“We can hang out until you feel better,” I say, “if you’d like.”

Thorfinn grunts, “Do you even have time for that these days?”

“Not everyday,” I rub my chin with a mechadendrite, “We could restart our weekly gaming sessions though. They’ve been on hold since Brigid and I had kids, but they’re in the Heralds right now. My implants are good enough that I don’t need a noosphere pod for the full immersion anymore, so we can also chat in HiveSim or other games while I’m working. I can do that at any time, so long as you can keep up with the neural acceleration.”

“What are you up to now?” says Eire.

I shrug, “If I ramp it up to maximum, every second is six minutes of subjective time for me. I can live a whole year in fifteen point two hours. Unless I do it manually though, it adjusts my subjective time automatically depending on what I’m doing, like talking, fighting, or reading documents. I can do that for both my mostly organic mind and all nine simulated ones separately.”

“Is that really necessary?” says Brigid. “That seems terribly lonely.”

I smile, “Not with you and the kids about. Besides, my eyes run at two hundred trillion frames per second. Compared to that, six hours for every minute is rather slow.”

“You really do live in a different world to the rest of us,” says Thorfinn.

I shake my head, “Not in the slightest. Most of the time only my simulated minds do that. The result and knowledge gained is uploaded to my main mind. The drudgery is lost, though so is the experience and changes in how I think. You have a lesser version of the same implant, Thorfinn. You’re not going to tell me you haven’t been using it are you? It’s ideal for administration, or coordinating with multiple people simultaneously.”

“Aldrich,” says Thorfinn, “it is literally an order of magnitude worse than yours. I get six seconds for each second that passes. Though I admit it is immensely handy, especially in CQC, I still only use it when I have too. Having new information shoved into my head all the time really messes with my sense of self.”

“Really?”

Brigid, Eire, and Thorfinn all shout, “Yes!”

“Well, why did no one tell me? I can probably add some extra buffers and filters to help sort that, maybe time the majority of learning to filter in as you sleep. I’m a lot better at modifying augmetics than I was when I first made those for you.”

Brigid reaches over and strokes my face, “We didn’t want to upset you Love, you were so proud of your implants and they seemed like magic when you first gave them to us. How could they possibly get even better? We all thought that was just part of the design. As for the other people you’ve given them to, who's going to complain when their boss gives them awesome implants, even if they are a little tricky to use?”

I laugh, “Well, this is awkward. Just tell me next time, OK? Each of you make a list with any little niggles and I’ll make some revised versions. Go wild with your wishlists. There’s a whole penal regiment to test them on, so don’t hold back.” I huff, “Oh, don’t all look at me like that, it will be volunteers only and I won’t test anything I think will actually hurt someone or do damage that I cannot fix. We have stringent laws for this, even for testing on criminals.”

“Please don’t mess with the regiment too much,” says Thorfinn, “They’re all reformed now and have been living with the knowledge they will have to survive between one and three high casualty missions. While they are responsible for the actions that put them in the penal regiment, it’s a grim way to live and one that I am partially responsible for creating by recruiting from substandard individuals in the first place.”

“There’s something squirrelly about that logic,” says Eire, “but I can’t quite put it into words.”

“Yeah, fine,” says Thorfinn, “It’s not a smart way to look at it, but it’s how I feel about the situation. I went on a twenty year journey looking for new hope and less horror. Instead I have perpetuated it.”

“You still succeeded in documenting the Imperium and paving the way for us though,” I say. “I really don’t see what you could have done differently to make things easier on your conscience.”

Thorfinn props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the cup of his hand, “Yeah, neither do I.”

“Forget about it for now,” says Eire. “Tell us some everyday moments from your trip. What sort of dumb shit did your subordinates get up to? How about Quaani?”

“I might have an extra tale or two,” Thorfinn grins, then sighs. “Alright. I’ll give it a go and try to be more cheerful.”

“That’s the spirit!” says Brigid.

I say, “Just keep talking to us. It will all fade eventually.”

“Fine, fine,” says Thorfinn. “Now listen up!”

