Negotiations meander back and forth until lunch, during which I have an auto-quill scribe an agreement, then we barter minutiae until teatime. After a much needed break, Headmaster Aileen Nan Sop and I sign the agreement.

During the negotiations, Thorfinn writes copious notes, keeping track of each side and pointing out anything that might conflict with the Gael Democracy or would require their agreement to be legal within the country. Thorfinn also has a thorough understanding of public opinion and was able to help the headmaster and I understand how different points would be viewed by the public.

I know Thorfinn’s job requires a good understanding of local laws, yet his detailed knowledge takes me by surprise.

While I was unable to secure the Clubhouse’s knowledge or their psykers so soon into our cooperation, I was able to negotiate a minor exchange: Quaani will be going to school!

I’m sure he’ll be delighted.

For each year the Clubhouse and I maintain our agreement, I’ll receive two psykers, or psi-errants as they call their graduates, and a portion of their knowledge. After a decade, I’ll have a physical and digital copy of all their knowledge, while they will have new facilities throughout the country, one in each country abroad, and enough imperial hardware to fight a small war with the troops and the training to use it.

Thorfinn and I say our farewells and depart, riding the Shamshir Pattern Jetbikes.

As we travel, I vox Thorfinn, “Thank you for helping out today. It wasn’t what I expected, but then I’m not quite sure what I expected anyway!”

“You’re welcome. Least I could do after you broke out these fantastic vehicles.”

“Well, if you’re not busy with anything else, how about a trip to the pub? I’ll buy.”

“Well, we did do a lot of talking. Sure. Let’s see if those implanted machines of yours can outperform perfection.” Thorfinn points at himself.

“Oh, you poor misguided soul.”

We race off. This time I give Thorfinn more control of his bike and we have to slow down so he doesn’t lose control. They’re really unsuitable for unaugmented humans.

The pub is a large, wooden dome resting on stone, mushroom-shaped plinths. The inside has a central, rectangular bar and grill combo surrounded by a wide bar top of smooth, grey, metallic wood.

We plant ourselves upon leather and bone stools and make our orders, then gripe about our jobs. For a short moment, I feel connected with my past and humanity. As the final crumbs of meaty skewers and pickled vegetables are cleared away, I move my tankard off to the side and turn to face Thorfinn.

Short, brown stubble lines his head and chin. Slight wrinkles mar his face around his eyes, and his fingers are laced with minor scars and are slightly crooked.

“So, Thorfinn. I have a serious question. I don’t expect an immediate answer, but please don’t leave me hanging more than six months.”

Thorfinn smirks, and quirks an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do know what that sounds like, but it’s not marriage I’m proposing,” I smile, then straighten my expression and sit upright.

Putting down his cider, Thorfinn looks me in the eyes, “Alright. I’m listening.”

“I have many officer positions available on the Distant Sun. One of those is the person in charge of security, both on board and groundside, the Master-At-Arms. Presently, I have no suitable candidates of my own. Will you take up the role and join me among the stars?”

Thorfinn stares for a moment, “What an offer! Aldrich, I have a good idea of the amount of trust such a role requires and I am flattered you asked me. I need you to answer a few questions, as honestly as you can.”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s the chance I will see Marwolv again if I go with you?”

“By the time I leave Marwolv, I’ll have everything I need from it. It is possible I would visit again as there is value in maintaining a safe port so far from the Imperium’s borders. Ultimately, I don’t know. The route could be closed off by warp storms, or the currents towards the Imperium could be one way. You should plan as if you will never return. Distant Sun would be your new home. Most crew are born and die aboard their ship, never setting foot on a planet.”

“That’s not what I want to hear, but I understand your position. Thank you for your honesty. How does your crew compare to an average imperial vessel? You’ve always been cagey about it and only talk about Quaani.”

“I can show you the answer to that once you agree. Telling you later won’t affect the work you would be doing.”

“That’s shady. You're not really selling this to me are you? Two more questions. Can I take anyone with me and why me?”

“You may bring whomever you wish. I asked you because you are my friend. I trust you and you have the foundational skills needed for the role.”

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“Damn. You’re not holding back at all. I know I only said two, but I forgot the most important one. What’s the pay?”

“That’s a tricky one. Pay for imperial forces is a contentious issue. The Imperium’s currency is called throne gelts, or thrones. They are silver coins stuffed full of tech and rare isotopes so they are exceptionally hard to counterfeit. Thrones are used to trade between most planets.

All planets have their own internal currency as well, as do some sectors, companies, void ships, the adeptus munitorum who raise and supply the military, and so on. You get the idea.

“On most void ships, you are issued rations, or an equivalent currency. These can be traded for luxuries like advanced implants or expensive booze, jewellery, sex, just about anything you can imagine, so long as it is in the ship’s stores or can be manufactured locally. The very best items and treatments, such as life extension, are often restricted to higher ranks and are not something you can buy with money alone. The most valuable item on a void ship is living space, which is entirely linked to one’s rank.

