I enjoy the tea tasting immensely. None are camellia sinensis, though that doesn’t stop me from secreting away tiny samples so that I can replicate the ones I like the most. The chocolate and marzipan substitutes are disappointing. I do actually have the data to grow cacao and almonds, but none of the space to do so.

Much to Quaani’s embarrassment, I do actually taste everything in one sitting.

“Lord Silas,” I say. “I am immensely impressed by the food and drinks. It has been many, many years since I’ve had something produced on Terra and I am most grateful for the opportunity.”

“Good. For all our political power, being a navigator is little better than a life long prison sentence from the day we are born. Without a few indulgences to take the edge off, only duty would remain. A laudable sentiment, but not one that I could maintain indefinitely.”

Fyona is fed by a servant, her claws making it near impossible to eat without stabbing herself, “Despite our mutations, we are Human’s at heart. Something our keepers oft forget.”

“You will like the Stellar Fleet,” says Quaani. “We have a higher percentage of psykers than usual and the majority of all personnel descend from a planet where psykers held more, everyday roles, like doctors and entertainers.

“This has continued somewhat with community projects, reducing fear with repeated exposure. Most psyker appearances come from parades and patrols. All psykers join the Psy-Errants, the Stellar Fleet’s version of twist catchers, and must endure disciplined and extensive training. It is a challenging and prestigious role; Psy-Errants are seen as guardians against corruption and frequently patrol all our vessels.

“Mutation is still undesirable, but it is curable. More like a disease you visit the medicae deck for than the mark of an outcast. Hiding a mutation can still get you into trouble though, as it is assumed that if you have something to hide, the Ruinous Powers are at work.”

Fyona says, “You make it sound more like a Utopia than a real place.”

“It’s not perfect,” says Quaani, “Especially with the influx of new people. Still, I like to believe that Annette will receive a warmer welcome than she would elsewhere.”

“We shall see,” says Silas.

“I’ve never left the navigator spire,” says Annette. “Too many bad stories from my parents perhaps. You will care for me though, right Lord Quaani?”

“Probably not!” Quaani smirks. “If something is strong enough to get past all the defences, I doubt I’d do much better.”

Annette pouts and taps her foot, “That’s not what I meant!”

Quaani says, “If there’s anything I’ve learned from Uncle over the years, it’s that if we are to be a family, we look out for each other. The Stellar Fleet does not breed helpless damsels, nor would it tolerate them.”

“You promise the wildest dreams, Lord Quaani. I’d ask if you think you can measure up, but if you are Mechanicus trained, I dare say you measure everything twice at the very least!”

I laugh, and everyone else quickly follows. Even some of the servants risk small smiles.

“Then perhaps we should share an activity your family is more accustomed to,” I say.

“A little forward, don’t you think?” says Fyona. “I don’t get naked for just anyone.”

There is an awkward pause. My Rapid Decision Engine informs me Fyona is serious. I say, “I think I dropped a cog somewhere. Would you be willing to elaborate?”

Silas clears his throat, “As you can see from our mutations, my wife and I are not capable of sex unassisted. If someone is to aid us with such an intimate encounter, it would be terribly rude not to permit them to join in.

“The most common activity for Annette to stumble upon is an orgy, from which she flees as fast as her attendant can push her wheelchair. We don’t actually have any routine family activities that we all participate in beyond meal times and training. Annette, understandably, does not share the interests or duty of my wife and I.”

Fyona says, “She has always been a quiet child and keeps to herself for much of the day. Likely because seeking us out for companionship has resulted in embarrassment for her more times than she cares to remember.”

“I see,” I say, entirely unsure where I should go with this conversation. “That’s the first time I’ve accidentally propositioned someone for an orgy. I apologise for any slight I may have caused.”

“You are forgiven,” says Fyona, with an absolutely wicked grin. “Though I suspect you’ll be getting Silas and I naked either way, if you are to perfect our forms with your techno-arcane rituals. Perhaps you will hold a different opinion after the procedure?”

“That would be a violation of medical practices,” I say.

Quaani cracks up and manages to splutter out between his sniggers, “A violation? Really Uncle? I can see from your face that particular word choice was entirely accidental. A shame. It was one of your better ones.”