Thorfinnn spends the next three hours showing us more holopics from his travels and each one comes with a short story or anecdote behind the how and why of how he got them. He slowly cheers up, and when we finally say goodbye to each other, and Thorfinn walks away, he’s standing a little straighter.

My next port of call, of sorts, is the Warp Sextant tank. Quaani’s shift is over in an hour. He’s been stuck there for a week. With the Space Marines no longer hounding me for chats on how to integrate our forces, which they insist are done in person for security reasons, I am out of things to do until I must take over. I don’t think Quaani will mind if I help out a little earlier.

I change into the special full body suit and facemask and slip into the top of the tank, taking care to disturb the liquid as little as possible.

Quaani keeps all his eyes fixed forward, his fingers occasionally twitching as he interacts with the mental controls and relays information between himself, the bridge, and the astro-navigation cogitator. His eyes are glowing purple and the occasional burst of electricity arcs from his body, or causes frost to form on the glass of the tank. If he really has to push himself, it might even snow within the liquid.

Once I am floating in place, I send a command to the tank and it unfurls several mechadendrites. Two connect to my suit, holding me in place, and a third plugs into my spine. Multiple security checks and scans take place and banks of sensors connect to me in sequence, carefully calibrated so that I do not get overwhelmed by too many inputs at once.

By the time the sequence is complete, I am the Iron Crane. The Warp flows over my armoured body, pulling and rasping against my skin, constantly seeking a way to corrupt or alter my frame. In the far distance is the ever screaming beacon of the Astronomicon and the beckoning realms of three thirsting gods, and once thirsty god.

With both Quaani and I so closely connected, he picks up on my thoughts and I see his chest shake with laughter.

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“Don’t distract me with your poor jokes, Aldrich!”

“Hello to you too, Quaani.”

“Yes, yes. Are you up to date with the current journey?”

“I’ve already read your logs and can take over whenever you are ready.”

“Sure, that would be great.”

Bracing my will, I open myself to the Warp. We’re on our way up from the deep Warp. On either side of the vessel are the metaphorical walls of a rocky trench, a kilometre either side of us. The walls are covered in anemone analogues, whose long tendrils keep trying to lick Iron Crane. Occasionally, one lashes out and tries to snare our vessel, only to strike the Gellar Field. When they do, I get a closer look at the tendrils, and realise that they are more like tongues, with eyes for taste buds. Lovely.

“We’re in trouble if all of them try to hit us,” I say.

“I’ve been keeping up Obliterate the Immaterial Wake for two days. Don’t mess up now, or you’ll be reinforcing the Gellar Field for the rest of the journey.”

“I know I came here earlier to help out, but I am a little out of practice with this. Do you mind hanging around for an hour, maybe tell your ancient uncle a few tips that you’ve picked up in the last two decades of doing this all by yourself?”

Quaani laughs, “Just the ones you used to give me. It starts with practice.”

“Of course it does.”

With me taking control, Quaani finally turns his head towards me. I can feel his third eye attempting to get a good scan of me and I let him.

“Woah! You’ve completed your Full Bionic Conversion. Your organs are all over the place, and all your cells are machines! They look kinda sluggish though. You don’t need me to dunk you in a barrel of sacred oils do you?”

“You’re still a cheeky brat, even after all these years. Most of me is in low power mode. That’s why they’re not that active.”

“You also have two brains. The one in your chest is the original, right? How did you even put it in there without killing yourself? You even managed a subcortex connected to your third eye. Looks like a Janus Pattern Servitor cortex, though I’m guessing it’s your own cells, which means you managed to clone navigator flesh without blowing up the void ship or dooming the Fleet to a demonic invasion. So many runes too! You have a truly ridiculous amount of protections.”

“Yeah, I just added some more. I stripped the runes and other protective circuitry from the Eldar Farseer gear and used them to improve my subdermal armour and better hide me from Warp entities.”

“I can’t believe you went and did that. Actually, I totally can. That’s full on tech-heresy. Why’d you even bother to keep your brain fully organic if you were going to integrate xeno-tech anyway. You might as well upload yourself to a cogitator at this point. It would be better than relying on a squishy lump of fatty neural tissue.”