“For mechanicus vessels, such as my own, rations are exchanged for material resources, knowledge, and laboratory time, so that one may pursue their interests and gain recognition with the weight of their expertise.”

“That’s a fine explanation and all, Aldrich, but what does it mean for me?”

“Well, like any other fleet, I can’t tie up my thrones by giving them directly to the crew, so I issue ration credits, or imperial scrip. Quaani calls them bytes, bytes with a ‘y’, that is. Bytes are a measure of digital data and once you have a better understanding of imperial and mechanicus culture and technology, you will understand the joke.”

Thorfinn shrugs and smiles, “If I accept.”

“That’s the idea,” I nod. “The direct pay would be enough for you to live in a luxury mansion on Marwolv, but the real money is in the benefits: powerful implants and gene treatments that can make you better, faster, stronger, smarter,” I grin, “more handsome. You get the idea. Best gear, best body, best mind. All the things a soldier needs to survive the carnage and return home to their friends and family hale and whole.”

“So your big pitch is see the stars, wreck shit, and look good while doing it?” Thorfinn sniggers, “that pitch is no different than the one I got joining the skyguard in the first place!” He grabs his drink, holds up his other hand, and takes a few sips.

“Don’t get me wrong. I understand the scale of the two is entirely different and what you offer up there is far more than I could even dream of down here, it, just, you know, tickles me something fierce that it’s so similar!”

I nod, slowly. “Yeah, I hadn’t seen the parallels. It is kinda funny. I want to be offended, but if I was in your shoes I’d be laughing too: makes it hard to get my feelings in a twist.”

“Sorry, Aldrich.”

“Naw, it’s OK. Have a think about it. I can at least take you up to the ship for a tour or three before you decide. Show you all the cool ways to wreck shit and look good.”

Thorfinn smiles and raises his mug. I copy him and we clash our tankards.

“I’d like that. Lead on, Captain!”

I chuckle, “Technically it’s Lord Captain. All void ship captains count as nobility and they outrank planetary governors, though whether they can exercise that authority depends who’s head they’re looming over. Messing with a sector capital, or the owner of the shipyard you want to use never ends well.”

“Are you getting started on my lessons already or just, what was the expression Quaani used? Ah!” He slaps his palm against the table then points at me, “Mansplaining!”

I rub my chin, mock frown, and nod, “Why can’t it be both?”

“You are ridiculous,” Thorfinn snorts.

“I didn’t used to be so bad,” I fake leaning my chair back, straining the gyros in my leg armour slightly. “I just can’t help myself. I went through all this trouble to acquire and learn the technologies of my dreams and so I want to boast about it and share my success with my friends and my ward, Quaani, so I over explain.” I chuckle, “Just like that, I suppose!”

“No, not: ‘I suppose’. It’s exactly like that!” Thorfinn makes a brushing motion with his hand and holds back a laugh, “Never mind. Tell me more about the Distant Sun and the one you’re building, the Iron Crane, right? Lay it on me.”

“Sure!”

“Try and stick to the bits I’ll understand and might, just might, need to know.”

“Got it. Thanks, Thorfinn.”

“You're welcome. Now get me another drink.”

I scoff, then beckon the server anyway.

We talk until the pub closes. Thorfinn, much to his annoyance, fails to out drink me. For the first time, I consume so many excess resources I actually have to use the armour’s liquid recycler.

Unable to bring myself to pee in the suit while holding a conversation, I visit the bathroom for the first time in ten years. It’s been so long, E-SIM has to give me a medical prompt because I didn’t associate my discomfort with an action I needed to take.

It was an odd revelation, one that left me confused. When Thorfinn noticed my distress he asked what was wrong. After my explanation he looked quite upset. I think it was the first time he really understood just how alien I am.

After going our separate ways, I pilot the bikes to the thunderhawk waiting at the trading post and return to the Distant Sun.

The next day, the first of my barnacles float to the surface with a payload of data. I failed to piggyback off the tau’s transmissions, however, I was able to grab a public map of the underwater city as well as other public data, like spending overviews, job assignments, and material requests.

A dozen barnacles reported they’d stuck themselves to submersibles and over the next six months I get a good map of their underwater operations and an understanding of what they’re up to.

They’re harvesting far more biomass than their population requires, building vast quantities of electronics, and a lot of fio’tak. Putting all the clues together, they’re either planning to leave the planet somehow, or preparing for war.

I even get a name from my data tap: Operation ‘Cigeci’, or ‘Integrity’ as E-SIM translates for me. Integrity is one of the five virtues of the tau’s governing philosophy.

I am absolutely certain the name is ironic.

Unable to get any more details, I use what data I have to put pressure on the Gael Democracy and finally get proper recruitment underway, preparing armed forces of my own under Thorfinn’s leadership who, after months of persuasion and a couple of implants finally agreed to be my Master-At-Arms.

Both of us get a surprise when he comes in for his first surgery.