I examine the bolt pistol. It’s a Hesh Pattern M38 Mark II, a bolt pistol with a drum magazine and a high rate of fire that’s challenging enough to maintain only tech-priests bother with it. I’m rather glad of its malfunction prone nature as the magazine has seven of twenty rounds remaining and could have easily disabled me.

If those rounds had hit my Warp and Weft module, or disabled my external nanite capabilities in some other way I would have been eaten alive. I really should have known better than to wade into the depths of a void ship without escort, even if it is supposed to be clear.

I maglock the pistol to my leg and return to the lift to meet the twist catchers.

Six individuals in pressure carapace and psychic hoods step out from the lift, gripping their weapons hard enough I can hear the squeaking. MOA shields rest on their backs. The sergeant, a man holding a force axe and a hellfire pistol steps forward and salutes me.

“Magos we are here as requested,” he voxes.

“Good, why haven’t you come down here before.”

“The radiation is a little high for us. We can’t visit for more than fifteen minutes every three months, Magos.”

“Ah, that explains a lot. You boys are lucky. I guess the twist catchers will be getting power armour after all. I’ll make sure you get priority for implants as well. Do you have biomancy, sergeant?”

“No Magos, I was chosen for telepathy and warpfire.”

“A reasonable set of skills for your job, still, no bypassing the radiation for you.”

I glance at the other soldiers. They carry two flamers, three Marwolv pattern lasguns, and five phosphex pistols as well as an assortment of grenades and other vital equipment.

“I guess I will have to do this without support after all. I’m never travelling without kataphrons again,” I sigh. “Thank you for coming down here. While this is, in part, my mistake, if you don’t have the equipment to do the job, report it. Neglected areas of the ship are where you are needed, after all. I’ll have a tech-priest assigned to each twist catcher squad as well, so they can report on work that needs doing and help maintain your gear.”

“Yes, Magos. Would a demonstration of our procedures in the time we have remaining be informative?”

“Alright, let's see what you lot can do. I’ll highlight the rooms I’ve already visited on your HUDs. You can leave those alone. Watch out for aggressive hominoids. Five minutes out, five minutes back. Go!”

The twist catchers take off at a jog, their shoulder mounted and weapon mounted torches illuminating the darkness. They cover each other well, and unlike me, remember to look up.

I follow them, and they soon come across the greatest nemesis of any dungeon diving group: doors.

Without the proper protections, the machine-spirits refuse to let the twist catchers into the irradiated rooms without an override from me. I see no reason to change this policy, but it's going to take a proper expedition down here to fix the issues.

The twist catchers clear two rooms, killing five more creatures, then return to the lift.

“Good work. Make sure you all write up a proper report and include everything you thought you saw and think should be done. Don’t corroborate. I want everyone’s raw opinion. Your direct superior should read them through and fix everything or pass it up the chain.

“Meanwhile, sergeant, I am going to send a one time noosphere address to your data pad that you can use to contact me if proper work down here isn’t being done at a satisfactory pace. Twist catcher work is even more vital than I thought it was, so don’t fuck up and good luck.”

“Yes, Magos. Thank you for your aid.”

“You’re welcome. Now get out of here and go to the medicae deck.” I pass him the intact creature corpse, “A servitor will meet you there. Hand the corpse to it.”

The sergeant salutes, “Magos.”

The twist catchers depart, I continue to sweep the deck, clearing two dens and noting some worrying holes in the panelling over the next five hours. This isn’t how I thought my day would go at all!

Once I am sure I have chased the creatures back to whatever holes they crawled from, I take a shuttle to the new moth-class ships and carry out my inspections.

There isn’t much to do other than look about as the new officers have everything well in hand, transferring material and personnel without fuss or major error. I do, however, spend a pleasant hour staring at the gas giant from the observation deck, a great blue beastie with three major accretion disks and seventy-two moons of varying size, with Marwolv being the largest and the only one with life.

Despite the beauty, I am unsettled. There is always some looming threat in the 40K verse, and, to my knowledge, I am aware of all the immediate threats to my growing fleet, yet urgency strikes me.

It is time to move on from Marwolv. A rogue trader, self-stylized or not, should be travelling, not pinned to one location, yet without this time of rest, travelling the void and its immaterial counterpart is almost suicidal.

The contrast frustrates me.

Once the transfers are complete, I return to the command throne and direct Erudition's Howl to Marwolv, hoping I can finish my great works before fate strikes once again.

I take the corpse to the Dimpsy Fortress research hospital on Marwolv for autopsy, hoping an example of the terrors between the stars will be a good learning experience for the medicae.

In a clean, white tiled room, surrounded by trainees and trays of tools, I dismantle the creature. Samples are passed to the trainees who run them through the advanced DNA sequencing machines and other tools.

The lead trainee, a twenty-three year old male called Duncan ‘Gwen’ Ceallaigh, looks up from her datapad then straightens her protective, full body suit.

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“Magos, this organism is human in origin and we have a match on the imperial database.”

“You’re joking.”

“No Magos. This is a hullghast, the most debased mutant and cannibal species known, descended from homo sapiens. They are highly resistant to toxins, radiation, and other extreme environmental hazards. There is a specific note warning not to try poisoning them as they are highly adaptable and it only works once, so if it doesn’t kill them off, they end up even more difficult to kill.

“Hullghasts are a further mutation of Ghilliam, voidship crew who are abandoned on the lower decks for excessive mutation and too far gone that even the mutants you have in stasis cannot deal with.”

“Thank you, Gwen.” I fold my arms and my mechadendrites mimic me, “Why not kill them in the first place?”

No one answers, then a junior trainee shuffles uneasily.

“You have something to share, Brianna?” I say.

