“So much for a pleasant few hours playing cards and drinking,” I say. “I am not pleased to hear that Odhran has been keeping so many tricks from me either.”

“Do not hold fault with the Sergeant,” says Verlin. “He does not have the authority to talk to others about the Barghest bite, nor would it have been helpful against Orks, Tyranids, or Necrons.”

I sigh, “I see. Now that you know the murky history of your chapter, Force Commander. What do you intend to do about it?”

“I’ve had my whole view point tossed out of the airlock. It does nothing to make my anger evaporate,” says Verlin.

Raphael says, “I will give you the few picts that I have. I can’t give you Inquisitor Hamiz’s personal account without his permission. Would you like me to message him?”

“Do so,” says Verlin. “There is nothing more to be said here. Let us finish our game. I will take my frustrations out on the Emperor’s enemies and your wallets.”

We return to the card table. My kids have been and gone, having dropped off a gingerbread house. Clearly they are having far more fun with Brigid than I am with these grumpy old men.

Domhnall cuts into the house and places a few slices into a stasis box that he stores in his giant frame, “I will try this when I am back inside a body with an actual tongue. You are a most generous host, Magos.”

“You are welcome, Domhnall, though I dare say tea and cake diplomacy is the limit of my statecraft.”

Balor helps himself to a fist size slab, “You will get no complaint from me. Are you all done with your super secret discussion?”

“We are,” says Verlin. “I cannot share it with you Brother, but Inquisitor Horthstien at least, is beyond reproach.”

Balor says, “I will spread the word.”

We continue our game, using the full four hours. It is not amicable in the slightest, with endless multi-layered insults, awkward stories, and dramatic yells. Still, I have a rather good time in the end. We do not part as friends, but rather a better idea of how each other thinks, which is arguably more valuable.

Domhnall wins the pot of exotic ammunition and my prototype maul, then has the cheek to try and sell everything to me. I refuse. He can use his own damn research budget if he wants to replicate any of it! Despite his love of money, Brigid’s expedited audit of his resources during our game raise no complications.

I spend the rest of the journey with my family, usually messing about in the noosphere so that we can extend our relative time together as long as possible. All too soon we must ready ourselves for combat and leave Red Knoll, joining the other D-POTs surrounding the void ship.

As we close in on Dying Light, the ancient vessel slowly comes into focus. It is resting in the crater of a metallic asteroid. Only the tertiary generators are online, so there is insufficient power for the engines, shields, or guns. Not even the CIWS fire as we approach. The whole vessel is swirling with Warp energy and stuffed with biosignatures.

Domhnall’s void assault regiment lands all over the hull, targeting the many service hatches for entrance into the vessel. Their job is to sweep the ship for hostiles, create forward positions, and provide routes for resources and retreats. My family and I enter near the engines. Our goal is to secure the genatorium. The Space Marines enter through the navigator spire. Their objective is to take control of the central cogitator. Raphael and his company enter from the cargo hangar in the keel castelum and are aiming for the bridge.

My contingent enters in single file through a service hatch. The process is slow as only up to fifteen individuals can enter at a time, though we do not worry about equalising the pressure in the airlock and are rather wasteful, cycling it as fast as we can, using our magboots to stop ourselves from being blown back out into space.

A squad led by a Warforged take point down a narrow corridor, then spread through the service tunnels, looking for a main corridor. Imperial vessels are far from uniform, even when they’re the same class, so although Leith Madra, captain of Red Knoll, had the schematics of two other Dominator-Class void ships, it could only really tell us where our objectives probably were, not how to travel to them.

I access the local noosphere to see what I can find a better map only to have my connection swarmed with demons. A small puff of white flame vents from under my wrist as the phase iron fuse in my armour’s external link burns out, cutting my connection.

Immediately I alert all parties to the danger and forbid any further communication other than neutrino vox, touch coms, or helmet vox casters. Our noosphere links cease and I can no longer perfectly coordinate with every individual, like I did against the cultists at the Receiving Yards, neither can my officers see the status and position of their own troops.

Verlin, Domhnall, Raphael, and I can still speak to each other, so long as we’re next to a communications officer who can relay data between my shuttle and each other, but that’s it. Neutrino vox might be almost impossible to intercept and corrupt, but its bandwidth is low and one side has to remain relatively stationary as it doesn’t spread out like a normal emitter; it is a single line of neutrinos and requires extreme precision to operate.

The number of concurrent links is limited to the quantity of emitters on the main relay, the device on my shuttle, which has twelve emitters, because what other number would you expect mechanicus designers to choose? The communication officers’ relays follow colony redundancy protocols and have four links each and the system requires a praetorian servitor frame to power them.

Even most Warforged don’t go the praetorian route, preferring to stick with power armour and extensive cybernetics, so each task group only has two neutrino vox relays. The void assault unit does have ten automata companies with thirty praetorian servitors each, but we didn’t think to put any of our limited relays in disposable assault troops. I wish we had though as even one or two would have been really useful right now. I make a note of the defect and forward it to Maeve.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

While updating the communication protocols, I simultaneously cast Pass Unscathed, purging any potential corruption from myself and those surrounding me.

I glance at my kids. They’re all following along behind me in their new Rogue Pattern Power armour (the environmental suit). I’m also wearing the same armour as them. I can feel how focused and nervous they are, but they don’t look it. Their strides are strong and confident and their lasguns held close to their chest, muzzles pointing at the floor.