I say, “Shall we move on? Please? Lady Annette, is there any activity you would like us all to try while we are together?”

“I would like to walk upon Terra while it was still green and blue. I have never stepped upon the ground and I would like my first time to be special.”

“That will have to wait after your transformation as it requires a specific implant to function,” says Quaani.

“Then perhaps some live music? The servants can blow far more than just fleshy pipes.”

“Sure, I’d love to hear them play,” I say, cracking a smile at the innuendo, “Quaani?”

“I haven’t had a private concert since I was seven. I could never sit still long enough to enjoy them and I’d like a chance to make up for that.”

Annette claps her hands together once and smiles, “Great! I would also like to show you all around our private chapel and share a moment of quiet contemplation and prayer. There are several artefacts in there that I like and I am hoping my parents will let me take them with me.”

“I am sure we can accommodate you dear,” says Fyona. “Let’s visit the chapel first. It will give the servants a chance to set up.”

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

The chapel and concert are enjoyable and I excuse myself afterwards, rather than attempt further conversation with Fyona and Silas. We have little in common besides war and trade, and I’ve no desire to plumb those depths too soon when we have a whole week of conversation ahead of us. One would think that an academic discussion on navigator powers might be possible, but these are House Secrets and only to be passed on by Annette to her potential children.

Feeling that I’ve played enough of the fool for the day, I excuse myself and search for Talliel-Iota-5 and JK-404.

The Petitor Veritas is in good condition though not as advanced as the vessels in my own Fleet. There are fewer gravity plates and most personnel walk with an extended stride, both feet leaving the decking. A small handful plod along with the distinctive clunk of mag boots.

Air quality is hot, dry, and slightly under pressure. Everyone I pass has rebreathers. There’s no endless cold, bright, and green corridors like my own vessels. The most distinct difference is the clothing of the voidsmen and menials. The voidsmen have a proper uniform: a loose black shirt and trousers with silver trim and brass buttons, topped with a beret. They openly carry collapsible batons, though only the single squad of military police I pass has firearms: las pistols and shotguns.

The menials wear patched grey robes, cinched with rope, or leather. They huddle together and scurry about, their heads bowed and hands tucked into their robs, clasping improvised weapons, like plasma cutters, hammers, and wrenches.

The whole vessel feels like it’s about to explode with violence and is utterly at odds with the lively and productive attitudes of my own crew.

No matter who they are though, everyone keeps clear of anyone in red robes, like me. I don’t blame them, I’m almost a metre taller than most of them and wearing void armour. I thought power armour would be a bit much and rather rude to visit someone in, I even left my bodyguards on the shuttle, yet I was unwilling to get in a shuttle without a decent space suit. Now that I think about it, that was a little eccentric. It’s not like I actually need a space suit to survive the void.

As I proceed to the enginarium, I get steadily more annoyed. Many of the Mechanicus crew that I pass have low quality and improperly installed implants. These individuals show signs of discomfort, infection, and inflammation, as well as heavy metal poisoning, radiation burns, and extensive surgical scarring.

I enter the enginarium after a proper security check, which while tedious, pleases me as it is a vital component of the vessel. Once inside, I approach a random adept who is muttering a prayer over a recently repaired plasma conduit. He finishes the prayer and his servo harness reaches down and tries to move the decking back into place. The process is slow and is causing damage to his harness, but he persists.

“Let me help with that,” I say in Lingua-Technis. I magnetise my hands, and place them against the panel, letting me shift the thick armoured plating into place with ease.

“Ah, thank you for your help, sir. Is there something you wanted?”

“How astute of you,” I chuckle. “Talliel-Iota-5 requested a meeting with me at my convenience, but did not provide any contact details. Where might I find him?”

I could have queried Petitor Veritas for noosphere addresses but wanted an excuse to look around without too much interference.

“I’m not sure. I can show you his office.”

“I’d appreciate it, thank you.”

“No problem. So who are you?”

“Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund, and you?”

Caldro has his hood up, hiding his face, but I still detect his wince when I introduce myself, even beneath his rebreather.