“The Farseer gear was unexpected and the STC I have for a bioplastic neural substitute is not compatible with Navigators. Maybe one day I can fix that and be the immortal machine. It won’t be happening any time soon though. I have other, more important things to work on.”

“You gave up your idea of a perfect body for me, didn’t you? When you accepted the Emperor’s bargain,” says Quaani.

“I did. I couldn’t bear to watch you die and do nothing. Nor did I feel confident in traversing the Warp without your help, or a portion of your gifts, with so many lives relying on me.”

“We could have stayed at Marwolv,” says Quaani, “and you could have let me die. It would only move the timetable up a bit for me and everyone on the planet. No one lives forever, least of all humanity. I’m not sure we deserve it.”

“That’s rather fatalistic. Quaani, don’t let the doubt creep in. There is always a reason to try. Like hot Navigator chicks. Did you meet any?”

“By the Throne, I am not doing this with you!”

I can tell Quaani is smiling again, “So you didn’t get lucky? Shame. I’m at the point in my life where I am socially required to embarrass my relatives and demand grandchildren.”

“You’re still salty about the Custodes. That’s what this is really about. You’ve never been one for normal conventions, or doing things you know you would hate would be done to you.”

“That’s quite the theory,” I say.

“You can’t hide your thoughts from me fully while we’re both plugged into the tank.”

“Damn, you caught me,” I say, completely deadpan.

“So what are you actually working on? What’s your super secret project? You’re not trying for a Mark III of that Lasgun of yours are you?”

“My focus has been on myself and creating versions of my protective implants suitable for others, like Alpia.”

“Oh, do I get an upgrade too?”

“If you want one. Yes. I’ve developed a micro-gellar field. It does not weaken, or stop Warp entities from harming you like a psy-jammer or a ship’s Gellar field would, but it does hide you from most beings that can detect psykers of any kind, and muffle the spells that you cast. It’s like keeping a permanent A Cloud in the Warp running, but because you aren’t doing it, it means you can still cast other spells. It’s pretty similar to an Eldar Ghost Helm, but the effects aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“That does sound handy. What else have you got?”

“Do you have any idea how long that took?” I almost shout.

“I’m guessing more than ten years, and less than twenty.”

“Something like that.” In actual time. The subjective one was frigging centuries! “I don’t have anything else suitable for others that you don’t already have. I have started a two part project though. Phase materials and hexagrammic programming.”

“I’ll indulge you. What are they?”

“We can make Phase iron, a material that actively repels the Warp and harms all who rely upon it. The Emperor shoved the knowledge inside my head in exchange for a C’tan shard. I want to find a way to swap the iron for other elements so that I can build cogitators from them.

“Hexagrammic programming is the other half of the project. An arcanotech programming language that can be used to further reinforce machines against corruption. It would let us improve our automation. I still haven’t forgotten the time when Bad Penny hijacked our servitors on Mote.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that," says Quaani. "Not great for my first journey planetside. How does Hexagrammic programming work?”

“It’s a mix of Necron Engrams, Aeldari Runes, and Terran Sorcery. I’m pretty sure the Inquisition already has a proper working version, but there’s no way they’ll ever share it. The one working sample I do have does exactly the opposite, corrupting machines and forcefully changing loyalties.”

“More tech-heresy, eh? What are you actually trying to reverse?”

“Scrap-Code.”

“Fuuuuck. How are you even containing that? Can’t it jump to other machines, even without a physical or wireless connection?”

“I have a laboratory in the Warp," I say. "It can’t get through my portal, nor can it penetrate my protections.”

“Well, it’s not like they can burn you at the stake. The flames would just empower you.”

“I’d be fine even if they threw me into most stars.”

“Are you done with dropping exterminatus on my worldview?”

“Maybe for ten, or twenty years,” I say.

“Hilarious. Do you have a joint project with Brigid going on?”

“Yes. Four children.”

“Ha! Fair enough.”