The brig is a clean and stark facility with room for up to a thousand individuals. The lighting is harsh and white and there is a faint undertone of vomit and bleach. Plasteel bars separate a mix of individual and group cells, with the individual cells better set up for long term stays.

Usually, the Brig is pretty empty, with less than a hundred individuals sitting out their short sentences. I don’t keep prisoners for more than three months, even for the worst crimes. It’s a waste of resources, especially in space.

The main part of their sentence is actually after their time in the brig. Brig time is one of assessment and minor punishment, especially for petty crimes. After that, they are fitted with an explosive shock collar and either make it through their sentence and improve their behaviour, all while remaining part of the crew, or it’s off to recycling, regardless of status.

I don’t convert crew into Servitors, even if it would save me bytes, as I like to avoid suffering wherever possible. While my conscience plays a part in my generous approach, I hate losing workers after spending so much time and money to educate them and would much rather preserve their lives where I can. It’s even more annoying to see people in here when I’ve paid for their basic needs as well. It’s almost always pride, stupidity, or greed that gets personnel incarcerated, rather than anger or desperation.

I also consider deliberately feeding the Ruinous Powers, or attracting them with misery, a far greater issue than being ‘too kind’ to prisoners. Nor does being ‘tough on crime’ actually reduce crime or help offenders move past their mistakes.

For those few who are outright executed for, say, a terror attack, double homicide, or multiple sexual assaults, even their blood may not be spilled. Instead, they are rendered unconscious and shoved in a stellar forge where they are vaporised, their flesh and implants separated back out into the stardust that they’re composed of. The Ruinous Powers will not get their due.

The brig is quite cold, about fourteen degrees, and almost completely silent. Walking past the seemingly endless rows of high stacked cells, and the occasional prisoner poking at a data pad filled with the driest academia and religious blatherings that the Chief Bosun could find.

After a couple of minutes I locate Overseer Kai Ballentyne sitting upright on a narrow cot with his eyes closed. I stop outside his cell and he looks up.

“Magos Isengrund. I did not expect you to come in person.”

“Kai. Seeing you in this cell upsets me.”

Kai’s lips twitch upwards on one side, “Then let me out.”

“It would do you no good,” I shake my head.

“You have come for information. A sob story perhaps. A justification.”

“If you wish to speak, that is up to you.”

“Will it affect my sentencing?”

I fold my arms and slowly tap my index finger against my bicep, “Right now you are accused of two things, falsifying unclassified documents and grand larceny. The first is a class one punishment, the second is a class two. A harsh man might add a third crime: treason, for deliberately misleading Fleet Command and placing all the lives of the Fleet at risk by potentially placing unqualified personnel where they want to be, rather than where they deserve to be. That’s a class four crime and would be an immediate execution.”

Kai grimaces.

I continue, “There’s no getting out of it. With no boarding assaults or other combat likely in the near future, a class one sentence is a six month stint as a maintenance worker on the outer hull. As our speed increases and time distorts, the rushing lights cause strong nausea and there’s a non-zero chance one could lose their footing and be lost. Retrieval is difficult at high speeds and we will not risk D-POTs for a prisoner. Current monthly attrition is two percent.”

“What of class two?” Kai swallows. Even in the cold air, he starts to sweat.

“That’s where it gets messy. Human testing for drugs and implants, exposure tests to blackstone, hard and dangerous labour securing the asteroids we rendezvous with. Current time is two years service in these roles. Attrition is thirty percent per year.”

Kai scoffs, “That’s still lower than your usual combat missions.”

“Lucky you. It’s actually worth talking about what will happen if you make it.”

“I don’t need false hope, Magos. I will lose my bytes, my job, and likely my life.”

“Why did you do it, Kai? You had one of the most interesting and well paid jobs in the fleet.”

“I fell into it, I suppose. What started as helping my friends turned into something far more serious. I never caused any harm, so why not get paid a little extra and help others along the way? I found I quite like teaching. I dare say I’m good at it. Teaching people how the world really works: seeing the anger at themselves and others as they finally realise what effort actually means amuses me every time. Helping others with no other path and seeing them get what they deserve is a great pleasure too.”

“I see.”

“What will happen to me?”

“I can’t give you special treatment. The assignments are random and I will not interfere.”

“I don’t expect you to. The lack of nepotism is how I ended up in this cell. Complaining that it won’t get me out of it will do me no good.”

I chuckle.