“Lexmechanic Caldro Belenopha.” His voice trembles slightly.

“A pleasure to meet you, Caldro. Call me Aldrich, sir, or Magos. Whatever puts you most at ease.”

I shake his hand and sneak a scan in. Caldro has all the markers of rapid, artificial growth. I’d say he’s been active for four years and is physically sixteen years old. I also doubt he will live to forty. A mix of hard labour, poor diet, terrible environment, and a low quality, secondary artificial heart that is straining his circulatory system, even though the extra heart enables him to keep working hard in difficult conditions.

“I started with sir, might as well stick to it.”

“How long have you been in service?”

As Caldro guides me, I discreetly direct my nanites into his body, upgrading his extra heart and using my biokinesis to remove the damage he has sustained, all without him noticing.

“Three years, sir. What’s it like being a Magos?”

“It mostly involves pacing up and down, talking to people over the vox, trying to find out why a project is actually delayed, rather than whatever reason has been concocted by the person on the other end of the call. There are also many meetings, with both fellow priests and belligerent xenos, the latter of which is often resolved by which party is the best at avoiding fast moving projectiles.”

Caldro smiles, “That’s nothing like what I imagined. I thought it would be all pouring over old documents and data looking for archeotech clues, then travelling for years while blasting Orks and Pirates.”

“I admit to fighting an Ork or twelve and I have studied a lot of archeotech. The Drukhari we fought together had collected quite a hoard.”

“I didn’t even notice the fighting. The boarders never reached the enginarium. Implying I fought Drukhari, or those Human mercenaries, is a bit of a stretch.”

“A ship can’t fight without power. You don’t have to shoot xenos and traitors in the face to contribute.”

“I suppose, it feels weird to take extra credit for the same stuff I do every day.”

“Well, I doubt a Space Marine feels that way, so no reason you should too.”

“You have a singular view, sir.”

“I dare say that’s how one becomes a Magos.”

Caldro points at a door. Six Skitarii stand either side of the door and their postures change slightly when Caldro points towards them. “If you go through there, sir, and take the steps all the way to the top, you’ll reach Talliel-Iota-5 workshop. I can’t help you any further.”

“That’s fine. I’ve placed the proper maintenance STCs on your wrist dataslate for all the implants that you have, and upgraded your mechanical heart. It was killing you. Now it won’t. It comes with a biomonitor now too that is linked to your datapad.”

“That’s a poor joke, sir. How could you do that while we’re walking?”

I pat him on the shoulder, “Then go and check for yourself. May the Omnissiah favour you, Lexmechanic Caldro Belenopha.”

The young man stomps off while fiddling with his dataslate only to stop dead in the middle of the corridor. I leave him to it and approach the Skitarii at a lax pace, keeping my hands exposed and by my side, rather than tucked into the sleeves of my robe.

I address the Skitarii broadcasting a squad leader signal, “Good day. Please could you inform Enginseer Prime Talliel-Iota-5 that Magos Explorator, Aldrich Issengrund is here to chat with him?”

The Skitarii has cybernetic limbs and is covered in thick plates of plasteel and ceramite. He clutches a glowing blue and gleaming silver rifle, a Plasma Caliver, I believe: a rapid fire plasma weapon that is exceptionally dangerous to both shooter and target. Open red robes cover his back and arms down to his shins.

“Yes, Magos. He is expecting you. Please go on up.”

“Thank you.”

The door slides open and the Skitarii step aside.

“Is it true, Magos, what you said to that boy?” says the squad leader.

“Every blessed binary cant that passes my lips is without fault.”

“Apologies, Magos. I did not mean to insult.”

I chuckle, “I would be more upset if I wasn’t asked. Verification is a vital part of the Quest for Knowledge.”

“Of course, Magos. I can only pray that my own circuits are as resilient as yours.”

Oh, call me thick skinned will you? Cheeky bugger. Might as well pretend to misunderstand him.

“All of you are perfectly functional and without life-threatening flaws,” I say. “Talliel-Iota-5 clearly values you.”

Or at least his own cyber mantle.

“I hope you have a productive discussion, Magos.”

“Farewell.”