditions on my vessel.

While I am flicking through the menu, Brigid turns up. I wave at her and she joins me.

“Good morning, Aldrich.”

“Hi, Brigid. Thank you for coming.”

“Well, I can hardly say no, now can I?”

“I am not that petty.”

Brigid gives me a pretty smile, “No, you are not.”

“How are your two boys doing? Last time I asked they were both nearing the end of their tech-adept courses and determined to push on with a speciality, rather than accept a more forgiving job.”

The waiter returns with a glass of water for Bridid and a menu. Brigid looks up and thanks him.

“They are well, Aldrich. Quinn was promoted to enginseer last week on one of the Moth class ships, Voracious Light. I had hoped he would take a closer posting, but he still blames me for my separation with my ex-husband and tends to shut me out.

“Maslorius is the complete opposite and has taken up the logis path, hoping to spend every day working alongside me. No matter their choices, I am proud of both of them.”

I smile, “I am happy for you, Brigid. Is there any hope Quinn will come around?”

“Maybe one day. He is much like his father, a man of passion and obstinacy. Quite unlike my own tendency towards obsessing over whatever catches my attention.”

“That is a remarkable amount of self awareness.”

Brigid sighs, “Before you turned everything on its head, Aldrich, my life was a mess, and so I thought furiously about it from every angle, talked to dozens of people, and came to understand myself a little better. These obsessions of mine are what lost me my husband and estranged me from my son, yet they also gave me the drive to excel and reach the position I am in today.”

“It clearly still bothers you though, or you would not talk about it at the drop of a hat, before you even order refreshments.”

“I suppose so! Yet, you are the one who messaged me, asking to know me better. I gave much thought to the words that would convey who I am with the least pretence I can muster. When you hold something in your head for long enough, you just have to let it burst out or you can think of naught else until it is done.”

“Apologies, I did not intend to stress you so.”

“You have not. I am comfortable with who and how I am. Now that I have got that off my chest, I wish to spare a thought for this scaled menu. Rather novel that.”

“It is. Go ahead and take a moment. I am yet to choose myself.”