“Can you answer my question at least, Magos?”

“If you make it through your penance, I will allow you to continue your business as a civilian consultant. You won’t be trading merits though; private tutoring only. Alternatively you can start at the bottom again and work your way up. Honestly, this time. With your supposed talents, I would not be adverse to putting you back in your previous position or similar, but I need you to prove your skill and dedication to the Fleet beyond all doubt.”

“It would take me a lifetime,” Kai shakes his head. “Though having my own business appeals to me, would you really let me earn back a position of authority?”

“Like you said, Kai. You didn’t harm anyone, only helped. It is only your dishonest methods that I object to.”

I’m actually really impressed, but I can’t tell him that. The discipline and organisation required to pull off his scheme is not something I’m willing to throw away. He did a good job helping others too. The problem is that it’s far too big a scandal to sweep into the forge. I can’t let him get away with it, nor would I ever do so anyway. There are far too many good intentions in the paving slabs of that road.

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“I didn’t expect that,” Kai sniffs and wipes his nose with his thumb.

I toss Kai the chunk of buttery shortbread through the bars and it lands in his lap, scattering crumbs on his orange uniform, but remaining mostly intact. “Don’t die, Kai.”

“A fucking biscuit?”

“Best I could do. No alcohol for prisoners.”

“You remembered our last casual chat. A bottle of my best amasec for a few crumbs,” Kai sighs, “must be my worst ever deal.”

“Better than a slap to the face.”

Kai smirks, “I didn’t know you were the type to do conjugal visits.”

Don’t laugh Aldich. I focus a whole mind on keeping a steady expression.

“Goodbye, Kai.”

Kai nibbles on his biscuit and briefly waves, then closes his eyes.

I leave, my measured footsteps clinking on the plasteel floor as I head back the way I came. Feeling annoyed and depressed, I visit my kids in their little tubs. They’re almost six months old and look rather gross. I’ve done a fair bit of modification to the three boys and one girl. One of the boys inherited my regenerative hormones and it was messing up his growth rate.

The girl is a psyker.

Psychic awakening is not something I can remove as I cannot edit souls, but I was able to add the Tau-designed additional chromosomes to her and massively inhibit any mutations that channelling the Warp might induce, or hamper any ‘gifts’ she will be offered by the ruinous powers. In the spirit of fairness, I also added the additional chromosomes to my other three children, and made sure all of them will get the regenerative hormones, though they won’t kick in until puberty, a change that should carry through to their own children. The Rejuvenat glands will have to wait until they are in their twenties as I do not want to overburdened their souls with too much arcano-tech.

I also enabled a whole suite of boosts from the chromosome library, like the beneficial Marwolv genetics from their mother, a reengineered MOA skeleton, and enhanced intelligence. There were many, many other things I could have done, but I’d much rather give them a good start, and let them decide for themselves what they want once they’re older. I don’t want to change too many things and accidentally hurt them, or lock them into a role they have no choice but to like.

A few more months pass and my kids pop out of their exo-wombs, looking more like they’re a year old than a day old and they are far more robust than a more traditional birth would have allowed.

My no sleep required is put to the test far greater than it ever was back on the Federation station. At the station I was surrounded by the neverborn, rather than the recently born. As I change an endless parade of nappies, even an old sewer worker like me struggles, on occasion, to tell the difference between the stench of Nurgle’s finest and an infant’s expulsions.

Occasionally I cheat, and pilot a servitor to change them, or put on a helmet, but my kids hate reaching out and having their hands smack into armour glass, rather than my handsome face or wiry red hair. The Servitors make them cry and I do not want to hand off the care of my children to others. It takes far more than blood to tie a family together and I need my kids to really like Brigid and I if we are to trust them with dynastic tasks, not fall in love with a sister hospitaller babysitter.

Brigid seesaws between being perfunctory with the kids and spoiling them rotten, unable to separate her work and family as well as I can, despite the custom cortex implant that I gave her which lets her run three instances of herself simultaneously. She still gets hyper focused whatever has her interest but can’t let that be her kids or me or she couldn’t do her job. It’s annoying for both of us, but her mental hang-ups were expected so it’s not like her odd behaviour comes as a surprise to either of us and it’s something we both work on to help her circumvent as best we can.