“Alpia, start your mantras and don’t stop praying for a single moment. This isn’t practice and I’ve detected Warp entities in the noosphere. Luan, you're on psyker watch. That means a bolt pistol in one hand and one of those syringes with the skull and crossbones on it in the other. If Alpia stops praying, inject her. If that doesn’t leave her frothing and unconscious within thirty seconds, it would normally require you to shoot her. Alpia’s close protection detail will take care of that duty. I don’t want you to ruin your relationship by having you point a gun at your sister.”

Alpia nods.

“Fuck! Dad. I mean, sir. Seriously?” says Luan.

“Yes. We’ve talked about this. I was not joking. Alpia’s implants and my presence should mean that I would have to be dead first before that happens. Hell, her implants will kill her long before someone has to pull the trigger, but this is protocol, distasteful though it may be. One really can’t be too careful with Warp entities.”

“Sorry Sister.”

“Just do it,” Alpia grits her teeth, “and if you stab me with that thick, power field coated adamantium needle, the one who’s repairing my shiny new armour and cybernetics is you.”

Luan looks at the needle in his hand, “Yeah, that’s fair. Why not just use the power armour pharmacopoeia though?”

“Because if I need it, you can bet I won’t be able to trigger it and the Machine-Spirit in the armour can’t cope with such a wide variety of possibilities for when it might have to be used. It’s not piggybacking off my brain like my implants do,” says Alpia.

“Right, dumb question. Forget I said anything.”

“Alpia,” I say, “don’t forget to signal you are going to use your powers before you use them, or if you want to speak. Luan would have to inject you if you do that and even I will struggle to save you from what’s in that syringe. Either way, it will hurt like a bitch.”

That’s a lie, with the Vitae Supplement in her armour, she’ll be fine afterwards, but I want my kids to take this seriously.

“What’s in the syringe, sir?” says Dareaca.

I say, “Sacred blood laced with phase iron and a few other compounds. It is untested, highly toxic, and will completely cut a person from the Warp. For a psyker, this is agonising. In theory, it should end any Warp corruption or possession. It puts the user into a coma and, without medical intervention, kills an unaugmented human within four hours.”

Alpia starts her prayers, the stale air and dust swirl about her feet and plumes of water vapour spread far beyond her mouth, even though she’s wearing a helmet. I sense her hesitance at the obvious phenomena and place my hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t stop. There’s a lot of energy in the air. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

I detect gunfire up ahead but we keep following the Heralds through the narrow corridors and ten minutes later we reach a main thoroughfare. Unlike my own ships, Dying Light does not have vaulted corridors. They are low and narrow, barely four metres high and six metres wide, or an eighty-four percent smaller cross section in comparison to Distant Sun and my other vessels.

“Kinda another dumb question,” says Luan. “Why don’t you have a gun to the back of your head, sir.”

I chuckle, “because no one is carrying a weapon that can kill me fast enough to matter and we can’t fit any knights in these corridors. Even the Vanguard Armour barely fits. We can only hope my extensive precautions are sufficient.”

Luan says, “I wanna say that’s a good thing, but given the circumstances, I’m not quite sure.”

“Just focus on Alpia, Luan. You’ll do just fine,” I say.

The corridor is littered with Tyranid Gaunts of multiple subspecies with carapaces varying between grey and ultramarine blue. Any exposed flesh is burgundy in colour. I spot Fial drifting towards me and bringing his gun to his shoulder.

“Fial, what can you tell me about these xenos?”

“Ah! Dad. You really fought these things with a pipe?” says Fial.

“It’s sir or Magos right now or your drill sergeant will shout at you during your AAR. Only I can get away with being more casual. Tell me, what do you see? What would you do if this was a simulation?”

“Right, sir, this is Hive Fleet Dagon. They use more toxins than most Tyranids, so most injuries, even small ones, are likely to be fatal. Not too dissimilar from fighting the Drukhari. They have variant Hive Tyrants, Lictors, and Trygons. We can expect their units to frenzy more often and more intensely, as well as a lot of ambushes, including burrowers. That means we should shoot every vent we see as we pass it and the rearguard shouldn't rely on their cameras and sensors in case the Tyranids have a way to fool our technology. We should also be alert for Tyranids clawing through the walls.

“The rearguard will have to take turns moving, covering each other fully, not just occasionally look over their shoulders. That means more running about for everyone, so the officers need to make sure we don’t push forward too fast unless it's absolutely necessary. To summarise, preserve stamina and shoot anything suspicious, then double check, not the other way around. We don’t need to be quiet as they already know we are here as they are a hive mind.”

“Good job, now stand a bit further away from me, I know these corridors are small, but we still shouldn’t bunch up wherever possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

I wait for the comms officer to squeeze her body out of the service corridor like an octopus, holding her frame vertically and clinging to every wall so she can actually fit. Dominita Scorn is painted in gold dots on the left hand side of her central hexagon in machine code, like an ancient punch card.

I say to her in lingua technis, “If you haven’t already done so, inform the other groups we have encountered Tyranids, then update me with their progress.”

“Acknowledged, Magos.” Dominita’s voice is clearly digital though a higher pitch than Domhnall’s grinding, inflectionless tones. “Inquisitor Horthstien has encountered hull ghasts, altered in some manner through sorcery. Their numbers are far higher than they should normally be able to sustain.”

“Continue.”

“Force Commander Tigernach is fighting human cultists and, I quote, ‘bird demons’, chaos spawn most likely. Major General Noake has reports of cultists and tyranids, but no gaunts or warp entities. All three parties state that their operations are proceeding with acceptable casualties. Acceptable remains undefined.”

“Thank you, Dominita. Stick close to me unless captain Keane requests priority comms. Otherwise, keep up a running commentary, even if all you do is tell me nothing has changed every five minutes.”

“Yes, Magos.”