“Ah, Magos, most people can’t, ah, dispose of their kids. Abandoning one in a dark hallway is a little easier though. Out of sight, out of mind, I imagine.”

I grimace, “I see. This isn’t the lesson I hoped for, but a valuable one nonetheless. We will have to ensure all women are comfortable using our medical facilities, no matter the state of their baby.”

Gwen raises her hand.

“Go ahead.”

“Perhaps fixing the mutants sooner rather than later, Magos, might inspire desperate mothers that just because they birth a monster, they are not one themselves. They are much more likely to come for help if there are working examples of rehabilitation, or feel safe enough from prosecution they can get an abortion if they want one.”

I nod, “The mutant project has been postponed for long enough. Congratulations, you’ve all volunteered for the task.”

There are a few quiet chuckles.

“For now, we will finish the autopsy then gather and grow samples. Their environmental resistance and rapid adaptation sounds handy.”

“There’s no way it will be that easy, Magos.”

“I know Gwen, but we have to start somewhere.”

“Yes, Magos.”

The following month sees no progress on the mutant issue and it will likely be another year just to manufacture the first six power armours for the thirty twist catchers we have in training.

The power armour designs are not compatible with the microfactories as they are assembled from too many piecemeal STC fragments, an issue I hope to solve after completing my mark two of the Marwolv pattern lasgun.

I continue to hop between locations and tasks. While I have ten minds working at blistering speeds, and tens of thousands of servitors working as additional hands and feet, some tasks require a personal touch, once of which is maintaining my charade as a dedicated member of the machine cult.

As I kneel before the altar in the auto-temple a tall, well aged man in his sixties joins me in prayer. He wears black, martial vestments with gold trim over his hyperweave suit with a sliver, double-headed eagle pin on his stiff collar.

I’ve never seen him before and my HUD identifies him as Owen Broin, chaplain, Imperial Cult.

What hole did he crawl from?

I stand and lean over his shoulder, “When you are done with your prayers, please come and talk to me. I will look at the archeotech displays while I wait.”

“Agreed, Magos. It’s about time we had a chat.”

Did he have to sound so bloody ominous or is it that I naturally find religion an uncomfortable subject? Perhaps I have a guilty conscience!

Twenty minutes later, Owen approaches me and holds out his hand.

“Owen Broin, pleased to meet you, Magos Issengrund.”

“Likewise, chaplain Broin.”

“Owen is fine, Magos.”

“Then Aldrich will do for me, so long as we are in an unofficial setting.”

“I think that’s something we can both agree to. I do prefer it when it is easy to tell between official and unofficial discussions.”

I chuckle, “A priest, with shady dealings?”

“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it, but such things are to be expected, yes? I have been studying hard and the Imperial Cult is a diverse and vast political entity with its own military and social power. Like any other influential structure, these things do not happen by accident, but rather because of them, no matter what is preached from a good book.”

“Is that your angle, for appointing yourself to the faith?”

“You don’t get to the top by being nice, Magos, but by clambering over your peers and climbing up a mountain of corpses. I do want the power and authority that the Imperial Cult brings, but ultimately, a chaplain is a guide, you can’t do a good job if you don’t genuinely want to help people and you can’t keep your job, or at least progress up the chain, if you’re shit at it.”

I drum my armoured fingers against my forearm and stare down at Owen. “I don’t object to a practical, self-serving philosophy. The crew requires chaplains and I am happy to let someone take that role. You have the benefit of being the first to jump on it and, for now, I see no reason why a proactive man like yourself cannot take up the leading role.”

Owen’s shoulders drop a little, “Thank you, Magos.”

“Don’t go playing with the sacred oils just yet, Owen. I’m not that easy. I have a philosophy of my own to share.”

Owen’s eyes go wide, then he covers his mouth with his hands, trying to hide a snicker, “Please, Magos. What are your expectations?”

“Tell me a little bit about yourself first, Owen. The only way you got on this vessel is if you have undergone at least six months of intensive study to be a tech-priest. What did you do before you came here? How and why did you manage to swap roles, or get those vestments?”

“I was a school teacher and, thanks to your meddling, I am no longer qualified for my job. One is never too old to learn something new and, if I want to keep teaching, that is what I have to do. I’ve been learning from the other adepts but, to me, machines are lifeless tools. Magnificent, wonderous tools to be sure, but they're not people. While I can appreciate the ingenuity of man, I do not have it in me to mumble technical manuals by rote, as if they are a prayer.”

“Go on.”

“I wanted to understand more. Why do we do things that way? Why are the underpinnings of reality worthy of prayer? I am a history teacher, and so, I turned to your records, and there, I discovered the Imperial Cult. It is mentioned in the technical lessons, but only as a side note, the discarded twin of the Cult Mechanicus.

“Your records were much more thorough, though somewhat unfocused and scathing in their tone. There I read of the Emperor and his grand works, his great crusade, and the rise and sundering of the Imperium of Man, as well as his loyal followers who came to worship him for his unimaginable mystic might.

“While the Emperor, in doctrine, is deemed the avatar of the motive force, the Cult Mechanicus’ primary spirit, the Imperial Cult worships him directly, a god of man by right of power, conquest, and foresight.

“If I am to give my faith and loyalty to an individual, it will not be through some nebulous spirit of knowledge, but to a visible individual with the weight of their deeds to uphold their right to my dedication.”

“Then why worship anyone, or anything, at all?”

“I live on a planet of psykers, Aldrich. We need all the miracles we can get.”

I nod, “The Emperor protects.”

“I bloody well hope so. I sure as shit don’t spend hours on my knees for pleasure.”

“You’ve spent much time putting your thoughts in order. I may stand on the other side of the faith, with my dedication to the Machine God, but I don’t object to your views. Now, my other questions?”