Shortly after our children’s births, the four escort vessels are complete. Production continues on the new light cruiser and begins on the Macro-Ferry. Once all the new vessels are complete, they’ll be attached to the outside of the hull with gravity hooks so that there’s enough space to completely build out the first module of the Macro-Ferry, a ‘small’, unfolding shipyard, that we’ll be leaving behind in Acheron so that the Ferry can be built out by its inhabitants. I had hoped to build a third strike group, and travel ahead to reinforce Quaani, but that won’t be happening now.

I’m really glad we’re not going with the original plan though as it involved building the Macro-Ferry outside the hull as we move. That would have been a pointlessly dangerous exercise just to save some fuel, one that we no longer need after we traded for the Tau Horizon Drive. Honestly, it’s the sort of mad scheme one could expect from a Tech-Priest!

My life flashes by at an ever increasing percentage of C and soon it is eight years since we began our long voyage. My kids are growing well and today I have an extra special bedtime story for them, a letter from Quaani. All four children pile into mine and Brigid’s bed, then jostle for space. Brigid and I lie on either side of them in an attempt to corral them, only for the kids to clamber over our massive frames the moment we get comfortable.

After some more sprog wrangling, Brigid and I are sitting close together with our backs against the headboard. Brigid is holding two of our boys, Luan and Dareaca, in her arms. Our other boy, Fial, is sitting on my legs, determined to break my kneecaps with his fidgeting. Fortunately, I’ve engineered mine and a small child can no longer cause grievous bodily harm. Alpia, however, is not convinced of my superior physique and is sitting on my head, her little knees trying to crush my skull. I pick her off my head and place her around my shoulders.

“Are you all sitting comfortably?” I say.

A chorus of silent sulking says yes.

“Then I shall begin.” I use my voice implant to mimic Quaani: “Dear Uncle and Auntie, congratulations on your marriage, I guess! It’s been two years for me since we spoke last, but I know it has been much longer for you. If you’re not married yet, I will toss you both in a brewing vat when I get back to test your specific gravity. For science.

“Our voyage progressed without significant troubles. Details are in the attached report.”

“Daddy, this is boring,” says Alpia.

“Be patient Sweetpea,” I say. “Your cousin Quaani was just saying hello with many words. The story is in the next bit.”

Alpia folds her arms and glares at the top of my head, or so my auspex tells me.

“We arrived at Archeron and refuelled, as well as set a few asteroids and comets your way, then departed. With the Astronomicon oddly bright, and an actual pre-mapped route, we jumped seven systems in two weeks. Then one of our probes encountered an Imperial mining station, almost lost to time. We dropped from the Warp to investigate.

“The station was drifting from its orbit and none of their mining barges were willing to risk their hulls or time to correct it, lest they fall behind on their quotas. Thinking the whole thing rather silly, we nevertheless decided to send in a team to investigate and here I have a rather disturbing tale to tell.”

“Are you sure this is appropriate?” says Brigid.

“The letter is fine, as are most of the pictures,” I say. “I won’t be showing all of them though. I’ve sent you a link to the data and you can veto any that you dislike.”

“Alright, thank you.”

The kids babble at us again for a few minutes, mostly complaints and little stories of their own. Eventually I am able to get story time back on track. I bring up a holo-pic of the mining station that looms above the bed, slowly rotating in the dim light of a red sun.

The station is a hollowed out asteroid two kilometres long and three hundred metres wide with an odd bulge at one end. Between its odd shape and the crudely stapled metal structures on its surface, the mining station looks like an old boot.

“As the Pathfinder Task Group stood off a thousand kilometres from them with our weapons aiming directly at the station, we sent in two squads on a class one D-POT with Thorfinn. We deliberately pinged them with a high power auspex just as he docked. They complained about our poor manners, but Thorfinn was happy to see there were no ambushes waiting for him before he went through the airlock.

“My captains and I gathered in the noosphere to view the incoming data and initiate a hack into their data systems. The few Tech-Priests they had lurking on the station were quick to respond, but their Machine-Spirits were not as powerful as ours and we prevailed, scouring their station of data before they could physically detach or power down their cogitators.

“We received another complaint, or rather a barrage of insults that made no sense and a token attempt at a counter hack, but there was nothing they could do about our physical and data intrusions if they wanted our help, or to avoid being destroyed. I am not proud of our undiplomatic approach, but we all agreed that a soft approach towards a suspicious situation was less risky than irritating a poorly defended mining station.

“We weren’t quite sure what to expect within the mining station. I’ve seen the picts and read the records of low grade Imperial installations but seeing live footage was somehow so much worse.”